The response is sharper. Clipped. Defensive.
Zero.
My stomach drops. Something cold and heavy settles in my gut.
They're talking about me. I know it the way I know my own heartbeat—instinctive, certain, wrong in a way that makes my whole body go cold. Bane went to Atlas after the library. Told him something. And now Atlas is—
What? Confronting Zero? About what happened in the basement?
How would Bane know about the basement?
He wouldn't. Not specifically. But the way I was moving this morning—wincing, favoring one hip, unable to sit without shifting my weight—Bane noticed. I saw him notice. Saw his eyes track the careful way I lowered myself onto the kitchen stool. Saw the question form on his face that he didn't ask.
He didn't have to ask. He's smart enough to connect the dots.
And apparently smart enough to take those dots straight to Atlas.
I press my forehead against the door. Close my eyes.
No.
No, that's insane. I'm beinginsane. This is exactly what I was afraid of—the jittery, wired feeling messing with my head. Turning me paranoid. Making me the center of a story I'm not actually in.
Bane wouldn't tell Atlas anything. Bane barely acknowledges I exist. And even if he did notice something off about the way I was moving, why would he care? Why would he go running to his brother about the weird stepbrother who can't sit down properly? That's not a crisis. That's not even interesting.
And Zero—
Zero wouldn't stick around to talk about me. I'm not significant enough to fight about. I was a warm body in the basement. A convenient outlet for whatever was eating at him. He got what he wanted and now he's done with me. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked with people like him and people like me.
I'm imagining things. Letting the vibrations rattling through me cloud my judgment, turn me into the protagonist of some delusion where I actually matter to these people. Where three alphas would waste their time arguing about one broken omega who can't even—
Atlas's voice rises. Just slightly. Just enough that I catch fragments.
"—know what you did—"
Zero's response is a snarl. I can't make out the words but the tone is unmistakable. Cornered. Vicious. The sound of someone who's been caught and has decided to fight instead of flee.
A third voice—Bane. Lower. Trying to mediate. Trying to hold the middle ground. A word I catch: "—calm—"
Then Atlas again. Louder now. The control in his voice is fraying. I can hear the threads snapping one by one, like a rope under too much strain.
"—he's twenty years old, Zero.Twenty."
Zero's response hits the door like a physical thing. I feel the vibration. Not the words—just the force behind them. Raw. Aggressive. The verbal equivalent of baring teeth.
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the door. The wood is cool under my palms.
I should stay here. Should lock myself in and put in earbuds and pretend I don't hear anything. Should do what I always do—make myself small, make myself invisible, wait for the storm to pass.
I open the door instead.
The hallway is empty. Dim. The sconces cast warm amber light that makes the shadows softer than they should be. Deceptive. Everything looks calm.
It doesn't sound calm.
The voices are clear now. Not the words—not yet—but the emotion. Atlas is angry in a way I've never heard from him. That careful, measured control stripped away to reveal something underneath that's white-hot and barely contained. His voice has dropped into a register that makes the hair on my arms standup. Low. Lethal. The voice of a man who has spent his entire life keeping a leash on something dangerous and is about to let go.
Zero is matching him. Volume for volume. Heat for heat. But Zero's anger is different—wilder, more desperate. The sound of someone backed into a corner who's decided the only way out is through.
