And judging by the way Cassian and Jett are looking at her when we pull into the driveway, I'm not the only one who's had that realization.
Tomorrow we'll make sure Ben stays in rehab and Penelope figures out her situation, and protect Grandpa and cancel the wedding and start building something real.
But tonight, I'm just going to carry Sharon inside, put her to bed, and stand guard while she sleeps.
Because that's what pack does.
And whether she knows it or not, she's already ours.
17
CASSIAN
Three days.
That's how long Ben lasted in rehab before he checked himself out like he was canceling a gym membership instead of abandoning the only shot he had at getting clean.
I'm standing in Grandpa's living room, and I can't stop moving. Pacing. Adjusting my jacket. Cracking my knuckles. The kind of restless energy that comes from knowing you're about to have a conversation that's going to go badly and there's nothing you can do to stop it.
Pine's sitting in Grandpa's old leather chair like he's holding court. His dark eyes are fixed on the front door, waiting. His scent is controlled, but I can feel the anger underneath it. The kind of anger that doesn't explode—it just sits there, cold and heavy, until it crushes whatever it's aimed at.
Jett's by the fireplace, looking out the window at the mountains. His jaw is tight. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets. He's got that look on his face that means he's already played this conversation out in his head about fifty times and every version ended badly.
"He's going to lie," Jett says without turning around.
"Yep," I say, because what else is there to say?
Pine doesn't say anything. He just pulls out a manila folder from beside the chair and sets it on the coffee table. That folder is the end of Ben's scheme, the end of his access to Grandpa's money, and probably the end of whatever relationship we had left with our oldest brother.
The thing about being a firefighter is you learn to spot danger before it fully develops. Smoke before fire. Heat before flame. The little signs that tell you something's about to go very, very wrong.
Ben's car pulling into the driveway? That's smoke.
When he walks through the door, I can see it immediately. He's cleaned himself up—new clothes, hair styled, trying to look like he's got his shit together. But his pupils are dilated. His movements are too careful, too controlled. And his scent has that chemical edge that's been there since The Sway.
"You're high right now," I say before he even gets all the way inside.
Ben stops. His jaw clenches. "I'm managing my recovery my own way."
"That's not what I asked."
"One bump this morning," he admits, like that's somehow better. "Just to get through the day. It's not a big deal."
I look at Pine and Jett. We all know what this means. He didn't just leave rehab early. He never stopped using.
"Sit down," Pine says, and his voice has that edge to it that means he's about three seconds away from doing something physical if Ben doesn't comply.
Ben sits on the couch across from Pine, but everything about his body language screams defensive. Arms crossed. Legs spread. That particular posture of someone who's decided he's the victim here and we're all the bad guys.
"So, what's this about?" Ben asks, trying to sound casual and failing. "You drag me out here to lecture me about leaving rehab? I'm a grown man. I make my own medical decisions."
"This isn't about rehab," Pine says, pushing the folder across the coffee table toward Ben. "This is about Grandpa's will."
I watch Ben's face change. The defensive anger shifts to something sharper. More focused. Grandpa's money has always been what this was really about, and we all know it.
"What about the will?" Ben's voice is careful now. Cautious.
"It's been rewritten," Pine says. "Completely. Grandpa met with his lawyer last week. The trust has been restructured. And you've been removed as a beneficiary."
