Her scent grows more distressed. Burnt sugar mixing with something like ozone before a storm. It makes my chest ache.
"Did you file a police report?" Nacho asks.
"Yes. They said without threats or direct contact, there's nothing they can do. Just 'be aware of my surroundings.'" Harmony's laugh is brittle. "I'm a model. People take my photo all the time. But these are different. These are surveillance. Close-ups through windows. Parking garages. Places I should be alone."
"That's stalking," Nacho says flatly.
"That's what I said." Harmony's voice cracks. "But the detective said I'm a public figure. People are interested. Unlessthey threaten me or trespass, it's legal to photograph someone in public."
Stacey puts her arm around Harmony's shoulders. "Which is why we drove six hours on a Tuesday. I told her she needed to get out of Portland for a few days. Clear her head."
"Smart." Sergio's watching Harmony with that assessing alpha look. "You're staying here tonight."
"We don't want to impose." Harmony's scent spikes with anxiety. Sweet and sour at once, like fruit left in the sun too long.
"You're not." Carlos stands. "You're staying in my room. Both of you. I'll take the couch."
The five of us have been sleeping in one bedroom since the bonding. Two queen beds pushed together, a tangle of limbs and blankets that leaves me waking up with someone's elbow in my ribs every morning. It's cramped and chaotic, but we definitely need to figure out a better solution.
"We can get a hotel," Stacey starts.
"No." All four brothers say it at once.
Harmony startles at the synchronized response. Her scent jumps, chamomile suddenly honey-sweet with surprise.
"You're staying," Pedro says more gently. "Tonight, tomorrow, however long you need. We have space. And this house is secure."
Nacho pulls out his phone. "I'm calling the Portland precinct. I know some people up there. We can push this harder."
"Plus," Carlos grins, trying to lighten the mood, "Stacey owes me a pool rematch. She took sixty dollars off me last time."
"Strategic gaming," Stacey corrects. She's already relaxing, but Harmony is still wound tight.
I squeeze Harmony's hand. "Stay. Please. You'll be safe here."
Her scent finally begins to settle. The sharp edges soften. The burnt sugar sweetens back toward chamomile. Not calm yet, but getting there.
"Okay," she says quietly. "Thank you."
"Good." Sergio stands. "Now, has anyone eaten? Because Carlos made about four dozen pancakes and they're getting cold."
"Four dozen is an exaggeration," Carlos protests.
"You made an entire hockey team's worth of pancakes."
"That's just good planning."
We move to the kitchen as a group. Carlos starts reheating pancakes while Pedro pours coffee. Stacey commandeers the syrup. Harmony sits at the table, her scent gradually sweetening as the warmth and food and company work their magic.
By the time we're all eating, her chamomile and rain scent is almost back to normal. Still tinged with worry, but the sharp panic is gone.
"So," Stacey says through a mouthful of pancake, "tell me you still have that letter. The settlement one. I want to see what kind of desperate bullshit the Morrisons are peddling."
I pull out my phone and show her the photo I took before shredding it.
Her eyes widen as she scrolls. "Holy shit. That's real money."
"Was real money." I lean back in my chair. "I shredded it just before you arrived.”
