For about three seconds.
Then Marie laughs from the doorway and calls, "Drake, you promised you'd help me with the new recipe," and his attention slices away without meaning harm.
"Two seconds, sweetheart," he says over my shoulder, then to me, "You don't mind, right? We'll finish this later."
It's not cruel.
It's not intentional.
It still feels like someone pulled a blanket away just when I'd started to relax.
I pull back, forcing a smile. "Go. She'll burn your precious pans."
"Hey." He squeezes my shoulder. "You matter too, okay?"
"Sure."
He smells like apology and confusion and arousal for someone who isn't me as he leaves the room.
I stand there for a heartbeat, empty hands curled into fists, then turn and beeline back to Eli.
Ragon notices.
He always does.
He watches the way I angle my body toward Eli in any shared space, the way my shoulders tense when he enters, how I instinctively give him more room than anyone else.
He tries.
One evening, he finds me in the kitchen, rinsing lettuce for dinner. The house is relatively quiet—Drake and Marie in the den, Jasper on a call, Eli grabbing a quick shower.
Ragon comes in from outside, hair tied back, shirt sleeves rolled, smelling like sawdust and cold air.
My heart stutters.
"Verena."
"Alpha."
He walks past me to the sink, washes his hands. Our arms almost brush. I step sideways like I've touched a hot stove.
He notices.
His jaw flexes.
"I won't punish you for existing near me."
"I know."
It's half true.
He reaches for a towel, dries his hands. Then he leans back against the counter, folding his arms, looking at me.
"How are you sleeping?"
"With Eli in my nest? Better."
A flicker of something crosses his face—guilt, maybe. Or just calculation. "Good. That's good."
