My chest clenches.
I press my palms to the rail and watch them, transfixed.
Beside me, Marie is quiet.
Too quiet.
Her scent has been tight and erratic all day—the sharp edges of anger overlaid with jittery fear. I've been doing my best not to breathe too deeply around her, not to poke at old wounds.
She stands a little to my right, just behind Drake's shoulder, eyes on the gorilla pair. Her expression is strange—soft around the edges, mouth turned down, hands knotted in the straps of her bag.
"Look at them. They look sure."
"Sure of what?" Drake asks.
"That they belong."
The words are aimed at the gorillas.
They land on me.
Ragon's hand flexes at the back of my neck.
"That's what we're trying to build," he says quietly.
"With two omegas marked?" she asks, not looking away.
Camouflage conversation. Casual on the surface. Loaded to anyone listening.
"We've been over this. Not here."
Marie's jaw tenses. She swallows whatever she wants to say.
My stomach knots.
I shift my weight, intending to step back, to give them space.
Ragon's fingers tighten, keeping me close.
Right.
Part of the pack.
Witness and battlefield in one.
Off to the left, a zookeeper hops up onto a low stage. He taps a mic; feedback squeals.
"Hey, folks! We've got a little enrichment demonstration for you in five minutes. If you want to see some very lazy rodents get very excited about snacks, come on over!"
The crowd coagulates.
Families drift toward the stage. Kids tug parents forward.
Our group moves almost as a unit a few feet to the left, drawn by the noise. The gorilla enclosure is still directly in front of us; the stage is just off to one side.
Ragon, Eli, Drake, and Jasper form an unintentional wall—broad backs lined up, shoulders angled toward the zookeeper. Marie and I end up directly behind them, pressed into the loose V their bodies create.
I'm half-listening.
