"I'm tired," I say suddenly. Bone-deep, soul-deep tired. "I can't… I can't do this anymore tonight."
"Conversation isn't over," Ragon says quietly.
"I know. But I'm done for now."
He holds my gaze. Testing. Pushing.
My instincts are frayed enough that if he orders me to stay, I don't know what I'll do. Obey and crack? Disobey and shatter?
After a long beat, he jerks his chin toward Eli. "Take her to her room."
It's not phrased as a punishment. It feels like one anyway.
Eli rises and offers me his hand. "Come on. Let's get you settled."
I stand on shaky legs. Drake reaches for me. "Vee—"
I flinch before I can stop myself.
His face crumples. His scent casts off a wave of misery so strong it almost knocks me over.
"I'm sorry. I just… I can't be touched by you right now."
He nods quickly, swallowing hard. "Yeah. Okay. I get it."
"We'll talk later," I say, even though I don't know if there will be a later.
Eli leads me down the hallway toward my room. His hand is warm in mine, his scent a thread of calm tugging me through the storm.
The moment we cross the threshold into my space, my instincts surge.
My room is small but soft. My nest is a low platform covered in the new blankets we bought today—the moon one, the weighted grey one, the cream sheets. The moon pillow sits in the center, looking ridiculous and perfect.
Home.
It has always felt like home.
Tonight, there's a fissure down the center of it.
Eli shuts the door gently and turns to me.
I don't let him finish. I crawl into my nest like it's the last lifeboat off a sinking ship and pull one of the new blankets around my shoulders. It smells like fresh fabric and dryer heat. Not like safety yet. Not like them.
I bury my face in it anyway and finally, finally let myself sob.
Huge, ugly, shaking sobs. The kind I never let them see. The kind I swallowed down when my first pack told me they were returning me, excused themselves to "let me process," and I cried into a registry-issued pillow that smelled like bleach.
Eli doesn't speak. He climbs carefully onto the edge of the nest, close enough that his thigh touches my feet, hands resting in his lap.
After a minute, he reaches out—slow, so I can pull away—and lays his palm between my shoulder blades.
I don't pull away.
His scent wraps around me, muted but steady. "Let it out. You're allowed."
"I hate this. I hate her. I hate everything."
"You don't know her yet. You hate the situation. That's fair."
