He is done.
"Verena," he says, and the use of my full name lands like a weight. His tall, muscular frame seems to fill even more space as he steps toward me. "You are going to walk over to that wall and hold the headboard while they attach the frame. Right now."
My instincts shiver. That's not a suggestion. That's alpha command, threaded through with dominance so thick it's like pressure in the air.
I don't move.
I know I should. Every cell in my body knows I should. But there is a screaming, broken part of me that refuses to cooperate, that curls its metaphorical lip and saysmake me.
"No," I say, hating how small it sounds.
Drake closes his eyes, muttering something under his breath that might be a prayer. Eli's grip tightens on the side of the mattress, knuckles going white.
Ragon steps closer.
He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to.
"Once," he says, voice low and dangerous. "I'm going to say this once more. Go. Help. Them."
The command wraps around my nervous system like iron chains. My instincts flatten themselves against the floor, belly up, whimpering.
My feet move before my brain catches up. I walk to the wall, stiff-legged, hating every step. Hating him. Hating myself for obeying.
Drake and Eli exchange a glance—relief and worry mixed together—before they lift the headboard into position.
"Here," Eli says softly, guiding my hands to the right spot. "Just hold this steady while we attach the brackets."
His voice is gentle, clinical even, like he's talking me through a medical procedure. Maybe he is. Maybe we're all just trying to survive this with minimal bleeding.
I grip the wood, brown eyes fixed on the wall in front of me, refusing to look at any of them.
Drake works in silence for once, no jokes, no commentary. Just the sound of metal scraping against metal as he secures the frame. Across from me, Ragon moves with that controlled precision he always has, back perfectly straight, every movement economical.
When the bed is finally assembled, I drop my hands and step back immediately.
"Done?" I ask.
Ragon straightens to his full height, looking down at me with an unreadable expression. "We need to talk."
"I don't want to talk."
"I don't care what you want right now," he says. "Eli, Drake—give us a minute."
Drake opens his mouth like he wants to protest, hazel eyes darting between us. Eli puts a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head slightly.
"We'll be in the living room," Eli says, his tone diplomatic as always.
They file out, leaving me alone with Ragon in this room that already smells faintly of Marie even though she's not here yet.
I cross my arms again, defensive.
Ragon studies me for a long moment, those piercing blue eyes seeing too much. "You're spiraling."
"I'm fine."
"You're not," he counters. "You're scared and you're lashing out at everyone who gets within arm's reach."
"I wonder why," I say bitterly.
