Not the sharp fear of danger. Something older. Deeper. The kind of fear that had roots.
"You're scared," I said.
He flinched. Barely visible, but there.
"This conversation is over."
"It's not—"
"I have other duties to attend to." He stepped back. Put three feet of distance between us like it would make a difference. "Neal can answer any remaining questions about the facility."
He turned and walked away.
I let him go.
Neal found me in the courtyard an hour later.
I was sitting on a bench, staring at nothing, trying to untangle the knot of feelings in my chest. James. Cal. Neal. Stone. Cole. The bonds pulling in different directions, each one demanding something different from me.
"You look like you're solving a very complicated math problem," Neal said, dropping onto the bench beside me.
His thigh pressed against mine. Warm. Solid. Our bond between us hummed to life, a slow heat that spread through my belly.
"Something like that."
He was wearing his white coat, sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing the lean muscles of his forearms. I remembered those arms pinning me to his bed. Remembered the way his hands had mapped every inch of my skin.
My pulse kicked up.
He was quiet for a moment. Neal had a gift for silence—the kind that invited confession without demanding it. But I could feel him through the bond. The way his attention focused on me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"Cole seemed... tense," he said finally. "After your walkthrough."
"Did he?"
"He nearly took a door off its hinges in the east wing. Very unlike him." Neal's voice was mild, but his hand found my knee. Casual. Possessive. His thumb traced a slow circle through the fabric of my jeans. "Anything happen I should know about?"
The touch sent heat spiraling up my thigh.
"I don't know," I admitted.
"That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either."
Neal shifted closer. His scent wrapped around me—clean soap, antiseptic, and underneath it, the warm musk that was purely him. The scent I'd buried my face in while he moved inside me.
"Look at me," he said softly.
I turned. His eyes were warm. Concerned. But there was heat there too—banked, controlled, the way Neal always was.
But God, the way he looked at me.
Like he was remembering exactly what I tasted like.
I wanted to ask more. Wanted to understand. But Neal's touch was making it hard to think, and the bond was flooding with warmth, with want, with the memory of his mouth on my neck, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
"Neal." My voice came out breathless.
