Inhale.Short. Sharp. Like sipping air through a collapsed straw.
Hold.
Exhale.Shuddering. Controlled.
It was the breathing of someone trying to manually override a catastrophic system failure.
"Juno," I said again, softer this time, barely audible over the hum of the tires. I spared a half a second to wonder if the tires were still making contact with the road we were driving so fast.
Of course, Juno didn't answer. He just curled tighter, turning his face to press into the heavy wool of Mateo’s coat. Mateo moved instantly, instinct overriding logic, his heavy hand coming up to cup the back of Juno’s neck. It was a grounding touch, "Heavy Pressure," meant to reset a nervous system, but Juno just shivered under it.
I looked at Stephen. His knuckles on the steering wheel were bloodless. He was driving with a terrifying, surgical focus, weaving through traffic at beyond reckless speeds, but he kept glancing at the rearview mirror. Not at the cars behind us. At Juno.
I let it continue like that for a while as I tried to figure out what was going on, but nothing in my head made sense. Finally I gave up.
"What is happening?" I demanded, my voice cutting through the heavy silence. "Is he sick? Was he poisoned? Vance has resources, if someone slipped him something in the green room?—"
"He wasn't poisoned," Stephen clipped out.
"He’s shaking," I countered, pointing a trembling finger at the rearview.
Neither of the men who were functional responded.
"He’s in shock," I diagnosed, my brain desperately trying to find a foothold in logic, scanning for a problem I could fix with a phone call or a contract amendment.
"Rowan," Stephen warned, his voice low. "Face forward."
"No," I snapped. "We are a team. We signed the paper. You don't get to shut me out because the plan went sideways. I handle the crises. Tell me the crisis."
I turned back to Juno. The smell was stronger now. It was filling the car, thick and heavy, overriding the ink and cedar. It smelled like scorched earth and desperation.
"You smell like..." I stopped, the words dying in my throat.
My brain tried to categorize the data.
The only thing that smells this sweet, this urgent, is an Omega in critical distress. The kind of scent released when a heat cycle is triggered by trauma or forced chemically.
The spreadsheet in my head returned a #REF error. It didn't compute. The data didn't match the asset.
"Juno," I said, my voice level, the manager voice I used when a venue caught fire or a visa was denied. "You smell like burning sugar."
A shudder ran through him. Visible. Violent.
"Ignore it," he choked out, his face hidden.
"I can't ignore it," I said, my voice rising. "It’s making my eyes water. It’s making Mateo look like he’s about to punch through the window glass just to get fresh air."
I looked at Mateo. His eyes were black pools, pupils blown so wide the espresso iris was almost gone. He was staring at the back of Stephen’s headrest, jaw locked, fighting a biological battle I couldn't see but could certainly feel.
"Stephen." Mateo's voice from the back was very quiet, a rumble that vibrated through the chassis. "How long to the cabin?"
"Twenty minutes," Stephen rumbled back. His voice sounded like gravel grinding in a cement mixer, which was not what he usually sounded like. Not even close. That primal growl was Mateo's domain. Not Stephen's.
"Drive faster," Juno gasped, through his teeth. It was a plea.
I turned back around, staring out the windshield as the high beams cut through the dark canopy of trees. We were off the motorway now, deep in the countryside where the streetlights had given up. The roads were narrow, twisting ribbons of black wet tarmac.
My mind was racing, trying to reassemble the puzzle pieces.
