"How long have you been listening?" she asks.
"Long enough." I cross the hallway until I'm standing between her and Mattaniah. "The credit cards were cut by Richard, not by us. If you have a problem with your household allowance, take it up with the man who provides it."
"This doesn't concern you."
"Everything that concerns Mattaniah concerns me." I let that land. "And everything that threatens this family's reputation concerns Amos."
Amos steps forward. His voice is conversational, the same tone he uses when presenting data that he knows will make someone uncomfortable. "We've been building a file on you since the day you arrived. Bank records, spending patterns, thetimeline of previous marks." He adjusts his glasses. "Mattaniah mentioned a few names in passing, and my team has been very thorough in following up."
Her face goes white.
"Here's what's going to happen." I keep my voice level. "You're going to receive a monthly allowance of five thousand dollars, deposited into a personal account that has nothing to do with Richard's name. You're going to stop approaching Mattaniah about money, about us, about anything. You're going to smile at dinner and play your role and wait for the arrangement to run its course."
"And if I don't?"
"If you speak to Mattaniah again without our permission," Amos says, "we'll make sure every man you've ever honey-trapped knows who set them up. Financial records, hotel receipts, communication logs." He tilts his head. "Some of those men have wives. Some of them have lawyers. All of them have reasons to want your name public."
The hallway is silent. Mattaniah's mother looks from Amos to me to Mattaniah, who is still pressed against his door with his arms crossed, his face blank.
"Five thousand a month." She says it through her teeth.
"Take it or leave it," I tell her.
She takes it. She walks past us down the hallway without looking back, her heels clicking against the hardwood, her spine rigid. The bedroom door at the end of the hall closes behind her with a controlled click that somehow sounds louder than a slam.
Mattaniah's arms drop to his sides. His breathing is shallow and his scent is a mess, sour stress cutting through the blocker with exhaustion underneath it.
"She's not going to stay bought," he says quietly.
"No," Amos agrees. "She's not. But it buys us time."
I reach for Mattaniah's hand and he takes it without hesitation, his fingers threading through mine. His grip is tight and his palm is damp.
"Come on," I tell him. "You're sleeping in your room tonight."
He doesn't argue.
The bed swallows him within minutes. Amos pulls the covers up and tucks himself against Mattaniah's back while I shower and change, and by the time I return to the bedroom the Omega is deeply asleep with Amos' arm draped over his waist and his face pressed into the pillow.
Instead of getting in bed I stand in the doorway of the walk-in closet and look at the corner.
The chair has been rearranged. The throw blanket that usually drapes across its back has been pulled down and shaped into a loose circle on the seat, and inside the circle is a collection I haven't seen assembled in one place before. My dark gray cashmere cardigan sits at the bottom with Amos' scarf wound through the folds of the blanket above it, and layered on top I can see one of Amos' sleeping shirts, a pair of my dress socks folded neatly, and the jacket I thought I'd left at the office two weeks ago with its collar turned up.
The whole thing is shaped like a bowl, curved inward, the edges built up around the center, every piece positioned to hold our combined scent. The precision couldn't have been accidental even though the Omega who built it would swear up and down that it was.
I stare at it for a long time. Then I cross to the dresser and pull out the cashmere sweater I've been meaning to donate for six months. I drape it across the top of the nest, settling it into the curve where Mattaniah's face would rest if he were curled up in the chair.
When I climb into bed on Mattaniah's other side, the mattress dips enough to stir him. His eyes open, glazed and half-conscious, and he presses his face against my chest with a sleepy sound that tightens something behind my ribs.
"You were in the closet," he mumbles against my shirt.
"I was."
His body tenses. Even half asleep, the implication registers. "You saw the... the chair."
"That's a nest, firefly."
"It's not a nest." His voice firms despite the drowsiness and his cheeks darken against my chest. "I don't nest. I was just organizing."
