Rowan extends his hand, palm up. “Come back to bed, precious.”
I cross to him, and his fingers close around mine, pulling me down beside him. The mattress dips under our combined weight, rolling our bodies together. His arm wraps around my waist, reclaiming its earlier position. Heat radiates from his skin, chasing away the morning chill.
“You always check on her.”
Not a question, but I answer anyway. “Every morning since she came to live with me.”
His thumb traces circles on my shoulder blade, soothing away all tension. Silence settles between us, comfortable in a way I never expected to experience with another person in my space.
But the peaceful moment splinters as my thoughts drift to yesterday, to the guard who pointed a gun at Rowan, and to the reason we broke into the Harmon building in the first place.
“I’m worried about her,” I say, the words dragging out of me. “After what happened with Danny.”
Rowan’s hand stills on my back. “From what I can tell, she’s holding up.”
“That’s what worries me.” I stare at the wall over his shoulder, unable to meet his eyes. “She’s acting as if it was just another bad day she survived.”
“Isn’t that good?”
“No.” My fingers curl over his heart. “Our family isn’t good at talking about things that hurt. We ignore them, move on, and pretend the past stays buried.”
Rowan stays quiet, letting me fumble through thoughts I’ve never even articulated to myself, much less another person.
“I did it with my parents. Buried what they did tome. Never talked about it.” The admission scrapes my throat raw. “Lena did the same thing when I took custody of her. Never cried about them dying. Never asked questions. Just packed her backpack and followed me out as if we were going on vacation.”
Rowan’s thumb resumes its gentle strokes in silent encouragement to continue.
“But things don’t stay buried.” I swallow hard. “They leak out in nightmares, in a tell-tale flinch when someone moves too fast, in panic attacks that hit for no reason you can name.”
“You think she’s suppressing trauma.”
“Sheis.” My voice drops lower. “But I don’t know how to help her. I don’t know how to tell her she might need…” The word won’t come out.
“Therapy?” Rowan offers.
I cringe. “She’ll think I’m saying she’s broken. Or she can’t handle things. But it’s not that.”
“What is it then?”
“She shouldn’t have to handle this alone.” I turn my face into his neck to hide. “What happened to her… She shouldn’t have to pretend it’s okay because she’s an Omega.”
Rowan’s hand slides to cup the back of my neck. “You’re right.”
The simple agreement catches me off guard, and Ipull back enough to study him, searching for the catch, the argument, the counteroffer.
“Silas could help,” he says.
I frown. “The professor?”
“The psychologist,” he corrects. “He has trauma training.”
“Then why doesn’t he work as a therapist?” I ask, suspicion creeping back in.
“Because working in the field made him want to kill people.” Rowan’s thumb brushes my jaw. “But Danny’s already dead, and so are your parents, so it would be safe.”
I absorb this, turning it over in my mind. “And you trust him?”
“With my life.” Rowan’s certainty leaves no room for doubt. “And he’s helped kids before. Teenagers who’ve seen things they shouldn’t have.”
