“She’s something,” I say, not quite a question.
Dom’s fingers drum on the beer bottle. “That’s one way of putting it.”
The tips of his ears have gone slightly pink, visible even in the dim light from the window.
I feel my mouth twitch. “Something you want to share with the class?”
“Fuck off.”
“That’s not a no.”
“I said fuck off.” But there’s no heat in it. Just embarrassed resignation, like a man who knows he’s been caught and can’t be bothered to mount a defense.
I almost smile. Almost. Then another wave of longing from Mason hits me and whatever humor I’d found evaporates.
The back door creaks open.
Phoenix stands in the rectangle of light, barefoot in yoga pants and an oversized sweater. Her copper hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot, and there are shadows under her brown eyes that speak to sleepless nights of her own.
I’m immediately on my feet, my first thought that something terrible has happened to Mason.
Then she says the thing I most want and least expect to hear.
“Mason’s asking for you.”
The world stops.
Or feels like it does, at least. My perception narrows until I can’t hear or see anything but the movement of her mouth as she shapes the words. Everything else falls away.
“Are you sure?” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. Too rough. Too desperate. “He said that?”
Phoenix rolls her eyes with an exasperation that seems both wildly inappropriate and exactly like what I’d expect of her. “I’ve been trying to distract him for the last two hours, so yes, I’m pretty sure. But you can stay out here if you want.”
I’m moving before the last word leaves her mouth.
Dom jumps up to follow me. “I’m coming, too.”
Phoenix studies him for a long moment before her gaze flicks away. “Just remember the rules.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
She turns on her heel, clearly expecting us to follow.
Dom squeezes my shoulder and then we’re following Phoenix into the house and up the stairs. Each step feels like a year. Each heartbeat pounds through me like it’ll be my last one.
I can smell Mason before we reach the bedroom door.
Chamomile and black pepper, deepened and enriched by heat until it’s almost intoxicating. My feet slow. My breath catches. Ten years since I’ve been this close to that scent, and it hits me like a punch to the solar plexus.
Mason. My Mason. Right there, on the other side of that door.
Phoenix pushes the door open.
I register the nest, a mountain of blankets and pillows arranged in a cocoon in the center of the bed. Then my gaze flicks to Atticus, sitting in a chair on the far side of the room, having wisely removed himself as far away as the room will allow.
The third thing is Mason, who I give my exclusive focus now that safety is assured.
He curls in the center of the nest, trembling. His face is buried in a pillow, shoulders shaking, skin glistening with sweat despite the flush painting his cheeks and throat. He looks small and fragile.
