Idiots, I think with a rush of affection.They’re both complete idiots.
I am going to fix this.
Whether they like it or not.
TWENTY-NINE
PHOENIX
The omelet sizzlesin the pan, edges crisping to golden perfection.
I stand at the Daniels’ ancient stove, spatula in hand, watching the eggs firm up with the focused determination of someone who only knows how to cook one thing and is going to absolutely nail it.
Everyone else is still asleep—or at least pretending to be—and I’ve claimed this pocket of solitude like a drowning woman clutching at driftwood in a raging river.
The back door creaks open.
I don’t turn around. Don’t need to. The scent that floods the kitchen is unmistakable—pine and sea salt and that deeper, richer note that’s become more familiar over the past few days. Judah. Fresh from the water, still wearing his work gear, rubber boots tracking damp footprints across the stone tile.
He stops short when he sees me at the stove.
“You’re up early.”
There’s genuine surprise in his voice, I think. It’s hard to tell with Judah. The man is as difficult to read as a novel written entirely in his own private language.
I flip the omelet with a practiced flick of the wrist before glancing back at him. “Wanted to make sure breakfast was ready for you when you got back. Despite this ungodly hour. Seriously, the lobster need to learn that beauty sleep is non-negotiable.”
Judah just blinks at me.
The expression on his face is almost comical—like I’ve just announced I’m planning to juggle live lobsters while reciting Shakespeare backwards. He stands frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the door frame, salt spray still glittering in his dark hair.
I wonder, suddenly, when the last time was that someone went out of their way to take care of him. From everything I’ve gathered, Judah is the caretaker. The steady one. The man who holds everyone else together while quietly falling apart himself. When does anyone ever think to holdhimtogether?
His throat works as he swallows. He starts to say something, then stops. His jaw tightens, ocean eyes flickering with something I can’t quite identify.
“How’s Mason?”
I slide the finished omelet onto a plate, keeping my movements casual despite the sudden tension thrumming through the air. “He’s fine. Still asleep. Atticus is watching over him.”
Judah nods, the motion jerky. His jaw is so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath the stubbled skin. He slowly removes his outer jacket and slings it on a wall hook before sinking into a chair at the table.
I set the plate in front of him and slowly back away.Stay casual, Phoenix.Stay calm. We’re dealing with a mated alpha being kept from his mate, and the last thing this situation needs is more drama.
“Is Dom coming over this morning?” I ask, fiddling with the knob on the stove. “I can make an omelet for him, too.”
Judah pauses mid-bite, fork hovering between plate and mouth. “He stayed the night, actually. In his old room.”
“Great.” I set down the spatula and wipe my hands on a dish towel. “I’m going to go see if he’s hungry.”
Judah’s eyes widen. “Maybe you shouldn’t?—“
But I’m already out of the kitchen and bounding up the stairs, grateful for the distraction.
Upstairs, I find Dom’s room almost immediately.
It’s impossible to miss, actually, because there’s an old hand-painted sign on the door that reads KEEP OUT in aggressive block letters, accompanied by a skull and crossbones drawn in what is clearly a teenager’s hand. The paint has faded with age, the edges of the letters softened by time, but the sentiment remains crystal clear.
Dominic Romano, even as a kid, was apparently very much not interested in uninvited visitors.
