Jace looks at me. Owen sets his book on the armrest.
"I need to hear it," I say. "Let’s talk straight."
Jace leans back. Runs a hand through his hair. "I'm good," he says. "Better than good. And I think... The way to do this is we follow her lead. She sets the pace. She decides what she's comfortable with." He looks at me. "That's how I see it."
I nod. That's Jace. Freedom as framework.
Owen takes longer. I expected that.
"There are no other men I'd trust with this," he says. "And I wouldn't share her with anyone else. The fact that it's the two of you is why it works."
He pauses. Looks at the fire.
"I spent a long time watching from the outside," he says. Quieter now. "I'm not doing that anymore. Whatever this is, I'm in it."
The room holds the words.
"Good," I say. Because that's enough.
I hear her footsteps in the hall.
Maya comes around the corner and the room changes temperature.
Jeans. Red sweater. Simple. Her hair is down, which she almost never wears it, dark and falling past her shoulders. She's put something on her lips, just a touch of color, and her eyes have that slight brightness that means she's nervous and trying not to show it.
She looks beautiful.
I go still, all attention narrowing to a single point. Her.
Jace grins, slow, his eyes tracking from her face down the red sweater and back up, and the grin is the kind that makes promises.
Owen stands from his chair. He looks at her in a brief unguarded moment before the composure returns, and if you weren't watching for it you'd miss it entirely.
"Let's go," I say.
We all pile into my truck. And although it has bench sitting in the front, Jace and Owen both insist on sitting in the back with Maya in the middle.Which means her knee is against Owen's thigh and her shoulder is against Jace's arm and I'm driving and watching the rearview mirror more than strictly necessary. The road unspools in the headlights. The valley is dark except for the scattered lights of Briarhaven ahead.
The Rusty Nail is packed. The parking lot is full and the bass from the band inside vibrates through the truck doors before we're out of the cab. Jace navigates the crowd like water finding cracks and secures a table near the back wall. We order. Beer for me and Jace, whiskey for Owen, a glass of wine for Maya.
I watch her acclimate. She's scanning. Exits, faces, the distance to the door. I recognize the behavior because I have run the same calculations since I was twenty.
A hand lands on my shoulder. Heavy. Familiar.
"Well, holy hell. Reid Calloway in a bar on a Friday night." Colt Mercer. Big grin, beer in his other hand, wearing the flannel shirt he wears to everything that isn't the veterinary clinic. "Somebody check for signs of the apocalypse."
"Colt."
"Seriously, man. I was starting to think you'd gone full hermit. Building a compound. Training the wolves to bring you groceries."
Lucinda appears at his side. Dark hair, sharp eyes, a smile that suggests she manages Colt with patience and selective hearing.
Colt looks at our table. At Maya between Jace and Owen. At the way Jace's arm is draped on the back of Maya's chair. At Owen's hand resting on Maya's knee under the table.
His grin widens. "I see you’ve all come down to party."
"Colt." Lucinda's hand connects with his chest, the flat of her palm, a gesture that has the practiced efficiency of long repetition. She steps forward and extends her hand to Maya. "Don't mind him. He was raised by animals. I'm Lucinda."
Maya takes her hand. "Maya."
