The tension in my shoulders eased a fraction. “Thanks, man. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me shit,” Rawley said, voice softening. “Just keep that kid safe, okay? Jojo’s already planning a welcome-home party for when this is over.”
I laughed, the sound rusty. “Copy that.”
We said our goodbyes, and I set the phone down with more force than necessary. My reflection in the microwave door looked like shit—hair standing on end, dark circles under myeyes, jaw set in a permanent clench. I’d been running on coffee and rage for days, ever since we’d gotten word about the hearing.
I turned, ready to head back to the security system I’d been tweaking, and froze.
Danny stood in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. He was wearing my old college hoodie, the sleeves rolled to accommodate his narrower frame, and a pair of jeans that hung loose on his hips. His hair was damp from the shower, curling at the temples, and he had that look—the one that made my chest tight and my brain go quiet.
“How much of that did you hear?” I asked, suddenly aware of how I must look—all alpha posturing and territorial bullshit.
He pushed off the doorframe and came toward me, steps deliberate. “Enough,” he said. “Not all of it.”
I braced myself for anger, for the inevitable “I can take care of myself” speech. But instead, Danny’s face did something complicated—part worry, part wonder, part something I couldn’t name.
“You’ve been working with Rawley,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
I nodded. “Since the day after you got here. We’ve got a plan, Danny. A good one. Dennis isn’t getting anywhere near you, not if I have anything to say about it.”
He was close enough now that I could smell the mint of his toothpaste, the clean scent of soap on his skin. His eyes, fixed on mine, were clear and steady. “I believe you,” he said simply.
Something in my chest loosened. I reached for him, one hand coming to rest on his waist. “You okay?”
He smiled, small but genuine. “Better now.”
I leaned down, pressing my lips to his. He kissed me back, one hand coming up to cup my jaw. For a second, the rest of the world—Dennis, the hearing, the knot in my stomach—all of it fell away, leaving just the two of us in our own private universe.
Then Danny went stiff against me. He broke the kiss, eyes widening, face paling visibly. “I need—“ he started, then bolted for the bathroom, one hand clamped over his mouth.
I was right behind him, heart hammering. “Danny? What’s wrong?”
The bathroom door slammed in my face. I heard the lock click, then the sound of retching, muffled but unmistakable. I knocked, gentle but insistent. “Danny? You okay in there?”
“I’m fine,” came the weak reply. “Just give me a minute.”
I backed up, giving him space, but didn’t go far. This was the third time this week—the sudden pallor, the dash to the bathroom, the locked door and miserable sounds from the other side. Each time, he’d emerged shaky but insistent that it was nothing, just stress or something he ate.
But three times in a week wasn’t nothing.
The toilet flushed. Water ran in the sink. Then silence, long enough that I knocked again. “Danny? You decent?”
“Yeah,” he said, voice thin. “Come in.”
I opened the door slowly. Danny was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, head bowed, hair falling forward to hide his face. He looked up when I entered, and the expression there stopped me cold—not sickness, not even embarrassment, but a kind of dawning horror.
“You’re white as a sheet,” I said, crossing to kneel in front of him. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
He shook his head, then seemed to think better of it. “I’m okay. Just dizzy.”
I wasn’t buying it. “This is the third time this week,” I said gently. “Maybe we should call Doc Harmon, get you checked out.”
“No!” The word came out sharper than I think he meant it. He took a breath, tried again. “I mean, it’s not necessary. I’m fine, really.”
I studied his face—the shadows under his eyes, the tightness around his mouth. Something was off, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. “At least let me get you some water,” I said.
