“Izzy.”
His voice cut through the panic—low, steady, close.
“Take. Your hands. Down.”
She shook her head, fingers welded to her face.
He blew out a breath, shifted closer, and gently wrapped his hands around her wrists.
“Hey,” he said, softer now, the word more anchor than sound. “Look at me.”
Slowly, he eased her hands down.
Her breath came in sharp, uneven pulls. She stood there flushed and breathless in tiny sleep shorts and a camisole that suddenly felt far too revealing, damp, dark hair messy around her shoulders.
For half a heartbeat, he forgot about the wings.
Good Lord. Damn you, Burke.
This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid.
He dragged his gaze back up to her face, jaw tightening like it cost him.
“You’re okay,” he said, voice a rough scrape. “I’ve got you.”
For one irrational second, she believed nothing bad could reach her standing there.
Only then did he look up again, eyes tracking the frantic movement above them.
“Bats,” she choked. “Oh my God—there are bats?—”
“Yeah,” he said. “I see ’em.”
Another one dove low. She flinched hard.
He shifted, moving her behind him without thinking, one hand still anchoring her in place.
He reached back, grabbed the throw blanket from the chair.
The next pass came fast.
He snapped the blanket up, catching the bat against the stone with a soft thud.
It shrieked and clawed at the fabric. He pressed it tighter, bracing his shoulder against it until it stilled.
The room went quiet.
Izzy’s breathing filled the space.
She stared at him.
He glanced at her once—quick, controlled—and then back to the ceiling.
“Looks like the attic’s got a colony,” he said.
“The attic,” she repeated. “Has a colony.”
“Looks that way.”
