Alive.
Here.
Mine.
They built a network to take women like her.
They put her name in it.
Now I’ll put mine on what’s left when it burns.
I wake up at peace in Cobra’s room. Not because something startled me. Not because I’m disoriented or trying to remember where I am. The difference hits me immediately. There’s no jolt of panic. No split second where my brain scrambles for context, trying to place walls and doors and sounds that don’t belong to me. I don’t have to remind myself I’m safe. I don’t have to run through what happened, where I am, who’s outside this room.
I know.
That settles something quiet and deep in my chest.
Cobra’s arm is still around me, heavy and solid across my waist, his hand resting just above my hip like it fell there sometime during the night and never had a reason to move. His breathing is steady at my back, slow enough that I know he’s actually sleeping. That still surprises me. The fact that he sleeps like this. With me.
I don’t move right away. I just lie there, listening to the rhythm of him, feeling the warmth of his body behind mine, the weight of his arm anchoring me in place without making me feel trapped. That’s the difference. Nothing about this feels like a cage.
Eventually, I shift carefully, easing out from under his arm without waking him. He adjusts automatically, a quiet instinctive movement, but he doesn’t open his eyes. His hand drags once across the space I leave behind before settling against the mattress.I pause for a second and watch him. He looks the same asleep as he does awake. Controlled. Still. Like even rest doesn’t loosen whatever’s wired into him.
I don’t touch him. Not this time. I just slip out of bed, grab one of his shirts, and pull it over my head before heading for the door. The hallway is already alive when I step out. Not loud. Just moving. Voices drift from the main room. Someone’s in the kitchen. I hear a cabinet door shut, the low murmur of conversation, the familiar rhythm of a place that never fully powers down. And for the first time since I got here, I don’t hesitate.
I don’t stand in the doorway wondering where I’m allowed to go. I don’t check if I need permission. I just move. Coffee is already brewing. Someone started it before I woke up, which doesn’t surprise me. This place runs on caffeine and adrenaline, and neither of those things ever seem to run out. I grab a mug, pour myself a cup, and lean against the counter like I’ve been doing it for years. No one questions it. That’s the part that settles something deeper.
Mac glances over from where she’s standing with Knox balanced on her hip, her hair still messy from sleep. “Morning,” she says.
“Morning,” I answer easily.
Kya walks in a second later, Remy trailing behind her like a determined little shadow. “Please tell me someone made enough coffee for the entire house,” she says, already reaching for a mug.
“There’s a fresh pot,” I tell her, nodding toward the counter.
She grins. “You’re my favorite person right now.”
“That’s because I’m holding your lifeline,” I reply, lifting my mug slightly.
“Don’t get used to it,” she shoots back, but there’s no bite to it.
Brooke slips in next, Mason already in her arms, looking entirely too awake for someone his size. “Why is he like this in the morning?” Brooke mutters.
“Because Carter is his father,” Mac says.
Brooke scoffs. “He is not this chaotic.”
Mac gives her a look. “He just hides it better.”
Kya snorts.
I laugh. Not because I feel like I should. Because I actually do. And it comes easy. That’s new too. No one stops to look at me like I don’t belong in the middle of this conversation. No one adjusts what they’re saying because I’m here. No one checks. That’s the shift.
They just include me.
Naturally.
Like I’ve already been folded into whatever this is.
