Page 85 of What We Don't Say: Part One

The room smells like mats, leather, and old sweat, grounded and honest in a way the kitchen was not. Nothing here pretends it isn't built for impact, and I turn on Idris the second we are alone.

“You heard him,” I say.

“I did.”

“He’s trying to make last night sound like a side effect.” I pace away, then back, because standing still feels like giving my skin permission to split. “Theo wanted her. He wanted all of us, but he kept finding her. Garrett saw it, and this morning he’s already trying to put a caution label on it.”

Idris watches me with his arms crossed, bare feet planted on the mat. He looks calmer than I know he is, and that used to comfort me. Right now, it makes me want to shove him until the control cracks.

“You’re right,” he says.

I stop pacing because the agreement hits harder than a fight would have. Idris’ jaw flexes once, and his scent sharpens, black tea gone bitter and rain turning storm-heavy.

“He was too careful with the phrasing,” Idris says. “I didn’t like it.”

“Then why pull me out?”

“Because you were about to give him exactly what he needed.” Idris steps closer, slow enough that I have time to back away and insulting enough that I don't. “A rut-heavy Alpha snarling in a kitchen while an Omega shakes and Calliope tries to keep everyone steady. He wouldn't need to lie about you being unstable. You would have handed him the picture.”

I hate that. I hate it because it is true, and because Garrett would have stood there calm and clean while I turned into every warning label he wanted to slap on my back.

My hands curl into fists. “I can’t just stand there while he looks at her like she’s something to manage.”

“No.” Idris’s eyes flash. “You can’t stand there like that.”

I laugh under my breath, sharp and ugly. “Oh, good. A distinction. That fixes it.”

“It keeps you from making her bleed because you refuse to learn restraint.”

The room goes silent, and Idris doesn't soften the words. He lets them sit between us, brutal and necessary, and something in my chest bucks against them because I know he isn't accusing me of hurting her with my hands. He's talking about the other thing, the way Callie will try to become smaller if she thinks my fury costs the room peace.

“Fuck you,” I whisper.

Idris steps closer. “Color.”

My breath catches. “What?”

“Color, Sloane.” His voice drops, controlled and dark enough that my body answers before my pride can. “Because you want to hit something, and I’m standing here. So tell me your color, or go hit the bag until you remember how to speak.”

My pulse slams hard. The rut-edge surges at the shape of him: calm, solid, willing to take the fight without turning it into theater. Idris isn't Garrett. He won't stand across from me with a reasonable face and make me feel like a weapon for wanting to protect my mate. Idris will put his hands on me and make me honest.

“Green,” I say. My voice breaks around it. “Pissed, but green.”

“Good.” Idris reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it toward the bench without looking away from me. “Then give it to me.”

Sloane

I cross the space between us so fast the first impact drives him back a step. He lets me shove him once, then twice, and on the third, he catches my wrists and twists, not hard enough to injure, but hard enough to remind me who I'm dealing with. My back hits the padded wall, and the sound tears a rough breath out of my chest.

“There,” Idris says against my ear. “That’s the part you keep trying to pour into the kitchen.”

“Don’t analyze me right now.”

“Then stop acting like a case study.” His forearm presses across my chest, pinning me in place while his knee slides between mine. His eyes are close enough for me to see the anger he kept out of the kitchen. “You aren't the only one who wants to break his hand every time he reaches for the language to move her.”

The words hit the exact place I needed them.

I surge up and kiss him. It isn't gentle, but it is honest, and Idris catches the back of my head and gives the force back to me, mouth hard, teeth sharp, the whole of him a wall I can finally push against without wondering what will be written down afterward.