Chapter 15 #2
They answer. I answer back. I forward Victor's email to the review channel with a reminder that all platform and sanctuary-adjacent language stays documented, and if anyone wants to discuss my notes, they can do it where my team can see it.
My wrist vibrates again. The room tilts a little at the edge of my vision, but my hands stay on the keyboard, and as long as my hands are moving, I can pretend the rest of me's negotiable.
A plastic cup appears beside my mouse.
Rosalie stands at my elbow in a crown, sparkly socks, and the grave expression of someone arriving with a medical solution no one requested but everyone apparently needs. The cup's pink and empty except for two beads, a sticker, and what looks like the arm of a tiny plastic doll.
"You have tea," she says.
I look at the cup for a second too long.
Her little brow pinches. "Papa."
That pulls my face into something softer. I pick up the cup with both hands because she's watching closely, and because if I hold it carelessly, she'll know. "Thank you, sweetheart."
"You have to drink all of it. It's for being pale."
The words hit somewhere beneath the work, beneath the anger, beneath the part of me that's spent the morning turning fear into tasks. I lift the cup and pretend to drink, letting the rim touch my mouth. Rosalie watches until she's satisfied, then puts one hand on my knee and pats twice.
"It helped," I tell her, because I need that to be true for one of us.
She doesn't look convinced, but she's kind enough to let me have it. "Snack too."
"I will."
Her eyes narrow.
I set the cup down and turn my chair enough to face her properly. "I mean it. I'm going to finish one thing, and then I'll eat something real."
Rosalie considers me with a look that's far too much like Luther's when he knows I'm negotiating in bad faith. Then she nods once and marches out of the office, crown flashing under the hall light. I watch until she's gone, and for a moment, my hand stays on the plastic cup instead of the keyboard.
Then another message pings.
The temporary nest is in the small sitting room off my home office because Luca couldn’t stand being upstairs while the house kept tightening around all of us.
He’s asleep now, worn down by Dorian’s hallway, by Victor’s calls, by everyone trying so hard not to scare him that the effort itself became something he could feel.
The door’s half-open. From my desk, I can see the edge of the blankets, one of Grayson’s sweaters tucked against the pillows, and Luca’s hand resting palm-up near the floor.
I've checked on him every few minutes without letting myself go in.
If I go in, I'll stay.
If I stay, the screens go unanswered.
Grayson comes in a little after nine. I know it's him before he speaks because the room changes around him, warmer at the edges, familiar in a way that makes my body want to collapse and fight at the same time.
He takes in the desk, the untouched toast, the pink cup, my facedown phone still vibrating, and the open dashboard.
He doesn't sigh. He doesn't say my name in that careful way yet.
That's how I know he's past gentle concern and moving into something firmer.
"Quentin called me," he says, closing the office door most of the way behind him.
I keep my eyes on the screen. "He worries too much."
"He worries professionally, and right now he's got numbers to back it up.
" Grayson crosses the room without rushing, but each step pulls my awareness tighter.
"I'm not here to argue with you out of caring about the launch, baby.
I know you care. I know why you're doing this.
But your monitor's been climbing all morning, you declined Quentin twice, and that plate's been sitting there long enough that the toast's starting to look decorative. "
My mouth opens around a response that would've been too sharp, so I swallow it and keep typing. "I've got a live issue, three legal revisions, and Victor trying to move the conversation around me in my own company. I need a little more time."
"You always need a little more time when stopping feels worse than hurting yourself." He comes closer, lowering his voice as his gaze shifts toward the half-open sitting-room door. "Luca's asleep?"
"Finally. He came down after breakfast, built the nest in the sitting room, and fell asleep before I could convince him to go back upstairs. "
"I'm going to check on him."
It's ordinary. That's what makes it worse later, how ordinary it is.
Grayson steps toward the door with the same careful quiet he always uses when Luca's sleeping.
He's not reaching over me. He's not taking anything from me.
He's going to check on our mate because Luca's his too, because Grayson loves him, because there's no version of our pack where that should feel like a threat.
My body moves before the rest of me catches up.
I stand too quickly, chair scraping back, one hand catching the desk when the room dips sideways.
Grayson stops, already turning toward me, but I'm between him and the door before I understand that I've put myself there.
The growl leaves my chest low and rough, filling the office with a warning I don't mean and can't call back fast enough.
Everything stops.
Grayson goes still with one hand half-raised, his eyes on mine.
Not afraid. That almost makes it worse. Shock crosses his face first, then something tighter, the kind of hurt he doesn't usually let sit where anyone can see it.
The sound's still in the room, mine and ugly, aimed at the man who was only trying to step into a room where our sleeping mate's curled in blankets because he finally felt safe enough to close his eyes.
The hallway's quiet behind him.
I look past Grayson and see Samuel near the doorway, half-hidden against the frame, his face open with confusion. James stands behind him with the repaired dinosaur pressed against his chest. Rosalie's not there, and the relief that gives me makes the shame worse.
My hip hits the desk when I step back. "Gray."
He lowers his hand slowly. He doesn't pretend nothing happened. He doesn't rush toward me and smooth it over because that'd be easier for both of us and worse for all of us. "Babe," he says, quiet enough that the boys don't hear the shake under it, "I was checking on Luca."
"I know." The words scrape on the way out. I drag a hand over my mouth, then force it down because I don't get to hide behind it. "I know. I'm sorry. You moved toward him, and my body answered before I thought. That's not an excuse. I know it's not an excuse."
Grayson's gaze stays on me for another second, then moves toward the hall. "James, take Samuel downstairs and find Luther. Tell him I need him."
James nods immediately because he understands when adults are using the kind of voice that means questions have to wait.
Samuel hesitates, eyes still on me, until James takes his sleeve and guides him away.
Their footsteps fade too quickly, and then it's just Grayson and me and the quiet nest room behind my back.
I press my palms flat against the desk behind me.
My hands are shaking. I hate that he can see it.
I hate more that he's standing farther away than he was before because I made distance necessary.
"I'm sorry," I say again, and it's not enough, but it's the only thing I can make my mouth do for a second.
"I heard you move toward him, and everything in me went wrong.
I know what it sounded like. I know what I did. "
Grayson breathes in slowly. He's not calm the way he was when he walked in.
He's choosing calm now, building it in front of me because I've left him no other useful option.
"I believe that you didn't mean to do it," he says, and the fullness of the sentence hurts more than a quick reassurance would have.
"I also need you to understand that meaning it isn't the only thing that matters.
You blocked me from our mate, Blake. I'm not angry because you're scared.
I'm angry because you've run yourself so far past your limit that your instincts are making decisions before you can. "
I nod, but it feels disconnected from the rest of me. "I know."
"I don't think you do. Not all the way." He steps closer then, not toward the nest-room door but toward me, and I stay where I am because moving away would only prove the point again.
"You've been trying to outwork a threat for days.
You're answering emails instead of Quentin, watching Luca instead of resting with him, and correcting language no one should've sent you in the first place.
I know why. I love you for why. But this morning, you scared the kids and yourself, and now you're looking at me like you're waiting for me to decide what kind of man you are.
I already know what kind of man you are.
That doesn't mean I'm letting you stay in this chair. "
The first thing that rises in me is protest. It's familiar enough to be almost comforting. "The launch—"
"No." He says it without snapping, which somehow makes it harder to argue with. "The launch has a team. Luther's got the merger. Maceo can take the laptop. Quentin's got the numbers. You've got a body that's done being ignored."
"My body's inconvenient."
"Your body's yours, and right now it's asking louder than you're willing to."
I look toward the nest-room door. Luca hasn't moved. Or maybe he has and is staying quiet. I can't decide which possibility feels worse. "I need to apologize to him."
"You will. Not while you're shaking in front of a desk and trying to keep one hand on the keyboard."
"I can walk upstairs."
Grayson's face changes, just slightly, and the softness that comes through isn't permission. "Baby, I'm going to carry you upstairs if I have to. I'd rather you put your arm around my neck and let me do it without making this harder on both of us."
"That's not necessary."