Chapter 53
Sébastian
I jolt awake, heart racing, breath caught halfway between sleep and panic. The scent of the Nest still clings to me. Warm skin. Safe limbs. The comfort of tangled sheets and quiet breath. But that feeling doesn’t belong here.
Panic. Sharp and sudden, threading through the bond like lightning arcing through water. Rowan. She's not here. Not in the Nest. Not asleep. Not okay.
“Where are you?” I push across the bond.
No answer. But the emotion slams back like a wave; confusion, shame, fear.
I throw the blankets off and stumble upright, barely registering the cramp in my leg. Laurent grumbles something in his sleep, Mass shifts behind me, but I’m already moving. Out of the Nest. Out of the bedroom.
I sprint down the short hallway barefoot, chest tight, following the thread that leads me straight to her. The living room. Cole is already there, standing near the kitchen counter, his eyes locked on Rowan like he’s been watching her unravel for minutes. Rowan stands in the center of the room, still in her robe, pale and stunned like she doesn’t know how she got there, like the floor might drop out from under her at any second.
Her eyes find mine the second I enter.
And she whispers, “They all know.”
“What happened, sweetheart?” I ask gently, already moving.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she launches herself at me. I catch her without thinking, arms wrapping around her like they were made to hold her, because they were. Her face buries into my neck, and the sob hits like a punch.
Her whole-body trembles. Her scent spikes with distress, wild and raw. I hold her tighter. One hand cradles the back of her head, the other rubs her back in slow, grounding circles.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Cole steps forward, voice low but steady. “The paper ran a story. One station picked it up this morning. Photos from the hotel speculating about her designation.”
Rowan lets out a broken sound that shreds me in half. She pulls back just far enough to speak, her voice shaking through the sobs. “It’s not just the media... My mom texted me. Both of my dads. All three of my brothers. They’re blowing up my phone. Asking questions, I don’t even know how to answer.”
My heart clenches. I brush her hair back from her face, leaning in so she only has to look at me.
“We’ll handle it, mon coeur,” I promise. “But we can’t let them control the narrative.”
She sniffles, eyes still glassy.
“I think... we should do a podcast. Or maybe even a sit-down. Something mainstream. Public. With your voice. Your story.”
She blinks at me, surprised. “You think I should talk about it?”
“I think we should,” I say. “You, me, Cole, the pack. Together. We tell the truth before someone else twists it.”
Cole nods slowly. “Control the story. Own it before they can weaponize it.”
Rowan doesn’t say anything right away, but the way she’s breathing shifts, less panic, more thought. More hope. And I know we’ve found our next step.
Rowan is still tucked into my chest, but her breathing is slower now. Not quite steady but not sobbing anymore. The worst has passed, and what’s left is soft and aching and real.
I press a kiss to her temple. “Come,” I murmur. “Let’s sit down.”
She lets me guide her to the couch where Cole’s already waiting, arms open. She slips between us like she belongs there, because she does, and exhales a long, shaky breath as she sinks into the cushions.
Cole pulls a throw blanket over her legs without a word. I shift beside her, one hand finding hers beneath the blanket.
“We should eat,” I say after a minute. “All of us. Real food. No more protein bars and fruit cups.”
Rowan gives a small, tired smile. “I don’t even know what I want.”
I reach for the tablet on the side table and swipe into the room service menu. “Then we look. Together.”
She leans into me, her shoulder brushing mine, her head resting lightly against Cole’s. Her eyes scan the screen with quiet interest as I scroll.
Cole lifts an eyebrow. “Waffles, or French toast?”
Rowan hums. “Both?”
I smile. “Good choice.”
We keep going, building a list. Belgian waffles, golden and thick, with warm maple syrup and a side of whipped cream. French toast, dusted with powdered sugar and cinnamon, stuffed with mascarpone and fresh strawberries. Scrambled eggs with chives. A plate of soft, buttery scrambled eggs with sharp cheddar melted in. Then eggs Benedict with thick-cut Canadian bacon, rich hollandaise sliding over the edges. Crispy bacon. Chicken-apple sausage. Roasted breakfast potatoes with rosemary.
A fruit platter stacked with slices of melon, pineapple, and sugared blackberries. Three kinds of juice, orange, pomegranate, mango, and two carafes of coffee, one regular and one strong enough to raise the dead. By the time we finish, the mood in the room has shifted. It’s not just recovery. It’s comfort. It’s the first normal moment in days.