Chapter 5 #3
Ragon stands, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. "Any incidents?"
"Define incidents," Drake says, grinning. "Because she told the cashier they were sister wives."
Eli blinks. Then his mouth twitches.
Ragon's gaze slides to me. "Of course you did."
I shrug. "I refrained from shoving her into the frozen peas. I'd say that's personal growth."
Eli snorts.
A corner of Ragon's mouth twitches despite himself.
"They actually did fine," Drake adds, more seriously. "Got along. No blood drawn."
"I'm proud of you both," he says, and this time he's looking at both of us.
Marie's scent softens, pleased. I pretend my chest doesn't warm slightly at the inclusion.
We put groceries away. Marie hands Drake his granola bars; he presses a hand to his heart like she's given him a priceless gift. Eli inspects the tea selection with a pleased little hum. Ragon lifts the crate of sparkling water like it weighs nothing and stacks it in the pantry.
When the last bag is emptied, Marie wipes her hands on her borrowed-on-purpose shirt and hesitates. "I might lie down for a bit. It's a lot of everything."
"Go," Eli says gently. "Rest."
She nods and disappears down the hall.
For the first time since we got home, the air shifts.
Their attention swings back to me.
It feels like stepping into a patch of sunlight after walking in someone else's shadow for hours.
Drake leans against the counter, arms folded. "Thank you, by the way."
"For not committing homicide in aisle seven?"
"For trying. For giving her a chance. I know you didn't want to."
He doesn't say I'm still his girl. He doesn't say he should have given me a forehead kiss too. But something in his scent, in the way his hazel eyes soften, tells me he knows those things matter.
I look away before I can forgive him completely.
Eli reaches out and brushes an invisible crumb from my shoulder. "How are you feeling?"
"Like the prize in a very bad game show. Congratulations, you get to stay in the house you already live in, and your consolation gift is constant emotional whiplash."
His mouth curves. "Accurate."
Ragon is watching me with that evaluating look he gets. The one that makes me feel like he's seeing all the parts I'd rather keep hidden.
"Come here."
My heart does that stupid little skip. "You know you can just say 'please' like a normal person, right?"
"Please. Come here."
The please should not hit me as hard as the command. My body doesn't know the difference.
I walk toward him.
He's all broad shoulders and calm presence, the man bun making his features sharper, more severe.
The tattoos on his arms are stark today—thick black bands around his biceps, intricate knotwork winding down the inside of his forearms to his wrists.
There's a scar near his left elbow, pale and thin against the ink, a reminder of some accident with a saw he brushed off and I lost sleep over.
Once I'm close enough that his scent wraps around me fully, he takes my wrist in his hand. His palm is big and calloused, swallowing my fingers.
In one smooth, unhurried motion, he tugs me down and into his lap.
A surprised sound escapes me. My hands fly to his shoulders to steady myself. His thighs are solid beneath me, his chest a wall at my back. One arm loops around my waist, heavy and possessive, the other resting on his thigh.
"Ragon."
"You did well," he says quietly, ignoring my embarrassed sputter. "I'm acknowledging that."
"It wasn't some heroic quest. It was a grocery run."
"You didn't have to be decent. You chose to be."
I want to shrug it off, make another joke, something. But the simple, steady praise lands somewhere raw.
I exhale instead, tension leaking out of my shoulders. I let myself lean back against him, just a little, feeling the way his arm tightens instinctively to hold me closer.
From this angle, I can see the way his man bun is knotted at the back of his head, the few stray strands that escaped brushing his neck. I can see the line of his throat when he swallows, the way the tattoos disappear under his sleeve.
My instincts, spiteful and needy, roll in his scent like a cat in sunlight.
He turns my face toward his and kisses me softly.
I hate that it helps.
Eli watches us from the counter, a small, tired smile on his face. Drake taps his fingers on the edge of the sink, eyes distant like he's turning something over in his head.
Movement in the hallway catches my eye.
Marie stands just at the corner, half-hidden, like she froze when she saw us.
Her gaze snags on where I'm sitting—on Ragon's lap, tucked under his arm, his hand resting over my hip. Her scent flares, quick and sharp: surprise, then irritation, then something like hurt.
She smooths it down quickly, ducking her head as she steps all the way into view, neutral expression firmly in place.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You didn't," Ragon says, his voice even. He doesn't move me off his lap.
Marie's eyes flick from his face to mine, then to his hand on my waist. "I just wanted some water."
Drake jumps into motion. "I'll get it," he says, eager, grabbing a glass and filling it from the tap. He hands it to her with a flourish. "Hydration is important. House rule six."
She smiles weakly, fingers brushing his. "Thank you."
Her scent still has that faint knot of annoyance in it. Not rage. Not ugly jealousy. Just the prickling discomfort of seeing someone else held where she wasn't expecting anyone to be.
I should feel triumphant.
I don't.
I feel tired. Like we're all standing on different sections of a crumbling floor, trying not to fall through.
Marie takes her water and retreats, the sound of her door closing gently a minute later.
Silence settles for a beat.
Ragon exhales, the breath stirring my hair. "One hell of a battle ahead of us."
"You said that before."
His chest moves in a soft huff. Not quite a laugh. "I realized it when Drake walked in smelling like fate and panic. It just keeps hitting new stages."
Eli steps closer, resting a hand on the back of Ragon's chair, fingers brushing my shoulder. "We'll get through it. Somehow."
"Optimist."
"Realist," he corrects.
Drake leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. His eyes are on me, not Marie's closed door.
"You okay?"
The honest answer is no.
But sandwiched between Ragon's solid warmth and Eli's quiet touch, with the echo of Marie's conflicted scent still fading down the hall, I find a small, shaky piece of truth I can live with.
"I'm not as not-okay as I was a few days ago. So okay."
His mouth curves. "I'll take it."
Ragon's hand flexes over my hip, steady and sure.
For a moment—just one small moment—I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, there's a version of this future where I don't get pushed off the edge.
Where there's actually room for me.
Even if we have to redraw all the lines on the floor to make it.