28. Idris #2
When she comes it is hard and full-body.
Her back arches, a cry tears from her throat, and tears slip from the corners of her eyes at the same time.
I stay with her through every wave, gentling only when the shaking turns sharp, pressing soft kisses to her as the pleasure rolls on and on.
She cries quietly while it happens, the fear rising with the release the way it sometimes does when someone has gone too long without being allowed to take up space.
I don't rush the aftermath.
I ease my fingers free and move up her body, gathering her against my chest while the last tremors leave her.
One hand strokes her hair. The other rubs slow circles over her back.
I let her cry without trying to stop it, without asking her to explain.
When the tears finally slow I reach for the water glass on the nightstand and help her drink.
Then I clean her carefully with a warm cloth from the nightstand, taking my time, making the care as deliberate as the pleasure was.
Afterward, she lies against my chest with the duvet pulled to her shoulders and one of my hands spread over her stomach. I can feel each breath move through her. The room smells like salt, warmth, and the faint sweetness of the pear tea she left untouched on the nightstand this morning.
I press the rim of the water glass to her mouth. “Another sip.”
She obeys, then frowns at herself for it.
“Don’t do that,” I murmur.
“What?”
“Turn care into evidence against yourself.”
Her hand stills over my wrist. I wait. The silence here is different from the kitchen. It has weight, but it has room inside it too.
“I feel like I’m waiting,” she says at last.
“For what?”
“For someone to tell me I’ve taken too much.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it doesn’t break. That almost hurts more. “From you. From Sloane. From Theo. Like there’s a limit I can’t see, and one day everyone else will notice I passed it before I did.”
I tighten my arm around her. The first answer that rises in me is too sharp, all instinct and possession. I swallow it down. She doesn’t need my anger first. She needs something solid enough to rest on.
“You haven’t taken too much,” I say. “You’re allowed to need us back.”
Her fingers trace the bones of my hand where it rests against her stomach. “It doesn’t feel that simple.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I keep hearing him,” she says, and there it is. Quiet. Reluctant. More admission than accusation. “Even when he isn’t in the room.”
My eyes lift to the locked door. Downstairs, the house moves around us: a pipe ticking in the wall, Sloane’s low voice from somewhere below, Theo’s faint answering sound. Garrett’s study stays silent.
“What does he say?” I ask.
Calliope’s body tenses.
I smooth my thumb once over her ribs and keep my voice even. “You don’t have to answer.”
She exhales shakily. “That Theo needs things I can’t give. That wanting to give them anyway might confuse him. That being loved by me might make it harder for him to settle where he’s supposed to.”
My jaw locks before I can stop it. I make myself breathe through the first rush of fury because if I let it fill the room, she’ll turn it on herself. She always does when the emotion around her gets too big.
“Did he use those words?”
“Some of them.” Her eyes stay on my hand. “Some of them were mine after.”
That’s the piece that sits cold behind my ribs. Garrett doesn’t need to build the whole cage. He only needs to leave enough wire for the people he’s targeting to finish the shape themselves.
I don’t have proof. I don’t have a clean accusation I can take downstairs and lay at Garrett’s feet. I have Theo’s silence after closed-door conversations. I have Calliope’s unfinished sentence in the kitchen. I have Sloane moving through the house like he can hear a threat none of us can name.
It isn’t enough to act on yet but it’s enough to keep me awake.
I reach for the plate I brought upstairs with the water and lift a cracker with a thin slice of cheese balanced on top. Calliope gives me a look that would have more force behind it if she weren’t half tucked under my body.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I didn’t ask if you were hungry.”
Her mouth tightens, but she takes the bite. I watch her chew, then give her the water again. She mutters something under her breath that might be an insult if she had more energy. Good. I’ll take irritation over emptiness.
“There she is,” I say.
She rolls her eyes, but her shoulders loosen.
I keep feeding her in small pieces until she’s had enough to stop shaking.
Then I set the plate aside and pull her closer, her back to my chest, my mouth resting near her hair.
I don’t tell her Garrett is wrong as many times as I want to.
Repetition won’t undo what he planted. It might only teach her that I’m trying to argue with a voice already inside her head.
So I hold her. I keep one hand over her stomach and the other around her wrist, two points of contact, steady pressure.
When she finally drifts, it isn’t peaceful, exactly.
Her fingers are still curled around mine, and every few minutes her body gives a small twitch, like some part of her is checking whether I’ve pulled away.
I don’t.
Below us, Sloane’s footsteps pass through the hallway, pause, then move on. He knows we’re here, and he knows I’ll come down when I have something worth saying. For now, the house stays quiet enough that Garrett can pretend nothing has happened.
I keep my breathing even for Calliope’s sleeping body and settle my hand more firmly over Sloane’s bite on her shoulder. The mark stays warm beneath my palm while Garrett’s careful words move through my head.
I don’t sleep well.