Chapter 9 #2
I think of the Omegas at Ember House who still sit with their backs to corners. I think of intake rooms, soft socks, warm drinks, people learning the difference between silence and peace. I think of Luca as a word in some deck I haven't seen yet. Survivor. Recovery. Proof.
My mouth goes dry.
"Safety makes people private again," I say. "That's the point."
For the first time, Dorian pauses.
It's small. Barely there. But I see it, and I know Blake sees it too because his gaze cuts toward me from across the table.
Dorian recovers smoothly. "That's a useful distinction."
Useful.
The word crawls under my skin.
The meeting continues, but I stop hearing it cleanly.
Victor's voice turns into a low current of approval structures and transition phases.
Blake corrects him. Victor apologizes. Luther redirects authority back to Blake with terrifying calm.
Dorian watches the room as if every reaction teaches him where to press next.
Rosalie falls quiet against my side. James opens his notebook but doesn't draw. Samuel keeps one foot pressed against Rosalie's shoe.
I can't breathe in here.
When Grayson catches my eye from across the room, I don't have to say anything. His expression changes at once. Not alarm. Not panic. Recognition.
He stands. "I'm taking Luca and the kids back to the family office."
Victor glances over, polite concern arranged across his face. "Everything all right?"
"Yes," Grayson says.
No explanation. No apology.
Luther gives one short nod. Blake looks at me for half a second, and the need in his face almost breaks me. He wants out too. He can't leave. Not yet.
So I take the children and go.
The hallway air's cooler, but it doesn't help the way I expect. My hands shake as I adjust Rosalie's sweater. Samuel talks too quickly about the elevator buttons. James stays pressed close to my other side, silent except for the occasional soft scrape of his shoe against the floor.
I don't go to the bright lounge where the kids usually play. I mean to. I turn that direction first. Then the glass walls catch the light, and something in my chest rejects it so hard I stop walking.
Too open.
Too visible.
Grayson stops with me. He doesn't ask.
"I need…" I start, but I don't know how to finish.
"I know," he says.
We go to Luther's office.
The door's heavier than the others. The rug's thick underfoot.
The windows have darker blinds, half-drawn against the afternoon glare.
It smells like cedar, paper, leather, Luther's steady Alpha warmth, and the faint sweetness of the children from the mornings they've invaded the space before. My lungs open a little.
I only mean to bring one blanket.
It's the gray weighted one from the family lounge, the one Blake uses when his body forgets how to come down. I carry it into Luther's office and spread it in the corner behind the large leather chair. The children watch me without asking why.
"It's better in here," I say. "The light's softer."
Rosalie nods gravely, though she's never cared about lighting in her life. She crawls onto the blanket and places her rabbit in the corner closest to the wall.
Ten minutes later, I go back for a pillow because the chair leg leaves too much open space.
Then another, because Samuel says the first one doesn't cover the "side gap."
Then James's books, because he hasn't opened his notebook since Dorian crouched in front of Rosalie, and I need his hands doing something familiar.
Then Rosalie's second stuffed animal, the lopsided bear Blake bought after her first dentist appointment because she cried so hard he nearly cried too.
Then Samuel's dinosaur sweatshirt, because he keeps putting himself at the edge of the blanket like a guard and I want something soft against his back.
By early afternoon, half the nest has migrated into Luther's office.
I sit in the middle of it with my knees drawn up, surrounded by blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, two books about machines, a plastic crown, and three sleepy children who've finally let the room make them heavy.
Rosalie's curled near my thigh. Samuel's sprawled on his stomach with one hand still touching her ankle.
James lies on his side with his notebook open but blank.
The office is dim. The door's closed. I can see the handle from where I sit.
It helps.
It scares me how much it helps.
The door opens quietly.
My whole body tenses before I recognize Grayson.
He pauses in the doorway with two more blankets folded over one arm and a cup of tea in his other hand.
His long hair's slipped loose around his face, messy from running his hands through it, and there's exhaustion under his eyes.
Still, when he sees the nest, he doesn't smile like it's cute.
He doesn't tease. He doesn't ask me what I'm doing on the floor of Luther's office with half our family bedding tucked under a desk.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him.
"I brought the blue blanket," he says softly. "It smells like home."
My throat tightens so quickly I have to look down.
Grayson sets the tea within reach, then kneels beside the nest and unfolds the blanket over the edge where the rug still shows.
He moves carefully around the sleeping children, tucking a corner near Samuel's feet, smoothing another beside Rosalie's shoulder.
When he gets to me, he crouches and fixes the curls that've fallen into my eyes, his fingers gentle at my temple.
I lean into his hand before I can stop myself.
"He makes me feel small," I whisper.
Grayson doesn't ask which he.
I hate that. I love that.