Chapter 10
Luther
By the second day of Luca's nest staying in my office, I stop treating it like a temporary adjustment.
The first blanket had appeared behind my chair after the meeting with Victor and Dorian.
The blue one followed before lunch, dragged from the family lounge because Samuel insisted it was the only blanket with "proper wall strength.
" By the end of the day, Rosalie's rabbit was tucked against the left leg of my desk, James's notebook rested beside a pillow, and Luca had made three separate claims about the light being better here, even though my office is dimmer than Blake's and half shadowed by legal shelves Maceo's been threatening to reorganize for years.
Luca's explanations matter less than his shoulders. Every time he steps into my office, they lower. Every time Victor's people step off the elevator, they rise again.
I stand at my conference table with the merger deck open across two screens and the marked contract packet spread under my hand.
Outside the glass wall, Keller Industries keeps moving, but the floor's changed around us.
People still cross the bullpen with tablets and coffee.
Blake's developers still gather near the whiteboards, arguing quietly over launch stability and platform load.
Phones ring, printers spit out revisions, and someone down the hall laughs too loudly at something that isn't funny enough to deserve it.
Underneath all of that, my family keeps shifting.
Blake's pulse is the easiest thing to see because he hates that I see it.
He tucks his wrist under his cuff when the monitor vibrates.
He grips his stylus until his knuckles pale, then catches himself and loosens his hand with deliberate care.
He's perfected the art of looking composed while his body tells a different story.
I let him keep the performance when he needs it because stripping every defense away at once only makes him build higher walls.
Maceo's stopped sitting anywhere without a sightline.
He stands at the edge of conversations with his body angled toward the elevators.
He answers calls while watching the hall.
When he brings me coffee without being asked, his gaze stays on the bullpen beyond my office, tracking movement through the glass.
I take the cup, catch his wrist for one second before he can step away, and hold him there.
His eyes meet mine. Nothing needs to be said.
He understands the thanks, the warning, and the instruction to stay ready before I let him go.
Grayson worries me differently.
He's spent the morning carrying things. Luca's tea, Rosalie's shoes, Samuel's ribbon, a stack of napkins, Blake's charger, James's notebook after James abandoned it near the lounge window and then panicked when he couldn't find it.
Every time I see him, his hands are full.
Every time someone asks whether he needs help, he's already moving toward someone else.
His smile comes quickly, warm and easy enough that the children believe it, but when he thinks no one's watching, his mouth falls into a tired line.
I find him near the kitchenette with two paper cups balanced in one hand and the blue blanket folded over his other arm. He turns before I say his name.
"Luca asked for tea," he says, then tips his head toward the lounge, voice low so it doesn't carry.
"Rosalie heard Victor's assistant by the elevator and climbed into Blake's arms so fast he nearly dropped his tablet.
James asked me if some people can smell wrong, and Samuel told the receptionist he doesn't like the shiny man. "
The last part settles heavily between us. Samuel's language is blunt because he's five and because five-year-olds don't waste time sanding the edges off instinct.
"What did you tell James?" I ask.
Grayson's fingers tighten around the cups.
"That sometimes our bodies notice things before we can explain them, and he should always tell us when someone makes him feel unsafe.
" He glances past me toward the hall, already looking for the next person who might need him.
"I think he wanted a more scientific answer. "
"That was the right one."
He exhales, but his body stays braced. Samuel runs past the doorway with Rosalie's ribbon looped around his wrist and calls out that he's "checking perimeters," and Grayson's attention snaps after him before the boy even finishes the sentence.
I take the cups from Grayson's hand and set them on the counter.
He looks at me in faint surprise, as if I've interrupted a process he didn't realize he was trapped inside.
I put my hand at the back of his neck and draw him close.
He comes because he trusts me, but he doesn't stop watching the hall.
His eyes track Samuel's movement, then shift toward Blake's office, then toward the lounge where Luca's reading to the kids in a voice soft enough to settle everyone except himself.
I press my thumb into the tense muscle below Grayson's skull, and only then does he close his eyes.
"Gray," I say against his hair.
"I'm okay."
"You answered before I asked."
That makes him quiet, and the quiet's worth more than another denial.
I kiss his temple, then the corner of his mouth.
He leans into me for half a breath, one hand closing around my sleeve, the other still caught in the blanket.
The office continues around us. Someone's phone rings.
Blake says Rosalie's name in the tone that means she's climbing something.
Maceo's shoes pass the doorway and pause, then continue when he sees Grayson against me.
Grayson's voice is quieter when he speaks again. "Blake's worse today."
"I know."
"And Luca keeps choosing smaller rooms." He opens his eyes, looking up at me with the exhaustion he keeps folding away before anyone can touch it. "I keep thinking if I can keep everyone comfortable enough, maybe the day won't crack open."
My hand stays at his neck. "Comfort isn't the same as containment."
"I know that." His fingers tighten once on my sleeve. "I just don't know how to stop trying."
I kiss him again, longer this time, because there are days when words become another kind of labor and he's done enough of that.
He breathes out against my mouth. For a moment, he lets me take the weight of his attention.
He lets the blanket slide down his arm. He lets the cups sit on the counter. He stands still.
Rosalie calls for him from the lounge a second later, offended because Blake's apparently misunderstood the rules of crown placement. Grayson's mouth curves faintly, tired but real, and I smooth a loose strand of hair away from his face before I let him go.
"We'll make room for you too," I say.
His eyes hold mine for one quiet beat. Then Rosalie calls again, louder, and the world claims him back.
The call from Hale Partnership starts five minutes later.
Victor doesn't join it himself. He sends his assistant and two people from transition strategy, all of whom speak in the polished, bloodless language of calendars and workshop needs.
They want the marketing session moved up.
They want "alignment on emotional positioning.
" They want my attendance specifically because "Blake's creative standards are rigorous, and an executive bridge may be useful.
" I tell them Blake doesn't need a bridge into his own company.
They apologize for the phrasing and repeat the request with cleaner words.
By the time I end the call, my office smells like cooling coffee, paper, and the sharp edge of restraint.
I step into the hall expecting noise.
The quiet reaches me first.
The family lounge sits open, blankets dragged off the couch, one picture book facedown on the rug, Rosalie's discarded crown near the low table.
Blake's office door's closed, but I can hear the faint rhythm of his typing inside.
Maceo stands near the elevators, phone in hand, speaking quietly to someone from legal.
Grayson's rinsing a cup in the kitchenette.
Luca's voice is absent. Samuel's sneakers are absent.
James's patient little questions are absent.
The missing sounds hit harder than they should.
"Where are Luca and the boys?" I ask.
Grayson turns too quickly, the cup knocking against the sink. Maceo ends his call before I've finished crossing the hall. He doesn't ask for clarification. His phone's already open, his eyes moving from the lounge to the corridor to the office doors.
"They were in the quiet corner," Grayson says. "Luca was reading. Samuel wanted the blue blanket, and James had his notebook."
My scent sharpens. A few people in the bullpen look up and then look away again. I keep my voice level because fear from me moves through the whole floor, but my body's already counted heads and found the number wrong.
Maceo checks the lounge. Grayson moves toward the family rest room.
I take the hallway toward the smaller conference rooms near the elevators, the ones Victor's people have been using often enough that their scent lingers near the doorframes.
My hands stay loose at my sides because I make them.
There's a difference between control and violence, and I'm holding that line by force.
"Luther."
Blake's voice stops me.
He steps out of the side hall with Rosalie on his hip and a cardboard carrier in his free hand.
Her crown’s back on, tilted over her curls, and mint chocolate chip streaks one corner of her mouth.
Blake must have slipped out through the back corridor while I was on the call, because the typing I heard from his office is gone now, replaced by the faint smell of sugar and cold cream.
He looks at Grayson, then Maceo, then me, and his expression changes immediately.