Chapter 16
Blake
The nest's quiet when I wake, but not in a way that lets me stay asleep.
Luca's curled near the center with Rosalie tucked against his side and both boys sprawled across the blankets, Samuel's foot pressed against James's thigh and James's hand resting on Luca's wrist like some part of him's still checking that everyone stayed where they were supposed to.
Rosalie's crown sits on the pillow above her head, crooked and glittering in the low light from the hall.
It should settle me. For a few seconds, I lie still and try to let it.
My heart's not racing, which feels like a small mercy I don't trust. There's only pressure behind my ribs, dull and steady, the kind that doesn't set off alarms but still makes me aware of every breath I take.
Luca's scent is soft and sweet, threaded through with sleep.
The children breathe in uneven little rhythms around him, safe enough that the room should feel full.
Luther and Maceo aren't in the bed.
That's what woke me. I turn my head toward the spaces where they should be and stare at the shadows for another breath, waiting for one of them to appear in the doorway with water, a blanket, or some explanation that doesn't make the bond feel pulled tight in the dark.
No one comes. The house is still, but somewhere beyond the bedroom there's a low murmur of voices, too faint to make out at first, then clearer when I sit up and the blanket slides from my shoulder.
Luther. Maceo.
I get out of bed carefully, pausing when the first shift upright sends a dull pressure through my chest. The room stays still after a few seconds, and no one wakes.
I take my glasses from the nightstand, put them on, and wait until the shadows sharpen before I move toward the door.
Luca shifts in his sleep, his hand curling tighter around Rosalie's back, but he doesn't wake.
The voices come from the library. The door's not fully closed. Warm light spills across the hallway in a narrow line, and I stop outside it with one hand against the wall, intending to push it open and walk in before I can turn listening into another problem.
Then Luther says my name.
I go still.
"Blake saw the clause," Maceo says, his voice low and tired in the way he gets when he's been reading legal language too long and wants to tear it apart instead of keep translating it. "He knows what Victor's trying to do."
"He saw the words," Luther answers. "That's not the same thing as knowing how far they intend to push them.
A health rider doesn't go into a merger draft by accident.
Not with his monitor data being referenced in side conversations.
Not with Victor bypassing him every time Blake refuses to make Luca's history sound useful. "
My hand tightens against the wall.
Maceo's quiet for a moment. I can picture him in that silence, probably leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, one hand over his mouth, eyes narrowed on some document spread across the low table.
"If we tell him that directly tonight, he'll get out of bed and start drafting counterlanguage before his feet hit the floor. "
"He already will if he finds out we held it back."
"He needs rest."
"He needs the truth."
The irony of Luther saying that while I stand in the hallway overhearing both of them almost pulls a laugh out of me. It wouldn't be a good sound, so I keep it down.
Luther speaks again, quieter now. "Luca's terrified, Maceo.
He tries to hide it because he thinks fear'll make Blake worse.
Blake feels it anyway and works harder. Grayson feels both of them and smiles through it like if he keeps everyone fed and warm enough, no one'll notice he's exhausted.
We're all standing in the same house carrying pieces of the same panic and pretending the rest of the pack can't feel the weight. "
"Then what do you want to tell him?" Maceo asks.
"I don't know." Luther's voice shifts, and that's what hurts.
Not the anger. I know Luther's anger. This is worse.
This is fear with nowhere to go. "I don't know how to tell him that I'm afraid Victor's building a legal path to remove him from authority the next time his body fails in public.
I don't know how to say I'm scared his heart'll give them the excuse before we can shut the door.
I don't know how to watch him keep standing there, pale and shaking, daring everyone in the room to notice. "
The hallway seems colder all at once.
Maceo exhales. "So we decide what he can carry?"
"No." Luther sounds miserable. "I know what that sounds like. I know."
"Do you?" I ask, pushing the door open.
Both of them turn toward me.
The library's dim except for the lamp near the sofa.
The merger draft's open on the table, marked in Luther's handwriting and Maceo's cleaner notes.
Luther stands near the fireplace in sleep pants and a dark sweater, one hand still resting on the back of the chair he must've pushed away from.
Maceo sits at the sofa's edge with his glasses low on his nose and a pen caught between two fingers.
They both look exhausted. They both look guilty.
I hate that part of me wants to soften for it.
I don't.
Luther starts toward me before he can stop himself. "Blake."
"Don't say I should be in bed." My voice comes out quiet, which is better than the other option. "Don't mention my vitals unless you want me to start listing every time one of you decided your terror was too noble to share."
Maceo lowers the pen to the table. He doesn't look away from me. "You heard enough."
"I heard plenty." I step into the room and close the door behind me because Luca and the kids are sleeping down the hall, and I'm not interested in letting another unspoken fear move through the house without context.
"Health rider. Competency clause. Victor building a path to push me out if my body gets inconvenient.
Luca terrified. Grayson smiling through burnout.
You two deciding how much truth everyone can handle while I sleep in the other room. "
Luther flinches, and the small movement tells me the words landed exactly where they needed to. "That's not what we were doing," he says, but he doesn't sound convinced enough to make it worse.
"It's exactly what you were doing. You were doing it with legal notes and concerned voices, so it felt responsible.
" I look at Maceo then, because Luther's fear is loud even when he tries to tame it, but Maceo's is the kind that disappears into the furniture until everyone forgets it's running the room. "And you were letting him."
Maceo's jaw tightens. "I was trying to keep the discussion clear."
"You were trying to keep it contained. That's not the same thing." My chest gives one unpleasant squeeze, and I hate the way both of their eyes drop for the smallest second, like they can hear it. "Put on shoes."
Luther's brows draw together. "What?"
"Shoes. Coats. Whatever'll stop you from turning the weather into another reason to manage me." I turn toward the door, then stop because my body reminds me I stood up too fast. I wait half a second, refuse to touch the wall, and keep my voice level. "We're going for a walk."
Luther's face changes immediately. "It's late, it's cold, and you spent the last two days pretending your heart wasn't trying to beat its way out of your chest. We can have this conversation here."
"No, we can't." I look back at him. "Because here, you'll look at the Nest and decide Luca might wake up.
You'll look at the stairs and decide the kids might hear.
You'll look at my face and decide I'm too pale for the next sentence.
Then you'll both start choosing which pieces of the truth can survive being said. "
Maceo stands without a word.
That irritates me more than if he argued. He sets his glasses on the table, picks up his coat from the chair near the door, and reaches for mine from the hook in the hall like he knew the moment I said shoes that this wasn't optional.
I stare at him. "You could at least pretend to object."
"No," he says, holding my coat out. "You're not asking for permission."
Luther lets out a breath that's not quite a laugh and not quite defeat.
I glare at him before he can find anything resembling amusement in this, and the sound dies.
Maceo helps me into my coat before I can make a point out of refusing help.
Luther puts on shoes with the tight, controlled movements of a man who's letting me win because he knows not letting me win would be worse.
I shove my feet into the closest sneakers by the door, realize too late they're the thin ones I use for grabbing mail or taking the trash out, and decide that noticing was my last concession to practicality.
Luther notices immediately. "Those shoes aren't warm enough."
"Then this conversation should be efficient."
His mouth tightens. Maceo opens the front door.
The air outside hits hard enough to make my breath catch.
It's cold in the practical, physical way that gets into my lungs before I can pretend I'm above noticing it.
The porch light throws our shadows across the path.
The street's empty, the houses dark, with a few cars parked along the curb and frost starting to silver the windshields.
I start down the walkway because if I stand still too long, Luther'll either give me his coat or carry me back inside, and I don't have enough patience for either one.
They fall in beside me without discussing it.
Luther stays on my left, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes mine.
Maceo's on my right, half a step back, quiet in the way that tells me he's watching my breathing, my pace, the tension in my hands, probably the exact angle of my steps in these ridiculous shoes.
I hate being watched. I also hate that some small part of me relaxes because they care enough to watch.