Chapter 32 Kael
Wren drifts under slowly—like a skater easing beneath the surface of a cold lake, inch by inch, waiting to see if the ice will hold.
Her breaths stretch out, steady and long, shoulders sinking into my pillow until the last telltale tension unhooks from the cords of her neck.
Finn watches that moment the way he watches a breakaway—locked in, praying, refusing to blink.
Atlas doesn’t move at all. He could pass for furniture if not for the flex in his jaw every time her breath catches and releases.
When I’m sure she’s down, I touch two fingers to her shoulder in a small promise—here, here, here—then lift my hand and tip my head toward the hallway.
Go.
Finn slides off the mattress without a squeak.
Atlas stands with the kind of careful you only see in very big, very dangerous men when they’re near something they don’t want to break.
I wait until we’re three steps down the hall before I look back.
The lamplight pools at the foot of the bed.
The door stays cracked. Her breathing stays even.
The kitchen feels bigger than usual. Maybe it’s the quiet. Maybe it’s the way worry turns every room into distance. I open the upper cabinet and pull down the scotch I keep for nights that ask too much.
Tonight asked.
Atlas finds the heavy tumblers before I ask. Finn hops up on the counter like he always does when he needs to keep himself from pacing a trench in my floor. I pour three fingers each, no ice. We don’t need soft edges right now.
Finn takes a swallow and coughs. “Christ.”
“Good,” I say. “You’ll taste it in the morning.”
Atlas tosses his back like punishment. His throat works; the glass hits the counter with a hollow sound. “Again.”
I pour him another, smaller. “Pace it.”
He gives me a look that says he’ll set his own pace. He doesn’t argue out loud.
We let the first silence sit. Not avoidance—assessment.
There’s a difference. I watch the way Finn’s knee bounces, the way he keeps his hands jammed in his hoodie pocket like he’s hiding the tremor he won’t let Wren see.
I watch the set of Atlas’s shoulders, the twitch in his cheek, the way his eyes keep cutting toward the hallway even though he can’t see her from here.
They’re both holding too much. So am I.
“Okay,” I say finally, quiet and even. “We need facts. Not theories. Start clean.”
Finn blows out a breath. “Right. Facts.”
I nod. “What do you know—actually know—about Adrian Frost?”
He meets my eyes and understands what I’m asking: no guesses, no embellishments, no protective exaggerations to make us move faster. Just what she told him.
“His name is Adrian Frost,” Finn says. “They were together in Denver. He’s also her ex skating partner from before her injury.
Their relationship turned ugly. Not... physical.
” He swallows, glancing at Atlas, then back to me.
“Her words. Not physical. But controlling. Persistent. He made himself present even when he wasn’t in the room.
He wouldn’t stop contacting her after she left.
He wants access and he knows how to get it. ”
Atlas’s fingers drum once on the counter. “He has her number.”
“Yeah,” Finn says quickly. “She didn’t change it when she moved. He already had it. It’s not new.”
Good. That removes a whole tree of assumptions. I file it.
“Anything else?” I ask.
Finn shakes his head. “That’s as far as she went. Basics. I didn’t push.”
I hold his stare a beat and nod once. “Right call.”
Atlas tips his glass and watches the amber sink. “How long in Denver?”
“She didn’t say,” Finn answers.
Atlas’s nostrils flare. “How long since she left?”
“She didn’t say that either,” Finn admits. He looks wrecked by the admission, like not knowing enough proves he failed a test no one told him about. “She told me what she could. Last night was... hard.”
“Last night was enough,” I say. “You got us to today.”
Finn swallows like the words land somewhere tender. Atlas looks away; he doesn’t say it, but he agrees.
I lay the initial grid in my head, clean lines and empty squares.
Name: Adrian Frost. Past location: Denver.
Relationship: controlling, persistent. Current capability: access to her phone.
Current proximity: unknown. Confirmed tonight: fear response on contact, freeze response to buzz, willingness to use safety word and accept help.
Atlas’s jaw ticks. “He doesn’t get to keep access.”
“He has it now,” I say. “Removing it doesn’t change the history.”
“Then we bury him under new habits,” Atlas growls.
“We will,” I say. “But first: risk assessment.”
Finn’s knee bounces faster. “You think he’s here? In Boston?”
“We don’t know where he is,” I say, refusing to hand the room a fear it will eat. “We also don’t assume distance equals safety. He doesn’t have to be here to keep pressure on her. But if he is?” I let that hang without heat. “Then our plan adjusts.”
Atlas drains his second pour and stares at the sink like it said something offensive. “If he shows up, I’m done talking.”
“I know,” I say.
Finn’s mouth twists. “And I’m done pretending I’m fine.”
“I know,” I say again.
They look at me like I’m supposed to be the one who’s fine. I’m not. I’m just good at carrying it with fewer cracks.
“Ground rules,” I say.
Atlas’s attention snaps to me. Finn stills.
“Number one: no secrets from Wren,” I say. “We move at her speed. We don’t make decisions that touch her body or her day without her consent. No ambushes. No dragging her toward anything because our fear is louder than hers.”
Finn nods immediately, relief obvious in the loosen of his shoulders. Atlas stares at me, jaw set, then gives one tight nod. “Fine. But if she’s in danger—”
“Then we act,” I finish. “Fast. Hard. Together.”
His mouth tugs like he hates that he agrees with me. He still agrees.
“Number two,” I say. “No heroes. We don’t peel off solo and try to solve a problem built to isolate people. We move in pairs minimum when it intersects her schedule. We coordinate. We communicate.”
Finn holds up his hand. “On that—she’s going to hate being watched.”
“She’s going to hate feeling controlled,” I correct. “Those aren’t the same thing. We make support look like choice. She picks who walks with her and when. She sets the pace.”
Atlas grunts. “She’ll pick you.”
Finn startles. “What does that mean?”
Atlas shrugs a shoulder without malice. “You’re good at soft. I’m good at ‘I’ll break the world.’ Kael’s good at turning panic into plans. People pick soft when they’re tired.”
“Then I’ll be soft,” Finn says, almost daring Atlas to complain.
“I didn’t say don’t,” Atlas replies. He looks past Finn, toward the hall. “I’m saying I’m not good at it for long.”
“You were good at it tonight,” I say. “In the hallway. In the rink. At the door.”
Atlas’s throat works. He doesn’t answer.
“Number three,” I continue. “We gather information, but we don’t turn into private investigators overnight. No breaking into anything. No threatening anyone. No leaving a trail that gives Frost ammunition.”
Finn glances at me. “You’re going to look him up.”
“Yes,” I say.
Atlas scowls. “So you get to break the rules.”
“I get to follow them smarter,” I say evenly. “Public records. Court databases. Social media. If there’s something we need to know, I’ll find a way to learn it without putting her in a worse position.”
He mutters something under his breath. It sounds like I hate being right. He doesn’t.
“Number four,” I say, “tonight and until further notice: she doesn’t go anywhere alone in the dark. Walks, parking lots, hallways, elevators—paired or not at all. Daytime—paired when she asks, shadowed when she doesn’t, from a distance that doesn’t feel like a cage.”
Finn’s head bobs. “I can be background.”
“You can be visible,” I say. “Background reads like doubt. Visible reads like witness. There’s a difference.”
He absorbs that. “Right.”
I take my second sip and let the scotch burn a path clear enough for the next part. It isn’t the plan I want, but it’s the plan we have.
“Phones,” I say.
Atlas bristles. “We aren’t going through hers.”
“We aren’t,” I agree. “We don’t need content to respond to contact. What we do need is to make sure she has fast outs. Group thread pinned. Panic shortcut. Shared location if she chooses it—if—and no arguments if she doesn’t.”
Finn lifts a shoulder. “She already used ‘hydrate.’ That’s something.”
“It’s everything,” I say. “It means she trusts us more than the instinct to hide. Treat that like gold.”
Atlas taps the rim of his glass with a fingernail. “He’s not here.”
It’s not exactly a question; it’s a wish shaped like a statement.
“We don’t know,” I say for the third time, refusing to hang a certainty on uncertainty. “But whether he is or isn’t doesn’t change what we do next. We build a net. We make her world small enough to feel safe and big enough to breathe.”
Finn’s voice goes small. “She thought she had to go home alone tonight.”
“She asked anyway,” I say. “That’s the headline.”
He nods, eyes bright around the edges he never lets show on the ice. “She did.”
Atlas turns his glass in slow, irritated circles. “What if he’s got people? Friends. Someone new she doesn’t know he knows.”
“Then we watch patterns,” I say. “Same cars. Same faces. Same timing. We trust the staff who’ve already proven they know when to disappear and when to step in. We loop security in if she says yes. We don’t flood her with more men to manage.”
He hates how much sense that makes. He doesn’t argue.
Finn rubs the back of his neck. “And if he calls while she’s with one of us? Not texts, calls.”
“We follow her lead,” I say. “If she silences it, we shut up. If she wants it off, it goes off. If she wants a record, we log time and number and keep our mouths shut until she decides what to do with it.”
Finn’s mouth tilts. “You going to be that calm if it rings in your hand?”
“No,” I say. “But I’ll act like it.”
Atlas huffs a humorless breath. “I won’t.”