Chapter 14 #2
Malcolm is still at the table, frowning at the laptop screen.
A hand appears and replaces my cold mug with a fresh hot one.
I look up.
Rhys is already turning back toward the counter, like it was nothing, like he just does this, that this is just a thing that happens.
My lips quirk, a small smile forming before I can question it.
I wrap my hands around the fresh mug and don't say anything.
I check on Finn around three. He's sleeping, his color better than it was this morning. I leave fresh water on his nightstand and close the door behind me.
When I come back downstairs, Malcolm has moved to the couch with a book. I get comfortable on the floor with my back against his legs and pick up the novel I left on the coffee table yesterday.
He doesn't say anything. Doesn't ask if I need a chair or why I'm choosing the floor. Just lets me be there.
Across the room, Rhys is in the armchair. He has no book, no phone. He's just sitting, one ankle crossed over his knee, looking at nothing in particular. Comfortable with the quiet like he always is.
He glances at me on the floor.
I glance back.
He looks away first. Back to the middle distance.
I read three pages before I realize I haven't absorbed a single word. My mind is somewhere else. Somewhere sticky and uncomfortable.
Malcolm's hand settles on my shoulder. Just rests there, warm and solid. The weight of it anchors me.
After a moment he moves it back to his book.
The weight stays.
His touch seems to know exactly what I need before I do. I wonder how deep this connection runs between us. This sort of limbo bond. Connected, but not concrete.
My mind drifts. I wonder if they bonded Marie into the pack during her heat.
Ragon had already submitted the registration paperwork.
They're probably celebrating being an official pack now, the four of them. I wonder how long Jasper will stay. I know he’s there to keep Ragon off my trail for now, but if Ragon decides he doesn’t want me anymore now that he’s got Marie, maybe Jasper will go home.
Another memory surfaces without permission. Recent. Raw.
I was sick. A fever. Just a few weeks after Marie arrived.
I'd been lying in bed feeling like my skin was too tight and my bones ached and I couldn't get comfortable no matter how I shifted.
Ragon had come in. I remembered being surprised to see him. He'd been spending so much time with Marie that his appearances in my space felt notable.
He pressed the back of his hand to my forehead, his touch cool against my overheated skin. "You're burning up."
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
"You're not fine." He went to the bathroom and came back with a cold, wet cloth. The relief when he pressed it to my forehead was immediate. "At least you're a better patient than Eli or Drake."
I laughed. Weaker than I meant it to be, but real. "Drake tried to go to work with a 103-degree fever last year."
"I remember. I had to physically block the door." Ragon smiled, and it felt like before. "I'm going to get you some medicine and a glass of water. I'll be right back."
"Okay."
He left.
I waited.
Time passed in that fever-slow way where minutes feel like hours. My throat got drier. My head pounded.
He didn't come back.
Eventually the thirst was bad enough that I forced myself out of bed. My legs were shaky. I made it to the hallway and used the wall for support.
I saw them before I reached the kitchen.
Ragon on the couch. Marie curled into his chest; her face pressed against his shirt. She was crying. Real tears, her shoulders shaking.
Ragon looked up and saw me swaying in the hallway, my hand braced against the wall.
"Vee." His face did something complex. "I'm sorry. Marie had a nightmare and I got distracted. I'll get the medicine now."
"It's okay," I heard myself say, automatic. Smooth. Practiced. "I'm already up."
I walked past them into the kitchen, poured myself water from the tap with shaking hands and retrieved the medicine from the cabinet I'd organized myself only to have Marie rearrange due to “efficiency.”
I took the pills. The cold water hurt going down.
Then I walked back past them, still on the couch. Neither of them looked at me.
I climbed back into my nest alone and pulled the blankets up, waiting for the medicine to kick in.
And I wondered, with the clarity that sometimes comes with fever, when it had become so normal for me to not be remembered.
I move before I can think about it. I shift from the floor to Malcolm's lap and tuck myself against his chest.
He doesn’t move for a moment, then his arms come around me.
"You okay?" He asks.
I don't want to explain. Don't want to put words to the ache sitting heavy in my chest.
"Just—" I press my face against his shoulder. "Can you—"
The purr starts before I finish asking.
It rolls through his chest, deep and steady, vibrating against my cheek. I close my eyes and let it work on me the way it does. Unwinding the tight knot, one layer at a time. Smoothing out the jagged edges of the memory until they're not quite so sharp.
He doesn't ask what's wrong. Doesn't demand explanations. He just holds me and purrs and lets me take what I need.
I don't know how long we sit like that. Long enough that my breathing evens out. Long enough that the ache becomes manageable.
I open my eyes.
Rhys is watching from the armchair.
He's doesn’t look away or pretend he didn't see. He just watches with those warm brown eyes, steady and patient. His expression is soft in the way it goes only when he's looking at me.
There’s no jealousy or tension. The look on his face is almost like relief. Like this is what he wanted for me and he's glad to see it.
I hold his gaze.
He nods once, small and certain.
I close my eyes again and let Malcolm's purr do its work.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, still tucked against Malcolm's chest.
A text from Finn: You make better soup than Malcolm makes eggs. Don't tell him I said that.
I smile despite everything and save the message.
"What?" Malcolm asks, voice rumbling through his chest.
"Nothing," I say. "Just Finn."
"Is he okay?"
"He's going to be fine."
The purr continues, steady and sure.
Across the room, Rhys has leaned back in his armchair. His eyes are closed now, almost like he's sleeping, but one corner of his mouth has the faintest curve to it.
I let myself believe everything is going to be okay.
For now, in this room, with these people, maybe it already is.