Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
PHOENIX
My heat has mostly waned. Some symptoms are still there, simmering beneath my skin like embers, but no longer the all-consuming inferno that had me clawing at Atticus like a woman possessed. I can actually think again without wanting to climb the nearest alpha like a tree.
Which is exactly why I need to find Mason.
Because apparently my brain decided that the moment it regained full functionality, the first thing it should do is obsess over the man who kissed me senseless and then handed me off to someone else like a package being redirected to a different address.
I pad down the hallway in borrowed socks—Mabie’s, I think, covered in tiny cartoon lobsters—and try to remember which doors lead where. I end up in the quiet foyer, old wood creaking under my feet.
The front door unexpectedly swings open and I’m unexpectedly face-to-chest with Judah Daniels.
He is dressed in a pair of waders and an oversized jacket that looks like it might be older than I am.
“Phoenix.” He says my name like a statement rather than a question, neither surprised nor bothered by finding me lurking in his hallway at—I check the grandfather clock at the end of the hall—seven in the morning.
“Oh, hi,” I say lamely.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You okay? It’s pretty early.”
“I’ve been in bed for like three days straight,” I blurt out. Then realize that I’m basically referencing the fact that I’ve been having sex with Atticus for two days straight. “Uh…I mean…I’m not really tired.”
“Fair enough,” he replies, a slight sparkle of amusement in his gaze. “Well, this is about midday for me, considering how early I usually get up. But I assume we’re the only ones awake.”
“…Right.”
He considers this for a moment, then steps back from the doorway in what might be an invitation.
“I was about to make breakfast,” he says. “Had an early morning on the water today. You’re welcome to join me.”
My stomach, the traitor, chooses this exact moment to growl loud enough to echo off the walls.
Judah’s almost-smile spreads into something approaching genuine amusement. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
The kitchen is warm in a way that has nothing to do with temperature.
Copper pots hang from a rack above the center island, their surfaces reflecting the soft glow of the light fixture overhead.
The countertops are worn butcher block, scarred from decades of meal prep, and there’s a collection of mismatched ceramic jars near the stove that probably contain flour and sugar and whatever else normal families keep in their kitchens.
I wouldn’t know. The closest thing to home cooking I experienced growing up was microwave meals in the studio apartment I shared with Victoria while we hustled for auditions. After that, it’s just a blur of craft services’ tables.
Judah moves to the refrigerator with the ease of someone who’s navigated this space a thousand times. He pulls out eggs, butter, a block of cheese, sets them on the counter with methodical precision.
“Omelets okay?”
“Oh, let me.” The words burst out before I can stop them, and I’m already moving toward the stove, hands reaching for the carton of eggs. “I make the best omelets. Seriously. It’s like, one of three domestic skills I possess, and I refuse to let this opportunity go to waste.”
Judah blinks at me, clearly not expecting a celebrity house guest to volunteer for kitchen duty. But he steps aside, gesturing toward the stove with something that might be amusement.
“Sure, knock yourself out.”
“Sit,” I tell Judah, nodding toward the kitchen table. “Relax. You’re about to experience a culinary spectacle. Just don’t ask me to make literally anything else.”
He snorts but complies, settling into a chair that groans slightly under his weight. Those broad shoulders look even broader in the kitchen light, and I have to force myself to focus on the eggs instead of cataloging the way his forearms flex when he crosses them over his chest.
You’re still in a heat haze, I remind myself firmly. You’re not actually attracted to every alpha in a five-mile radius.
Especially one who already has a mate.
“I really want to apologize,” I say, keeping my eyes on the omelet as I add cheese and a handful of diced vegetables I found in a container in the fridge.
“For showing up on your doorstep without any warning. I’ve recently been encouraged to consider how my actions affect other people.
I was being selfish by imposing on you without even asking first.”
The silence that follows is weighted. I can feel Judah’s gaze on my back, but I can’t bring myself to look at his expression.
“You needed a place to stay,” he says finally. His voice is carefully neutral. “I offered. No apology necessary.”
“Still.” I flip the omelet with a satisfying thwack, pleased when it doesn’t fall apart. “It was presumptuous. And inconsiderate. You have your own life, your own responsibilities. The last thing you needed was a omega in heat crashing through your front door.”
“It’s fine, really.”
I know I should leave it there, but I just can’t help myself. “Hopefully, your omega is around before I leave, so I can apologize to him as well.”
A pause. “I’m sure he’d say the same thing I am. Apology accepted.”
“Okay, great.”
I slide the finished omelet onto a plate and carry it to the table, setting it in front of him with what I hope is a flourish rather than an awkward lurch. He looks down at the food, then up at me, something unreadable moving behind those bright blue eyes.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to.” I pull out the chair across from him and sit, tucking my feet up beneath me. “Consider it a small repayment for your hospitality.”
He picks up his fork, takes a bite, and his eyebrows rise. “This is really good.”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I told you—culinary excellence.”
“You did.” Another bite, slower this time, savoring. “My compliments to the chef.”
Something warm blooms in my chest at the simple praise. When was the last time someone complimented me on something I actually did rather than how I looked doing it?
“So,” I say, after a few minutes of companionable silence as we eat. “You mentioned being out on the water early. You have a boat?”
Judah’s eyes light up as he pulls out his phone.”The Second Chance. Been in my family going on thirty years now. The day she gets retired is going to feel like losing the family dog.”
He turns the phone toward me, and I lean in to look.
The boat is weathered, but obviously meticulously maintained. The name on the side perfectly crisp, as if the letters have been recently repainted. “Beautiful.”
“My father bought her the year I was born. Taught me to pilot her before I could ride a bike. Mabie loves being on boats, but she’s less enthused about the fishing.
” His thumb traces the edge of the phone screen, unconscious affection in the gesture.
“The industry isn’t what it used to be, but it’s hard to imagine doing anything else. ”
“You’re lucky to have a purpose,” I say, the words slipping out before I can consider them.
He looks at me then, really looks, and I feel suddenly exposed in a way that has nothing to do with my rumpled clothes I’m wearing or the heat still simmering beneath my skin.
“Everyone has something,” he says quietly. “Sometimes it just takes a while to find it.”
The moment stretches, weighted with possibility. I’m acutely aware of how close we’re sitting, how easy it would be to—
“Phoenix?”
My head snaps toward the kitchen doorway.
Mason stands frozen on the threshold, one hand raised like he was about to knock on a door that isn’t there. His hair is disheveled from sleep, his glasses slightly crooked, and he’s wearing a wrinkled oxford shirt that I’m pretty sure he slept in.
He looks beautiful. But wrecked. As he surveys Judah and I, there is an expression on his face that makes my stomach drop.
Judah has gone completely still beside me. The warmth that animated his face moments ago has vanished, replaced by a careful blankness that is completely impossible to read.
“Good morning,” Mason says, voice wavering so slightly that I’m probably the only one who notices it. “What are you doing?”
Judah doesn’t say anything, but the wood creaks as he leans back in his chair.
“I made breakfast,” I offer, too brightly, desperate to defuse whatever tension is building. “Want an omelet?”
Mason’s gaze finally lands on me, posture rigid. “You should be resting.”
“My heat’s nearly over. I feel practically back to normal.” I push back from the table, ignoring the dull ache in my muscles that suggests practically normal might be a bit optimistic. “Just a little tired is all.”
“Phoenix—”
“I’m fine, Mason.” I reach out and touch his arm, hoping the contact will ground him the way it usually grounds me. “Really. You don’t need to worry.”
But he’s not looking at me anymore. His attention has drifted back to Judah, and there’s an edge in his gaze that I’ve never seen before. Pain. Longing. Fear. A decade of unspoken history compressed into a single glance.
And Judah looks back at him with careful blankness, but his hands clench into fists on the table.
Where the hell is all this tension coming from? Did something happen while I was distracted with my heat?
“You shouldn’t be alone with him,” Mason says abruptly, and his voice cracks on the last word.
I stare at him. “What?”
“Judah.” Mason’s jaw tightens, muscle jumping beneath the skin. “You shouldn’t be alone with Judah.”
What in the hell is going on? I look between them. Mason is pale and sweating despite the ambient temperature. Judah looks like he just spotted a bear in the woods and is trying to decide whether to run or play dead.
“Mason.” I keep my voice gentle and soft. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”
“Nothing happened.” The words come out too fast, too defensive. “I just don’t think—“
“Mason.”
He meets my eyes, and I see it—the wild desperation barely leashed beneath his professional calm.
His pupils are blown wide, and there’s a sheen of sweat across his forehead, dampness at his collar.
His hands are trembling. Not the controlled tension of anger, but a fine, involuntary shaking that he can’t seem to stop.
He keeps touching his neck, rubbing the back of it, tugging at his collar like it’s suddenly too tight.
Something cold settles in my stomach.
I step toward him, reaching for his forehead to check his temperature. “You’re sweating. And you look—“
“I’m fine.” He jerks back from my touch, and the rejection stings more than it should. “It’s just too hot in here.”
It’s not hot. If anything, the kitchen is cool, early morning air seeping through the old windows.
I look at Judah.
He’s gone rigid, eyes widening with an expression I can’t read. His nostrils flare slightly—subtle, almost imperceptible—and then his face goes completely blank.
But his hands are trembling.
And mine have started.
Because I recognize what I’m seeing now. The flush spreading down Mason’s neck. The way his scent has shifted, deepened, grown richer in the air around us. The restless energy crackling beneath his skin that he’s trying so desperately to control.
“Mason,” I breathe, and my voice comes out strange, hushed with the weight of understanding. “You’re going into heat.”