10. Theo #2
“That was very considerate,” Andrea says, her thumb moving over the edge of the tablet as I step carefully, trying to keep my shoes from making too much sound.
The sitting room opens wide off the hall, the pack’s scents thickening the second I reach the doorway.
I stop just at the edge to see three people waiting, spaced apart like someone measured the room and removed every trap before I arrived.
Mentally, I work through the pictures that were in the file back at the center.
Sloane is by the sofa, larger than anyone else in the room, with dark curls and shoulders wide enough to make my fingers want my sleeves again.
He starts to smile, then catches the way my hands twitch and softens it before the full force reaches me.
His scent is smoked cedar and brown sugar, warm under the edge of something muted, like it wants to reach farther than it’s allowed.
He lowers himself onto the arm of the sofa instead of staying at his full height.
“Hey,” he says, voice deep but careful. “I’m Sloane. We’re glad you came.” He lets the words sit there without turning them into a question, and some of the air stuck in my chest leaks out.
I let my gaze continue to walk around the room before landing on Idris, one of his shoulders angled away from me.
Black tea and rain cut clean through the room around him, steady enough that my eyes keep trying to return to him even while my body stays wary.
His gaze meets mine, then moves deliberately to the open hallway, the chair closest to the door, and the tea tray on the low table.
“Idris,” he says. “You can sit wherever you want, or stand for a while.”
My hand lifts halfway toward my cardigan, then drops when Andrea shifts beside me. Open door. Chair near the hall. No one blocking the way back out. I look at Idris again, and he looks at the tea tray instead, giving me somewhere else to put my eyes.
Then the softer scent moves. The woman near the lamp shifts in her chair angled slightly away from the center of the room, her cardigan sleeves falling over the heels of her hands, honey-blonde hair pulled back with loose pieces near her cheeks.
Hazel-green eyes meet mine for one careful second, then lower to her own lap.
Honeyed pear and vanilla tea settle under the Alpha scents, warm and close and easier to breathe through.
“I’m Calliope,” she says softly. “You don’t have to answer me.”
My breath catches in my chest as I stare at her, my body leaning toward her. The Center always taught us that we’d gravitate toward Alphas first, that our forever pack would give us solace with those who could protect us the most.
But in this moment, all I want is the pretty Beta in front of me.
“Hi,” I whisper.
Andrea inhales beside me. My face goes hot as I realize I didn’t greet the Alphas first. A small whine pulls from my lips as I step back, waiting for the punishment or correction when Calliope just smiles, a small thing that seems to light up the entire room.
“Hi, Theo,” she offers back, the soft tone of her voice soothing my panic.
The way she says my name settles somewhere low in my chest, soft enough that my fingers stop digging into my thighs.
I look down at my hands and press them flat, keeping them visible, keeping them still, while Garrett moves farther into the room.
Sloane’s attention flicks to him, Idris’s gaze lifts from the tea tray, and Calliope’s fingers curl once against her cardigan before settling again in her lap.
“We kept the first visit light,” Garrett says.
“Tea, time to settle, and a short look around if you want one. There’s a room prepared for you upstairs, but no one will ask you to inspect it today.
” A room prepared for me. Sheets chosen.
Lights checked. Blanket weight approved.
Another place I can stand in the middle of and fail to use correctly.
My fingers find the hem of my sweater, and Andrea’s head turns.
I pull my hand back down before she says anything.
“The sofa might be a good start,” Andrea says, her voice going soft enough to make my face heat.
“You can choose either end, Theo. Or the chair closest to the doorway.” I look at the sofa, then the chair, then Garrett beside the low table, Sloane on the sofa arm, Idris near the window, and Andrea at my shoulder with the tablet hugged to her chest. Calliope looks down at her own hands, and my lungs loosen enough for one step.
I move toward the chair by the doorway, then stop halfway there.
The space beside Calliope’s chair is smaller, narrow, barely a place to stand at all, but my feet take me there in slow, careful steps while my pulse climbs higher with each one.
Andrea’s breath changes behind me. I hear the tiny shift of her shoes, the almost-correction waiting, and my stomach drops.
I’ve gone to the wrong place, and my hand lifts before I can fix it.
My fingers catch the edge of Calliope’s sleeve, soft fabric worn thin at the cuff and warm from her skin. I hold it lightly at first, then tighter when my hand starts to shake. Andrea makes a quiet sound behind me. “Theo,” she says, and I let go.
Calliope doesn’t move away. Her hand stays loose in her lap, sleeve still close enough that the fabric brushes my knuckle. Garrett speaks before Andrea can finish. “That’s all right,” he says, voice calm. When I look up, he's watching my face instead of my hand. “We’re not worried about that.”
Andrea’s mouth closes. Sloane’s scent warms, brown sugar rising under the softened cedar as he rests his forearms on his knees, hands open where I can see them.
“She’s easy to like,” he says, quieter than before, and Calliope’s cheeks turn pink.
She still doesn’t pull her sleeve away, so I touch the cuff again with just the side of one finger.
Idris shifts near the window, and my gaze snaps to him.
He stops at once, one hand half-lifted toward the tea tray.
“I was going to pour,” he says. “Would you rather I leave it for now?” The question is small enough to answer.
My mouth doesn’t open, but I manage to shake my head.
“Tea, then,” he says, and picks up the pot without coming any closer to me.
Andrea’s tablet gives a soft click as the screen wakes.
I hear it even over the blood rushing in my ears, and my fingers leave Calliope’s sleeve to curl against my palm.
Calliope sees the movement. She doesn’t ask me what’s wrong or make me look at her.
Her hand leaves her lap and settles on the cushion beside my knee, palm turned up.
I stare at her hand. Short nails. Soft palm.
A faint smudge of flour near her thumb. Andrea has a chart for this.
She showed me the blue line between comfort and attachment on Wednesday, her yellow mug cooling beside the paper while I nodded like the difference made sense.
Calliope’s fingers stay open, and after another breath, I place two fingers in her palm.