25. Sloane
Sloane
By the time coffee starts, I’ve already put the same mug under the machine twice.
The first cup sits forgotten beside the sink, cooling untouched, and the second is halfway full before I realize I’ve made it for Callie instead of myself, with the splash of cream she likes and the spoon resting across the top because she always forgets she’s stirred it and goes back in for another pass.
My hands keep wanting something to do. Mug, counter, drawer handle, the hem of Callie’s sweater when she passes close enough for me to hook a finger into it and tug her back against my chest. She lets me do it the first three times, and on the fourth, she laughs under her breath and presses her elbow lightly into my ribs.
“Sloane,” she says, but she’s smiling when she says it. Her hair is still a little tangled from sleep, and there’s a crease on her cheek from the blanket Theo dragged over her in the nest sometime before dawn.
“What?” I tuck my mouth against the side of her neck, only for a second, only enough to feel her pulse trip beneath my lips. “I’m helping.”
“You’re hovering.” She turns enough to give me a look, soft and amused and too knowing for how little coffee she’s had. Her hand comes up to touch my wrist where it’s resting against her stomach.
“I’m admiring.” My voice is too rough for a joke, and she hears it because she always hears me. The concern in her eyes makes my whole body want to curl around her until nothing in the house can get through. “I’m fine, baby.”
Callie hums like she believes half of that and has decided to be kind about the rest. “Coffee first. Then whatever Alpha crisis you’re pretending isn’t happening.”
Across the kitchen, Theo sits on one of the island stools with both hands wrapped around a glass of water Idris made him drink.
He’s wearing one of Callie’s sweaters again, the soft blue one that slips off one shoulder and makes him look smug every time my eyes catch on it.
He keeps glancing between Callie and the mug I made her, then down at his water like he’s pretending he isn’t tracking every time she moves.
Idris stands near him, one hip against the island, black tea and rain banked low in the room while he checks Theo without making a show of it.
Two fingers brush Theo’s wrist. A palm settles briefly between his shoulder blades.
A murmured “breathe” lands whenever Theo’s chest starts moving too fast, and Theo responds every time, pliant and loose from last night’s care, though his foot still hooks around Callie’s ankle when she comes close.
That should settle me, and it almost does.
Last night keeps flashing through me in pieces that won’t smooth out into memory: Theo on his knees in the middle of the nest he built, Callie laughing when he ordered her into place, Garrett settling on one side of him because Theo asked, Idris watching the whole room like he could hold every pulse in his hands.
Theo looked at Callie while Alpha heat rolled through him hard enough to shake the floor under my knees.
He wanted all of us, but he kept finding her, and my rut-edge still hasn’t figured out how to stand down from the sight of it.
The pack worked, and every possessive, protective, half-feral part of me woke up this morning with one command burning under my skin: keep it exactly like that.
Garrett enters while Callie is reaching above her head for the honey.
I move before I think, stepping behind her to get it down because she’s already stretching onto her toes and because I want my hand at her waist again.
She gives me a look over her shoulder, amused and fond, and I kiss the corner of her mouth before setting the jar on the counter.
Theo watches us with wide eyes, then hides his smile in his glass of water. Garrett’s gaze catches there for less than a second, moving from Callie’s mouth to my hand at her waist, then to Theo’s face, then to the sweater hanging off Theo’s shoulder.
Nothing changes in Garrett’s expression. He looks like he always does in the morning: calm, clean, controlled, with his dark hair still damp from the shower and his robe tied with the kind of precision that makes me want to wrinkle it on principle.
“Morning,” Callie says, warm because she’s warm, because she keeps trying to offer the whole house her softness even when the walls don’t deserve it. She pushes the mug I made toward him without thinking, then realizes it has her cream in it and laughs at herself. “Sorry. That one’s mine.”
Garrett’s mouth tilts. “I gathered.”
Theo’s foot tightens around Callie’s ankle beneath the island. I notice it, Idris notices it, and Garrett notices it too, because Garrett is a man built entirely out of noticing and choosing when to pretend he hasn’t.
“Today should stay quiet,” Garrett says, taking a clean mug from the cabinet.
His voice is mild and useful, the kind of voice that makes other people feel dramatic for hearing anything beneath it.
“Early spikes linger. Theo may be more sensitive to shifts than usual, especially after a night with that many overlapping attachments.”
The word lands wrong.
My hand tightens on the honey jar before I can stop it. Callie glances back at me again, but this time her smile fades around the edges. Theo looks down at his water, and Idris’ eyes lift from Theo’s wrist to Garrett’s face.
“Overlapping attachments?” I ask, keeping the question low because if I let it go any louder, it will come out with teeth. Callie’s hand presses once over mine, a small warning and a smaller plea.
Garrett pours coffee like we are discussing weather. “Heat can amplify whatever feels safest in the moment. That isn’t a problem unless we start making decisions inside the intensity before Theo has had time to settle.”
The room stays warm. The coffee smells the same. Callie’s sweater still brushes my knuckles, and Theo’s foot is still hooked around her ankle, and Idris is still close enough to touch all of us if he chooses. I want to put my fist through the cabinet.
“He built that nest,” I say, forcing each word through a throat that wants to growl. “He put us where he wanted us.”
“I know.” Garrett stirs his coffee once, then sets the spoon down with barely a sound. “That was good to see.”
It should be harmless, but my Alpha scrapes at the inside of my skin because Garrett says good like he's evaluating a form. Like the night can be filed under promising but incomplete. Like Theo’s hand finding Callie’s again and again is a stage instead of a choice.
Callie shifts beneath my hand. She doesn't step away from me, but she goes still, and that small change burns hotter than any argument Garrett could have handed me.
“Say what you mean,” I tell him.
Garrett looks at me then. He doesn't square his shoulders or lift his chin, because he has always preferred reason to threat. “I mean he will need gentleness today. From all of us.”
“Bullshit.” The word comes out softer than I expect and more dangerous for it. Theo’s head jerks up, and I hate that I’ve startled him, but I can’t pull the sound back. “You weren’t talking about gentleness. You were looking at Callie.”
Callie’s fingers tighten around mine. “Sloane.”
I hear the caution in her voice, and I hear the plea under it. She isn't asking me to stop protecting her. She's asking me not to make the room worse while Theo is sitting there with his eyes too wide and his scent starting to sharpen.
Garrett exhales, patient enough to make my teeth grind. “I’m looking at the whole structure, Sloane. Theo’s first full spike was intense. Everyone did well. There’s no insult in saying we should be careful today.”
“You keep doing that.” I let go of the honey jar and step away from Callie because if I keep touching her, I’m going to use her body as the thing I’m defending instead of remembering she's a person standing right here. “You put a soft word over something sharp and wait for the rest of us to pretend we didn’t feel the cut.”
Garrett’s eyes cool by a single degree. “You’re running hot.”
“Yes,” I say, and the honesty of it makes the kitchen go still. “I am. That doesn’t make me wrong.”
Idris moves before Garrett can answer. He doesn't rush, but the room obeys him anyway. He comes around the island, his hand settling at the back of my neck, thumb pressing once against the tendon there in a way that is half comfort and half warning.
“Gym,” Idris says.
I laugh once, but there is no humor in it. “I’m in the middle of a conversation.”
“You’re two breaths from rutting through a political argument in front of Theo.” Idris keeps his voice low enough that it doesn't carry like a reprimand. His fingers tighten at my neck, and my body hates how much it wants to lean into the pressure. “Gym, Sloane.”
Garrett lifts his mug. “That may be wise.”
The growl comes up before I can bury it, and Theo flinches. That gets through faster than Idris’ grip, faster than Callie’s hand, faster than any self-control I’ve ever pretended to have.
I turn from Garrett so fast my shoulder clips the island.
Callie reaches for Theo at the same time Idris steers me toward the hall, and I see her hand settle over Theo’s.
His fingers fold around hers. Garrett watches it with that same calm, careful face, and every instinct in me starts counting exits, threats, ways to pick Callie up and take her somewhere his eyes can't follow.
Idris doesn't let go of me until we are upstairs. The gym door closes behind us with a soft click that sounds much too polite for the state of my body.
The room smells like mats, leather, and old sweat, grounded and honest in a way the kitchen was not. Nothing here pretends it isn't built for impact, and I turn on Idris the second we are alone.
“You heard him,” I say.
“I did.”
“He’s trying to make last night sound like a side effect.
” I pace away, then back, because standing still feels like giving my skin permission to split.
“Theo wanted her. He wanted all of us, but he kept finding her. Garrett saw it, and this morning he’s already trying to put a caution label on it. ”
Idris watches me with his arms crossed, bare feet planted on the mat. He looks calmer than I know he is, and that used to comfort me. Right now, it makes me want to shove him until the control cracks.
“You’re right,” he says.
I stop pacing because the agreement hits harder than a fight would have. Idris’ jaw flexes once, and his scent sharpens, black tea gone bitter and rain turning storm-heavy.
“He was too careful with the phrasing,” Idris says. “I didn’t like it.”
“Then why pull me out?”
“Because you were about to give him exactly what he needed.” Idris steps closer, slow enough that I have time to back away and insulting enough that I don't. “A rut-heavy Alpha snarling in a kitchen while an Omega shakes and Calliope tries to keep everyone steady.
He wouldn't need to lie about you being unstable. You would have handed him the picture.”
I hate that. I hate it because it is true, and because Garrett would have stood there calm and clean while I turned into every warning label he wanted to slap on my back.
My hands curl into fists. “I can’t just stand there while he looks at her like she’s something to manage.”
“No.” Idris’s eyes flash. “You can’t stand there like that.”
I laugh under my breath, sharp and ugly. “Oh, good. A distinction. That fixes it.”
“It keeps you from making her bleed because you refuse to learn restraint.”
The room goes silent, and Idris doesn't soften the words.
He lets them sit between us, brutal and necessary, and something in my chest bucks against them because I know he isn't accusing me of hurting her with my hands.
He's talking about the other thing, the way Callie will try to become smaller if she thinks my fury costs the room peace.
“Fuck you,” I whisper.
Idris steps closer. “Color.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“Color, Sloane.” His voice drops, controlled and dark enough that my body answers before my pride can. “Because you want to hit something, and I’m standing here. So tell me your color, or go hit the bag until you remember how to speak.”
My pulse slams hard. The rut-edge surges at the shape of him: calm, solid, willing to take the fight without turning it into theater.
Idris isn't Garrett. He won't stand across from me with a reasonable face and make me feel like a weapon for wanting to protect my mate.
Idris will put his hands on me and make me honest.
“Green,” I say. My voice breaks around it. “Pissed, but green.”
“Good.” Idris reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it toward the bench without looking away from me. “Then give it to me.”