“Right.” I roll my eyes, but my chest feels tight. “This is on your head, beta. If someone dies because I didn’t have my phone?—”
“Then I’ll be sure to alphabetize your funeral flowers,” he cuts in with a shitty smirk.
I open my mouth to shoot back, but give up with a groan. “Wonderful.”
I glance toward the street, eyes drifting over the familiar stretch of cracked driveways and patchy lawns. Old sedans and hand-me-down trucks line the curb; someone’s sprinkler sputters weakly across a yard where the grass has turned brittle and yellow with the cold. Mrs. Heller’s plastic flamingos are still leaning sideways like they’ve given up on life.
Then I freeze.
The familiar SUV turns the corner, tires crunching over gravel, sunlight glinting off the windshield. My stomach drops. “Is that Knox?”
Dakota glances toward the street. “Why the hell is Knox home so early?”
I squint, shading my eyes as the vehicle pulls into the driveway. Through the windshield, I catch a glimpse of Knox’s face—jaw tight, eyes dark and unreadable—and every muscle in my body goes rigid. Whatever that look is, it’s not his usual post-work exhaustion. It’s something else. Something bad.
I straighten, heart thudding once before settling into a steady, alert rhythm.
The car door slams hard enough to echo off the houses across the street. Knox is out of the car in an instant, his boots pounding against the gravel like he’s going to war.
“Why the hell haven’t either of you answered your damn phones?” he snaps, eyes sharp and voice too loud for the quiet afternoon.
Dakota blinks, startled. “What?—”
“What’s wrong?” I cut in, already moving toward him. My stomach drops, instincts kicking straight into gear. “Knox, what happened?”
He doesn’t answer, shouldering past me, heading for the house like he’s tracking blood. The front door bangs open against the wall, his voice echoing through the entryway.
“Skyla?” His voice slices through the air—commanding, desperate. “Sky! Where are you?”
I bolt after him, down the hall, straight to our bedroom.
Knox’s boots march down the hall, the sound echoing through the house like thunder. “Skyla!” he calls again, louder this time, voice breaking on her name. No answer. Not even a sound.
My chest goes tight.What the fuck is happening?
A cold rush of panic claws up my throat. I shove past the doorway into the bedroom—and stop dead.
She’s there.
Right in the middle of her nest, tangled in blankets, eyes wide and unfocused. Her breathing’s too fast—sharp, shallow gasps that sound more like choking than crying. Her hands are trembling, clutching at the edge of a blanket like it’s the only thing holding her together.
Dakota freezes beside me, color draining from his face.
“Sky?” I croak, stepping forward, but Knox’s arm shoots out, stopping me. He drops to his knees beside her first, voice low but urgent.
“Hey, hey—look at me, omega,” he murmurs, brushing the hair from her face.
She doesn’t seem to hear him. Her lips move, but no sound comes out.
My heartbeat feels like it’s trying to crack my ribs open. Whatever happened—it’s bad. Real fucking bad.
Freaking the Fuck Out
Skyla
Breathe.Just breathe. Then tell them what happened.
But my heart won’t slow down, no matter how tight I pull the blankets around me. Every inhale tastes like panic—like the moment before an explosion—every muscle locked from the effort of not completely unraveling.
