We stepped out onto the bath mat. Anders grabbed another towel and dried me off with brisk, efficient motions, drying my hair, my back, and my legs. Then he wrapped the towel around me like a cocoon and tucked the end in.
He wrapped a towel around his waist and leaned back against the vanity, crossing his arms over his chest. The steam was clearing, revealing his face, which looked sharper now, the businessman returning to the surface.
"The county plow came through an hour ago," he said. "The main road is clear. The bridge crew is estimating structural integrity by noon."
Reality. It hit me like a splash of ice water.
"So we can leave," I said, my voice small. "The trap is open."
"We can," Anders agreed. He watched me carefully. "The question is, do we want to?"
I walked over to the window, rubbing a circle in the condensation on the glass. Outside, the world was a brilliant, washed-out grey. The storm had stripped the trees bare, leaving a carpet of pine needles and broken branches.
"I built this place to keep the world out," I whispered. "But now... it feels small. It feels like a cage."
"Isolation was a survival strategy," Anders said, coming up behind me. He didn't touch me, but I could feel his heatradiating against my back. "It worked when you were wounded. But you aren't wounded anymore, Tessa. You're weaponized."
I turned to face him. "Weaponized?"
"You have a pack, if you want us" he said. "You have a shield wall. You don't need to hide on a cliff edge to be safe."
He reached out, tucking a damp strand of hair behind my ear.
"We talked about it. While you were sleeping."
"The pack meeting?" I asked, a wry smile tugging at my lips.
"Strategy session," he corrected. "We have operations in the city. The agency. The studio. Daniel’s recording booth. Simon’s loft. It creates a logistical nightmare to commute here."
My stomach dropped. "So you're leaving."
"No," Anders said firmly. "We are relocating the asset."
I stared at him. "You want me to move to the city?"
"I want you to be where we can reach you in ten minutes, not two hours," he said. "I have a brownstone in Seaboard. Four floors. Secure entry. Private garden. Fiber optic internet that actually works."
He paused, gauging my reaction.
"There's a library on the second floor," he added, throwing the bait. "Floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves. A fireplace."
"And a lock on the door?" I asked.
"If you want one," he said. "But Daniel thinks the guest suite on the third floor has better light for Simon’s studio. And the basement is soundproofed."
"Soundproofed?"
"For Daniel's recording," Anders said smoothly, though his eyes darkened with a different implication. "And other activities that require volume."
I flushed, the memory of my screaming in the bedroom bubbling up.
"It sounds... crowded," I said.
“What if we move our operations here?" Anders countered. "We can upgrade the satellite. Simon can draw the ocean. Daniel can commute for the big gigs."
"Daniel catches a cold if the temperature drops below sixty," I pointed out, remembering the few times my audiobooks had to be delayed because he lost his voice. "The damp here would kill him."
Anders smirked. "He did complain about the draftiness of the floorboards."
