No touching. No reaching. Nothing anyone can object to.
Rosalie turns her face into Luther's jacket anyway.
The movement's immediate. One second she's upright beside him, crown clip glittering in her curls, and the next her cheek's pressed into his thigh, both hands clutching the fabric. Luther's hand comes down to the back of her head, not pushing, not restraining, only covering. His expression doesn't change, butthe scent of him does. It deepens until the air around us knows where the boundary is.
Dorian's smile softens as if he finds her shyness charming. "Hello, Rosalie."
She doesn't answer.
James goes silent in a way that makes the hair at my nape rise. He's always quiet with strangers, but this is different. His attention drops to Dorian's hands and stays there, his little brow drawn tight, his notebook held flat against his chest. He's watching for movement. For direction. For what comes next.
Samuel moves before any adult does.
He steps between Dorian and Rosalie with his feet planted too wide and his chin lifted too high. Samuel's five. He doesn't know he's small yet.
"She doesn't want to talk," he says.
The room stills.
Dorian doesn't look offended. That might've made it easier. He studies Samuel for one second too long, and my stomach turns slowly over itself.
Then he straightens.
"Understood," he says. "A protective family."
Victor gives a low, indulgent chuckle, as if Samuel's done something charming instead of necessary. "Strong instincts in this house."
Dorian's gaze flicks to me. "It explains a great deal about why the sanctuary reads as credible."
There it is again. Almost acceptable. Almost nothing.
My body doesn't believe him.
We go into the conference room because nobody's technically done anything. Victor didn't insult me. Dorian didn't touch Rosalie. No threat crossed the air. There's only the way Rosalie stays attached to Luther's leg, the way James chooses the seat with his back to the wall, the way Samuel climbs onto thesofa beside his sister and keeps himself between her and the strangers.
There's only the fact that every instinct in my body wants fewer doors, fewer windows, and fewer people between me and the children.
The meeting starts with budgets. It always seems to start with budgets, as if money's cleaner than the things people want to do with it.
I sit on the low sofa with the kids because I'm not part of the working session, not officially. I'm here because Ember House is mine, because Blake asked me to hear the discussion for myself, because Luther doesn't want decisions made around me and then handed to me softened at the edges. I try to listen. I try to be fair.
Victor makes it difficult.
"From an integration standpoint," he says, looking at Luther instead of Blake, "we may want a more streamlined channel for launch approvals. Marketing, finance, platform support. Too many owner-level sign-offs can slow the transition."
Blake answers before Luther can. "Owner-level sign-offs aren't the delay. Misunderstanding the engine requirements is the delay."
Victor turns to him with a mild smile. "Of course. I only meant the process may need to mature as the company scales."
Blake's scent sharpens. His hand stays flat on the table, but his fingers press hard enough that I can see the tendons stand out.
"The process is mature," Blake says. "It's also mine."
A flicker moves through Luther's expression. Pride first. Then anger, banked so carefully it barely shows.
Victor inclines his head. "Understood."
Ten minutes later, he asks Luther whether Blake's content deadlines have "enough executive containment" for the transition period.
