Page 20 of What We Don't Say: Part Two

My body settles by inches, the worst of the shaking loosening. The purr becomes less frantic, still uneven, but softer against Sloane’s chest. Idris stays beside us, one hand on my back, the other clenched around his own knee so hard the tendons stand out.

“I want Callie,” I say after the third sip of water. The words come out small.

Sloane closes his eyes. “Me too.”

“She thinks I didn’t.”

Sloane’s face twists, and for a moment all the carefulness almost leaves him. Idris feels it too. His hand shifts from my back to Sloane’s shoulder, grounding him with one hard press.

“We’re going to get to her,” Idris says. “But we’re going to do it in a way Garrett can’t turn against you or against her.”

Sloane lowers the water bottle. “I’m going to the police tonight.”

“You’re calling Zana before you walk in,” Idris says, and there is no argument in it. His voice is still level, but something beneath it has started to fracture. “You aren't giving them a feral bonded Alpha with no attorney, no strategy, and Garrett’s paperwork waiting to eat you alive.”

Sloane’s mouth opens, then shuts. He looks down at me, at the sweater in my hands, at the plate balanced near his knee. Whatever he was about to say burns itself out behind his eyes. “Okay,” he says roughly. “Zana first.”

The room goes quiet after that. Sloane feeds me one more apple slice, and I take it because the motion gives us both somewhere to put our hands. Idris stands slowly and crosses to the low table, where the spilled tea has crept toward the edge of the rug. He picks up the unbroken water glass near the tray, his hand tightening around it.

Then the glass breaks, followed by the scatter of pieces against the table and floor. Idris freezes with his hand still curled, water running over his fingers and dripping onto the rug with the tea. A thin line of red opens across his palm.

I jerk against Sloane, eyes burning, purr cutting off. The sound of breaking glass is still in the air. It’s in my teeth. It’s in the place Garrett’s voice just left behind.

Idris looks at me, and all the cold control falls out of his face. “I’m sorry,” he says immediately. He opens his hand slowly, carefully, like he’s showing me there’s no weapon there even though there’s blood on his skin. “Theo, I’m sorry. That was mine. I shouldn’t have brought that into the room.”

Sloane’s arm tightens around me, then stops when I shift forward. My knees hurt from the floor. Callie’s sweater drags half under me because I can’t let go of it completely, but I crawl out of Sloane’s lap and toward Idris anyway. Idris doesn’t reach for me. He stays still beside the table, water and blood dripping from his hand, his face open with a fear that looks nothing like Garrett’s.

I press my face into Idris’ neck. He makes a broken sound and folds around me with his clean arm, careful to keep the cut hand away from my back. His throat moves against my cheek when he swallows. I can feel how badly he wants to hold tighter and how hard he's fighting not to make his need bigger than mine.

My purr comes back small. It isn’t strong enough to soothe a whole room. It barely soothes me. But it moves against Idris’skin, and his breath shudders through his chest as he bows over me.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter this time. “I scared you.”

“You’re scared too,” I whisper.

“Yes.” His mouth presses to my hair, then stops there. “I am.”

“You didn’t touch me.”

“No.” His arm wraps a little more securely around my shoulders when I lean into him. “I won’t.”

I close my eyes and lean into him. Sloane wraps Idris’ cut hand and clears the broken glass while I stay pressed against Idris’ neck. Once the glass is cleared, I settle between Idris’ legs with Callie’s sweater in my lap.

I smooth the fabric again and again until the loose thread lies flat.

“I need paper,” I say.

Both Alphas go still, but neither of them asks why. Sloane reaches for the notebook Dr. Mercer left on the side table, the one Dr. Mercer left for recovery tracking. He opens it to a clean page and sets it on the floor in front of me. Idris gives me a pen, then pulls his hand back before his fingers can linger.

The white page hurts to look at.

My hand doesn’t want to hold the pen. The muscles in my fingers are tired from shaking, tired from gripping Callie’s sweater, tired from being part of a body that keeps surviving things it doesn’t understand. I place the tip against the paper, but no ink comes at first because I’m pressing too lightly. Sloane shifts forward, then stops himself. Idris’ breath warms the side of my face.

“This is for her,” I whisper.

Sloane’s eyes close. Idris' arm tightens around my middle for half a second, then eases.

I press harder.