Page 158 of Savage Surrender

Freddie has stopped being offended long enough to laugh, which is when Tristan reaches past him and removes a faded school T-shirt from beneath the hoodie.

“That,” Tristan says, holding it by the shoulders, “was my favorite T-shirt.”

“You lent it to me.”

“I lent it to you after you came to swim at the community pool without anything but your bathing suit to walk home in. You said it got caught in the washing machine and you had to throw it away.”

Mom looks at me.

“This is becoming a hostile environment.”

“Well, all of you stopped pursuing your belongings eventually. Legally, that’s surrender.”

Tristan holds the old shirt against my shoulder, and his smile turns quieter.

“You could have just asked me for it.” He leans closer, then whispers, “This was top of my list of fantasies.”

My cheeks go hot.

Weller has stayed behind the couch, watching the contents of the box migrate across the floor. Mom reaches inside to move a photograph, and something narrow slides free beneath it.

Dark fabric. A small, careful knot I tied before hiding it because I wanted it to look the way it had when it belonged to him.

I snatch it, but not fast enough.

For once, no one says anything quickly enough to save me.

Weller runs the tie through his fingers. “Oh, Bianca, I looked everywhere for this. My lucky tie.”

“It was in your glove compartment.”

“Until it wasn’t.”

“That’s where people store things they don’t need.”

His gaze lifts to mine.

Tristan lowers himself onto the arm of the couch. “To clarify, you accumulated one scented object from each of us and concealed the thefts while maintaining a separate performance of complete disinterest.”

“I did not smell them.”

Everyone looks at me.

“Very often,” I add.

Megan falls backward onto the rug, tears streaming down her face. Winston is laughing hard enough that Clara has to take his drink before he spills more of it on the floor. Dad removes his glasses and rubs at his eyes. Even Mom laughs, one hand pressed to her mouth, and the sound is rusty enough that I glance at her before I can stop myself.

The clothes don’t smell like the alphas anymore. They smell like cardboard and my parents’ house, with the faint dusty sweetness of everything kept too long. But when I close my fingers around Owen’s sleeve, my body remembers what I was looking for before I had a word for it.

Freddie sits behind me and wraps both arms around my waist. “Tiny criminal.”

“I prefer the term collector.”

“Thief,” Owen says, but he pulls the old hoodie over my knees like a blanket.

Tristan folds his shirt with pointed care. “Pathological little scent raccoon.”

“I hate every one of you.”