Page 99 of What We Don't Say: Part One

“You won’t.” I ease my hand under the sweater and straighten it over his shoulder, giving us both a few seconds to breathe before I try to sit up. “We’ll go together.”

It takes longer than it should to get off the floor. We’re clumsy, laughing once when my sock slides against the tile and Theo grabs my waist with a startled little chirp, but even the laugh feels fragile, like something we have to carry carefully. I rinse a washcloth in the sink and press it to his face, then his hands, and he lets me fuss because the purr starts again when I touch him under his jaw.

We make it to the kitchen with Theo’s fingers tangled in mine and his sweater sleeve pulled down over our joined hands. Sloane is already there, standing by the island with his phone in one hand and a crease between his brows. He takes one look at us and sets the phone down so carefully that the sound of it touching the counter feels louder than a slam.

“What happened?” he asks, but he’s already moving. His eyes go to Theo first, then me, then the hallway behind us. He doesn’t crowd. He doesn’t bark. He stops a few feet away and lets Theo decide where to put his body.

Theo presses closer to my side. His purr stutters, then quiets. “Garrett came in.”

Sloane’s face changes. It isn’t dramatic. The warmth leaves first, then the humor, then everything else until only the Alpha remains, still and sharp behind his eyes. “In the laundry room?”

I nod. “Looking for sheets.”

Sloane looks at the doorway like he can see through the walls to Garrett’s study. For a second, I think he’s going to go there, and fear snaps through me fast enough that my grip tightens around Theo’s hand. Sloane catches the movement and comes back to us instead.

“Okay,” he says, voice low. “We’re not doing this in the hallway.”

Idris appears at the far end of the kitchen a few minutes later, drawn by whatever sound or absence of sound changed in the house. His gaze moves over Theo with surgical care, then rests on me long enough that I feel the question in it. I don’t have the strength to explain everything yet. Maybe he sees that, because he only opens his hand.

“Theo,” Idris says gently. “Come here, sweetheart. Let me check your temperature and get you settled for a little while.”

Theo looks at me first.

I squeeze his hand. “I’m not leaving the house.”

His fingers tighten. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

He lets go slowly, one finger at a time, then crosses to Idris with my sweater still wrapped around him like a claim. Idris tucks him carefully against his side and kisses the top of his head, but his eyes stay on Sloane over Theo’s hair. Something passes between them that I’m too tired to translate.

Sloane grabs my heavy wool coat from the mudroom hook. “Callie,” he says, holding it open. “Let’s go.”

I blink at him. “Theo—”

“Idris has him.” Sloane steps closer, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “You’re shaking, baby.”

I look down. He’s right. My hands are trembling at my sides, and now that Theo’s not holding one of them, I don’t know what to do with either. Sloane doesn’t ask me for the whole story while Garrett’s house breathes around us. He just holds the coat open and waits until I slide my arms into it.

Garrett’s voice reaches us from the hall before we make it to the back door. “Going somewhere?”

Sloane doesn’t turn around. He zips my coat, tugs the collar up around my throat, and takes my hand. “Out.”

There’s a pause behind us, short and controlled. “Theo’s evening routine starts soon.”

“Then it’s good Idris is here,” Sloane says, and this time he does look back. His body stays between Garrett and me, broad enough to block most of the hallway. “We’ll be back.”

He doesn’t wait for permission. He opens the back door, guides me through it, and the cold air hits my face hard enough that I almost cry from the relief of feeling something Garrett hasn’t touched.

The drive to the lake is quiet except for the heater and the turn signal. Sloane doesn’t reach for my hand every thirty seconds the way he wants to. I know he wants to because his fingers flex on the steering wheel, and because every mile or so he glances over like he’s checking whether I’m still inside my own skin. I keep my hands tucked in my pockets and stare through the windshield at the bare trees blurring past.

He parks near the north path, where the lake is gray under a low, bruised sky. The wind comes off the water sharp enough to sting my cheeks, and I breathe it in like medicine. Sloane opens my door but doesn’t touch me until I step out and lean into him first.

“Walk with me,” he says, and his hand settles at my back.

We make it halfway down the railing before the shaking gets bad enough that I have to stop. My hands close around the cold iron, and the pressure of it against my palms gives the fear somewhere to go. Sloane steps behind me and wraps his arms around my middle, pulling me back against his chest, his mouth brushing my cheek in a kiss so soft it almost undoes me.

“You don’t have to explain it perfectly,” he murmurs. “I know something hurt.”