Page 122 of What We Don't Say: Part Two

“You should be.” I kiss her hair, then wait until she turns her face toward mine before touching my mouth to her cheek. “You don't have to make it smaller because I came back.”

“I hate that it frightened me.”

“I hate that I frightened you.” My voice breaks against the admission, and I hold her without asking her to comfort me. “I will make mistakes again, baby, but I will not let silence be the thing that hurts you. I will come back, answer you, and tell you the truth.”

Callie leans against me for another long moment. Theo keeps one hand on her hip, and Idris' palm remains warm against her back, so when we move toward the couch, the shape around her changes without breaking.

She sits between Theo and me. Idris stays on Theo’s other side, and Dash lowers himself into the armchair again, though his attention remains on us instead of the book in his lap.

Kade already has everything he needs to preserve the access trail, but I left before telling him how I wanted the follow-up handled. I take out my phone without moving away from Callie.

“I need to tell Kade to send the verified chain directly to Zana and hold the rest until tomorrow,” I say. “I can make that call from here. It will take two minutes.”

Callie looks at the screen, then at me. “Here?”

“Right here.” I keep one arm around her and check my phone. Kade’s confirmation is already waiting: the verified chain has been sent through Zana’s protected channel, exactly as he promised before I left. I show Callie the screen instead of making another call.

Sloane

The Next Evening

Callie’s inside my sweatshirt, and I’m trying not to be embarrassing about it. She complained about the study being cold twenty minutes ago, though Idris keeps the house warm enough that Theo wanders around barefoot and Dash has already threatened two windows.

I looked at her tucked sideways in the big leather chair with me, saw the way she kept rubbing her fingers against her sleeves, and lifted the hem of the sweatshirt I was wearing so she couldduck underneath it with me before she could decide she was being inconvenient.

Now she’s curled up in my lap with her cheek pressed to my chest and her knees tucked against my thigh. The sweatshirt is stretched over her head and shoulders, making a warm little cave out of my chest and the soft cotton, and every breath she takes ghosts over my skin.

My hand rests against her back through the fabric. When my thumb moves, she melts heavier into me, and something in my chest goes soft enough that I have to stare down at the papers Idris left on the desk so I don’t make a sound about it.

The study has gone quiet around us. The lamp throws a low amber glow over the bookshelves, the desk, and the rug where Theo built a nest beside the bookcase with all the stubborn focus of an Omega personally offended by available furniture.

He’s asleep in it now, curled around Callie’s cardigan with one of my shirts twisted beneath his cheek. His phone is tucked close to his hand, screen dark, like he fell asleep guarding the pack chat in case one of us needed him.

Dash sits on the rug with his back against the couch, a book open in one hand and a folder beside his knee. He’s had the same page open long enough that I know he’s only pretending to read, but I don’t call him on it because I’ve been pretending to review the same paragraph for just as long.

Callie shifts under the sweatshirt, rubbing her face against my chest with a sleepy little sound. I slip my hand beneath the hem and touch the warm skin at her waist, keeping my palm still when she settles again.

“You still with us, baby?” I ask.

“Barely,” she mumbles against me.

Dash glances up. “That came from your shirt.”

“She lives here now.” I look down at the lump in my lap, and Callie pinches my side hard enough to make me catch a laugh in my throat. “Violently, apparently.”

The hem stretches at my side as she shifts around inside the sweatshirt, pushing her head through the gap between the fabric and my ribs. Her face appears a second later, flushed and squished on one side from being pressed against me, hair caught against her cheek, eyes narrowed at me with no real force behind it.

Dash looks over and goes still. Then he laughs softly, the kind of laugh that barely disturbs the room. “Hi, Callie.”

“Hi,” she whispers.

I put my hand over the back of her head before I can stop myself. She lets me keep her there, halfway hidden and halfway peeking out, like she can’t decide whether she wants to be part of the room or buried against me until the world stops asking things of her.

Dash’s smile stays small. “You good?”

She nods against my stomach. “Don’t let him move.”

“I wasn’t moving,” I say.