Page 19 of What We Don't Say: Part Two

“Theo,” he says, “this is exactly the kind of fixation Dr. Mercer warned about.”

“No.” My fingers hook around the edge of the tea tray, my grief taking over my ability to think. “No.”

The tray skids hard across the table. The porcelain cup flips, hits the edge, and cracks against the floor with a wet, ugly sound. Tea spills across the sunroom rug in a dark fan, steam lifting from the fibers Idris chose because he said my feet should have something soft under them. The smell of chamomile bursts into the air, too sweet and too hot, and I make a strangled sound into Callie’s sweater.

Garrett stands and I jerk backward so fast my shoulder hits the side of the nest. He hasn’t touched me. He doesn’t have to. His Alpha scent sharpens, mint turning metallic at the edges, and his hand lifts like he’s going to guide me back into myself by force.

“That’s enough,” Garrett says.

The door behind him opens so hard it hits the wall. Sloane comes in with a plate in one hand and a bottle of juice tucked under his arm. For half a breath, he sees the tea on the floor, Garrett standing over me, my body wedged against the nest with Callie’s sweater crushed to my mouth.

The plate lowers to the nearest table without spilling, and then Sloane moves between us, his back to Garrett, his body a wall I recognize even through the panic.

“Move away from him,” Sloane says. His voice is low enough that it doesn’t fill the whole room, and that makes it worse.

Garrett’s hand drops to his side. “He threw hot tea across the floor.”

“He felt cornered.” Sloane doesn’t turn around. His eyes stay on me, wild and wet and trying so hard to be careful that my chest hurts. “Theo, sweetheart, look at me if you can.”

I try. My eyes catch on his throat first, then his mouth, then the black fury in his face that he’s holding behind histeeth because I’m on the floor and shaking. Idris appears in the doorway behind Garrett, phone still in his hand. His gaze catches on Garrett standing too close and his expression goes very quiet.

“Garrett,” Idris says. “Leave the room.”

Garrett turns his head slowly. “This isn't how recovery works.”

“This isexactlyhow recovery works when the patient has asked you to stop.” Idris comes farther into the room, and his voice stays even, but the rain in his scent goes storm-sharp. “Leave the fucking room.”

Garrett’s gaze moves from Idris to Sloane to me. “We’ll discuss this when everyone is capable of reason,” Garrett says. He steps around the tea without looking at it, his shoes silent on the floor. At the doorway, he pauses, and his voice softens again in a way that makes my purr break into a frightened little sound. “Theo, I hope you understand eventually that indulging fear isn't the same as protecting you from it.”

Sloane flinches like the words hit his back. Idris waits until Garrett is in the hall, then closes the sunroom door with careful hands. He doesn’t slam it. He doesn’t lock it either, and somehow that restraint makes the room shake harder around me.

Sloane turns around and drops to his knees. He sets one hand palm-up on the floor between us, the other pressed against his own thigh like he has to physically hold himself back. “Theo,” he says, and my name sounds ruined in his mouth. “I’m here. Idris is here. He’s gone.”

The purr in my chest comes in pieces. I can’t get it even. I want to crawl into him, and I’m scared of how badly I want it because Garrett keeps taking wanting and turning it into sickness. I stare at Sloane’s hand until my vision blurs, then uncurl one finger from Callie’s sweater and touch his palm.

Sloane’s breath breaks.

He still waits. He waits until I move first, until I lean forward on my knees and press into him. Then his arms come around me, careful and strong, his body folding over mine like he can shelter me from the whole house if he gets the angle right. His mouth presses to my hair, and for a second I think he might sob.

“I didn’t tell her to go,” I say into his shirt. My voice is muffled. I don’t know if the words are clear. I need them to be. “Sloane, I didn’t.”

“I know.” His hand cups the back of my head, trembling hard enough that I feel it against my scalp. “I know, sweetheart. I believe you. I believe you.”

“He made her think I did.”

Sloane makes a sound I can’t name. His arms tighten for half a second, then loosen as soon as my breath catches. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry. I’ve got you.”

Idris kneels beside us. He doesn’t reach for me until I turn my face enough to see him, and then his hand comes to my shoulder, warm and steady. His eyes stay on mine. “No one in this room thinks you sent those messages,” Idris says. “No one in this room thinks Callie left because she wanted to hurt you.”

The relief is too big. It turns into more shaking instead of less. Sloane shifts, pulling the plate closer with one hand without letting go of me. There are crackers on it, apple slices cut thin, a little square of cheese, all the bland, careful things Dr. Mercer said my body might accept if no one made a production out of it.

“I can’t,” I whisper, because my fingers are locked around Callie’s sweater again and the idea of letting go feels like dropping the only proof I have.

Sloane looks at my hands, then at my face. “Can I help?”

I nod as he picks up a cracker and breaks off the smallest corner. His fingers shake when he brings it to my mouth. He sees me notice, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away and hide the shaking from me. He lets me see that he's terrifiedtoo. He lets me take the bite from his hand like trust is the only language either of us has left.

The cracker tastes like dust. I chew anyway. Sloane watches my throat when I swallow, his eyes bright and wrecked, then lifts the electrolyte water and waits until I lean toward the straw. He feeds me another tiny piece of cracker, then a sliver of apple, his thumb brushing once against my lower lip when my mouth trembles too hard to close right.