Page 132 of Nikolay

Sloan watched me over the rim of her mug and grinned. “Told you.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. That face said enough.”

“I was not making a face.”

“You absolutely were.”

I shook my head and drank again, because there were worse things in life than being caught enjoying yourself by a woman who looked pleased about it.

Then Sloan straightened so abruptly I nearly spilled cocoa down my sweater.

“Oh!”

I blinked at her. “What?”

“They found your phone. It was in the couch cushions.”

She reached behind one of the pillows and held it out like a magician finishing a trick. My phone. Blessedly, stupidly familiar.

I took it at once. “Where—”

“In the big sitting room, I think. Somebody checked after Sage sent word.” She wiggled her fingers in a vague gesture that seemed to encompass both house staff and the general machinery of pack life. “Battery’s almost dead, though.”

She was not kidding. The screen came on dim and weak, the little battery symbol hovering near empty like a threat.

Still, relief moved through me fast enough to make me grip it tighter. It was ridiculous how naked I had felt without it. Not because I expected anyone in Texas to need me urgently every hour of the day, but because a phone was a tether now. To home. To options. To myself.

I unlocked it and went straight to the notification bar.

Nothing.

No missed calls. No texts. No “where are you,” no “you good,” no “made it home?” My thumb hovered there a beat too long before I made myself swipe the screen away like the gesture meant nothing.

A little muscle in my jaw tightened, anyway.

I had not expected a flood of concern. Bronc did not flood. He assessed. My friends had lives. The world had not stopped because I had spent the afternoon in a cabin with a polished wolf who made suspiciously excellent cocoa.

But I had hoped.

Not generally. Specifically.

For one message from Nikolay. One.

Something simple would have done it. A check-in. A dry little line. Even one of those maddeningly measured questions of his that sounded like diplomacy but hid actual care if you listened closely enough. After everything between us—after the pastries, the book, the dream still lingering in my blood like a bruise—I had hoped he might have reached out.

He had not.

Sloan said nothing. Which, somehow, was kinder than if she had asked.

Instead, she tucked one leg under herself and said, “So. Since I have you captive—”

“That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”

“—I need you to stay one more night.”

I looked up from the phone. “What?”