The kitchen smelled like butter, onions, and the faint metallic tang of tension.
Samantha leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Kai crack eggs with a level of care that bordered on reverence. The knife work was still too precise, the movements still too measured—but the wrongness was fading. Slowly. Like bruises blooming under the skin and then receding.
Marcus sat at the island now, jacket abandoned, sleeves rolled up. He looked… himself again. Mostly. The instinctive warmth that had bled into him earlier was settling back behind familiar walls, though she could still sense it humming there, newly acknowledged.
Callum stood by the window, posture back where it belonged—alert, watchful, dragon-still. He hadn't said much since Sage left, but his presence had sharpened, edges reforming with every breath.
Nova gurgled from her cradle.
Soft. Innocent.
As if she hadn't just rearranged the internal architecture of four ancient, dangerous beings.
