When Anastasia noticed Elliot refusing the water, she didn't argue. Instead, she lifted the bottle in her own hand, took a few measured sips first—letting her scent linger on the rim—then offered it back to him.
Only then did Elliot accept it.
His instincts followed hers without hesitation. He drank from where she had drunk, the bond between them settling into something quieter, more intimate, as if even survival itself had begun to align.
Not far away, Alex sat down beside Erica.
She leaned closer almost immediately, her voice soft but deliberate. "I'm cold."
Without hesitation, Alex shrugged off his suit jacket and placed it over her shoulders. The gesture was automatic—pack-protective, learned behavior—but Erica's expression didn't soften the way she expected it to.
Her gaze drifted past him.
Because no matter what Alex did, he wasn't Elliot.
Not in presence. Not in dominance. Not in the silent authority that bent space around him.
