POV: Silas

Silas could dismantle a motorcycle engine blindfolded.

At seven the next morning, he lost a fight with toast.

Smoke poured from the safe-house kitchen. The alarm screamed overhead. Ronan stood on a chair waving a dish towel while Maeve opened every window despite the mountain cold.

Sophie entered wearing one red shoe, one borrowed slipper, and Silas's leather cut over pajamas.

She stared at the black rectangles on the plates.

"Is breakfast dead?"

"It fought bravely," Ronan said.

Silas unplugged the toaster. "The setting was wrong."

Maeve examined the dial. "You selected seven."

"Seven sounds average."

"Seven is cremation."

Evelyn appeared in the doorway.

She wore his black sweatshirt again. Her hair was loose, sleep-soft around her face, and one hand rested protectively near her healing stitches.

His scent covered her.

His wolf forgot the smoke alarm.

Take her upstairs. Back to bed. Curl around her. Feed her something that isn't charcoal.

Silas pushed the instinct down and opened another window.

Evelyn looked at the breakfast. "What happened?"

"Alpha challenged an appliance," Ronan said. "Appliance won."

"I can make eggs."

"You are recovering," Silas said.

"My ribs are injured. My knowledge of eggs survived."

She moved toward the stove.

Silas moved with her, then stopped himself before the motion became blocking.

"Tell me what to do."

Evelyn handed him a bowl. "Crack six eggs. Shells stay outside."

"I understand eggs."

The first shell collapsed in his hand.

Sophie climbed onto a chair to watch. "Daddy taps them little."

The kitchen went still inside Silas.

Daddy.

Grant had driven them off a mountain. Drugged Evelyn. Terrified his own child. Yet he still occupied that word as if biology and paperwork had reserved it for him.

Silas cracked the second egg too hard.

Yolk ran across the counter.

Ronan quietly moved the remaining eggs out of reach.

Evelyn watched Silas wipe the mess.

"Are you jealous of toast?"

"No."

"Eggs?"

"No."

"The man who used to make them?"

Maeve took Sophie's hand. "Let's inspect the very interesting snow outside."

"There isn't snow," Sophie said.

"Then the inspection will be brief."

Ronan followed them with the surviving eggs. "I sense emotional responsibility approaching."

The door closed behind all three.

Silas faced the sink.

"He doesn't deserve jealousy."

"That wasn't my question."

"Yes."

The word tasted worse than the toast.

Evelyn leaned against the counter. "Because Sophie called him Daddy?"

"Because he had mornings with you."

She said nothing.

Silas looked at the ruined breakfast instead of her. "He woke beside you. He knew how you take your coffee. He bought her first pair of shoes. He got ordinary things he didn't deserve, and I—"

He stopped.

"You what?"

"I am angry at a piece of toast because it has memories I don't."

Evelyn's mouth curved.

"That's ridiculous."

"I know."

"You are actually jealous of toast."

"I preferred your earlier interpretation."

She laughed.

The sound pulled him around.

Morning light touched her face. His sweatshirt slipped from one shoulder, revealing the pale line of skin above the armored vest she had not yet learned to sleep without.

Silas wanted to cross the kitchen.

His wolf wanted her on the counter, her legs around his waist, his mouth covering the laugh before anyone else could hear it.

Then his gaze found the faint white band on her ring finger.

Grant's absence still had a shape.

Silas gripped the edge of the sink.

Evelyn followed his eyes.

"I left the ring in my hospital belongings bag."

"You don't owe me an explanation."

"No. But I wanted you to know."

That was worse.

Hope moved through him before he could stop it.

"Nolan was right about one thing," Silas said.

Her smile disappeared. "Which thing?"

"You are another man's wife."

The sentence sounded ugly in his mouth.

"Legally."

"Legally is not nothing."

"It is when Grant uses it to claim access to my body."

"I know."

"Do you? Because every time someone calls me Mrs. Quinn, you look as if you want to break furniture."

"Only furniture?"

"Silas."

He forced his hands open.

"I hate that he can call you his wife. I hate that hospitals give him information because of it. I hate that forms put his name beside yours. And I hate that my wolf hears the word husband and wants to remove the problem with its teeth."

Evelyn held his gaze.

"What does the man want?"

The question stripped away every excuse.

"You."

Her breath caught.

"Not because the wolf chose you. Not because Grant hurt you. I want your bad jokes before coffee. I want you correcting how I hold a frying pan. I want to know which side of the bed you take and whether you steal blankets."