21. ZANA

Chapter twenty-one

ZANA

It’s been just over a day since I brought Reid home. He’s still on the couch—his semi-permanent home, bundled in blankets that Ethan picked out—soft, warm things meant to make him feel safe. But Reid doesn’t look safe. He doesn’t look comfortable. He looks like someone waiting for the other shoe to drop, like every moment is a breath held too long.

I sit on the edge of the coffee table, watching him carefully. He’s trying to eat, holding the soup I made in trembling hands, but he hasn’t taken a bite yet. The spoon hovers near his mouth, his eyes distant, staring at something I can’t see.

“Reid,” I say gently, his eyes snapping to mine, too sharp, too wide. He blinks, like he’s pulling himself out of whatever dark place his mind went to and his lips press into a thin line.

“Sorry,” he mutters, setting the spoon down with a clink. “I wasn’t... I'm not hungry, I guess.”

“You have to eat, Reid. Your body’s been through a lot. You need the fuel.”

“I know,” he says, his tone clipped, almost defensive but he doesn’t pick the spoon back up.

I don’t push him. Not yet. Instead, I reach forward, taking the bowl from his hands and setting it aside. He watches me with those fierce hazel eyes of his, like he’s waiting for me to scold him, to demand something from him that he can’t give. I just sit back, folding my hands in my lap, and wait.

He shifts uncomfortably under my gaze, his fingers twitching against the edge of the blanket. It’s a nervous tick I’ve noticed, like he needs to keep his hands busy to keep himself grounded. It’s not the only thing, either. The way he flinches when I move too quickly, the way he avoids eye contact when the conversation veers too close to something real—all of it paints a picture he’s not ready to share.

The doctor’s words echo in my head, sharp and unyielding. The fresh bruises will heal, but the old wounds... those tell a different story.

I saw them myself when we first brought him in, the scars crisscrossing his torso, faded but unmistakable. Evidence of months of abuse, months of pain that didn’t come from a single moment but many of them stacked on top of each other. The bruises on his ribs, the swollen eye, the split lip—all of that was just the surface.

And now here he is, sitting in my living room, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth that I’m not sure he knows how to accept.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

His jaw tightens. “Talk about what?” That soft scent of his sharpens, telling me that this won’t be an easy road. Ethan was ready for someone to swoop in and rescue him from his father’s clutches. Ethan loves to lean and to be cared for. I fear that Reid has been closed off for so long that he no longer knows how to let someone in.

“You know what. The Wilhelms. What they did to you.”

“I’m fine,” he says quickly, too quickly. His eyes dart to the side, avoiding mine. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Reid.” His name is firm on my tongue, an edge of my Alpha seeping into my words. “It is a big deal.”

He shakes his head, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t matter!” he snaps, his voice rising for the first time since he’s been here. Then, as if realizing what he’s done, he shrinks back into himself, his eyes wide with something that looks like panic. “Sorry,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean... I’m just... tired.”

I let out a slow breath, leaning back and giving him space. “It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize.”

He doesn’t respond. His fingers start picking at the edge of the blanket again, his eyes fixed on the floor. The tension in the room feels like a living thing, coiling around us, pressing down on both of us. Earlier, he was relaxed, joking around, even cuddling with Ethan. We all saw and felt the after-effects of that kiss but it feels like that happened years ago rather than hours ago.

I want to push. I want to demand answers, to make him tell me everything so I can fix it, so I can tear apart anyone who’s ever laid a hand on him. But I know that won’t work. He’s not ready. Not yet.

Instead, I stand, grab the bowl, and head for the kitchen. “Get some rest,” I tell him over my shoulder. “I’ll check on you a little later.”

Later turns out to be after I’ve dragged Ethan to bed, despite his protests. He’s been hovering all day, bouncing between excitement and worry, his energy a constant buzz that’s both endearing and exhausting. But Reid needs space and Ethan needs rest, so I did what I had to do.

When I come back to the living room, Reid is still awake, sitting in the same spot with the blanket draped over his lap. He looks up when I enter, his eyes tired but alert, like he’s been waiting for me.

“You’re still up,” I say, sitting back down on the coffee table.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admits, his voice quiet.

“Nightmares?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Something like that.”

I study him for a moment, taking in the lines of tension in his face, the way his hands grip the blanket like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. “You’re safe here,” I say softly. “You know that, right?”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smile but doesn’t quite trust himself to. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “I know.”

But I can tell he doesn’t believe it. Not fully. Not yet.

“Are you comfortable out here or would you like to sleep in the nest with us? Ethan was asking for you earlier but I didn’t want to assume.” The invitation is there and it has been the moment Reid came through the front door.

“We’re not there yet, Zana. I want to be but I can’t… it’s so fucking hard to accept all of this. Believe me, I want it but I just…” He falls into silence and I stand, moving to the edge of the couch as I lightly caress his cheek. I understand more than he knows so I won’t force it. I have no doubt that Ethan and I will show him more love than he knows what to do with.

Tonight, however, I’ll let it rest. “It’s alright, Reid. If you need anything, we’re just down the hall.”