“My boys have been running hot since the incident,” Daniel adds casually, glancing at them, “protective instincts can bleed outward if not kept in check.”
Atticus smiles, polite and cold. “Our instincts are under control.”
“I’m sure they are,” Daniel says, though the way he looks back at me suggests he isn’t talking about them anymore, “but instincts have a way of recognising certain… signals.”
I set my mug down carefully, my hands steady despite the tension coiling tight in my chest, and meet his gaze head on.
“If you have something to say, you should probably say it,” I tell him, keeping my voice level.
For a moment, something sharp flashes behind his eyes, irritation or amusement, I can’t tell which, and then it’s gone, replaced by that same pleasant mask.
“Oh, nothing so direct,”
