Annelly

I follow the motion automatically, my eyes taking a second to adjust to the brightness of the screen.

And then I see him.

James stands just before the tree line, sleeves pushed up, axe raised over his shoulder. The blade comes down with a solid, controlled crack, splitting the log clean in two. He doesn’t rush as he resets his stance, hefts another log onto the chopping block, and lines it up just right. Every movement is deliberate. Measured. Nothing about it is reckless.

My breath leaves me in a rush.

He’s not pacing. 

He’s not lashing out at the world. 

Most importantly, he isn’t bleeding out his pain.

The tension locked tight in my chest loosens just enough to let air back into my lungs. My shoulders sag as relief washes through me, leaving me a little shaky.

“He’s okay,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.

Zeb hums softly beside me, like he understands exactly what I’m seeing and why it matters.

“How does he seem?” I ask, forcing my voice steady. “Since he woke up, I mean.”

“Relatively speaking?” Zeb tilts his head, considering. “Worried sick. About Tyler. About you. About everything.” He exhales slowly. “Barely slept, but still ran around here all morning cooking enough food to feed an army. Helped us move and set up the equipment. Volunteered to check the perimeter twice. And when there was nothing left for him to do…” His gaze flicks back to the screen. “He grabbed the axe.”

I watch as James adjusts his grip, plants his feet, and brings the blade down again. Clean. Controlled. Not frantic.

“He’s burning off the anxiety,” Zeb continues. “The movement helps. Doing something physical. Keeps the noise from getting too loud in his head.”

I nod slowly, understanding settling deep in my bones.

This isn’t him spiraling. This is him finding another way. A healthier way. 

“This is good… right?” I ask quietly, doubt threading through the relief. Because for someone like James, bottling things up can be just as dangerous.

Zeb’s gaze stays focused on the screen. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I’d say so.”

Another log splits. James pauses, wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, then stacks the wood neatly beside him before reaching for the next piece.

“He’s handling this better than any of us expected,” Zeb adds. “In a way we weren’t sure he was even capable of.” His gaze shifts to me, quiet and deliberate. “And we’re pretty sure that has everything to do with you.”

Heat creeps up my neck, and I look away, suddenly finding the cables at my feet far more interesting than his words.

“I don’t know about that,” I say quietly. “If it weren’t for me, this wouldn’t be happening. He’d be at home. With Tyler. Both of them safe.” 

My chest tightens as the familiar guilt flares hot and sharp, like a live wire under my skin.

Zeb lets out a soft breath, almost a chuckle, but there’s no humor in it—just familiarity.

“Nah,” he says gently. “I know the Serrano brothers better than anyone.” He crosses his arms, mirroring a posture I’ve come to associate with the men of OTS. “If it wasn’t this, it would’ve been something else. Trouble has a way of finding those two. Always has.”

I shake my head, unconvinced.

Thankfully, Zeb doesn’t push. Instead, his voice softens. “What you’re seeing out there?” He nods toward the screen again. “That’s growth. That’s him choosing patience over destruction. And trust me, he didn’t get there on his own.”

I risk another look at the feed.

James lifts the axe again. Brings it down clean. Steady. Grounded. Still standing. Still looking strong, like he’s somehow capable of surviving this too. 

For the first time since waking up, I let myself believe that at least for now, he’s okay.

“I should go check on him.”

Zeb watches me for another beat, like he’s weighing something. Then he says, “You could. But why not grab some breakfast first?”

I blink at him.

“For James,” he adds easily. “Knowing you’ve eaten will be one less thing for him to worry about.” His mouth quirks. “And it’ll give him a few extra minutes to work through whatever’s still bothering him. Plus—no offense—you look like you’re running on fumes.”

I glance back at the screen instinctively, at the steady rhythm of James’s movements. The controlled rise and fall of the axe.

Zeb’s right.

If I went out there right now, the first thing James would ask is whether I’d eaten. And if I said no, he’d worry. He’d blame himself. He’d tuck the guilt away and stack it on top of everything else he already thinks he’s failing at.

“Okay,” I say after a second, the word feeling like a decision instead of a concession. “I’ll grab something.”

Relief flickers across Zeb’s face as he gestures toward the kitchen. “Help yourself.”

I take a few steps, then stop short.

The counter is covered with food.

Eggs still steaming under a warming tray. Bacon stacked neatly on a platter. French toast. Crepes. Fruit. A pan of something that smells suspiciously like potatoes and onions. Homemade muffins cooling in their pan. Coffee already brewed, mugs lined up like we’re expecting company.

I let out a soft, incredulous breath.

“He did all this?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

Zeb chuckles. “Told you. The man was on a mission.”

My chest tightens in that familiar, complicated way—equal parts warmth and worry. Even drowning in fear, James still takes care of everyone else first. Like a reflex he can’t shut off, especially when things are hard.

I fix myself a plate and pour a mug of coffee, the simple motions grounding. I take my time carrying everything to the table, choosing not to rush. Choosing to stay present. To listen to my body instead of the noise in my head.

Dominick moves past me, reaching for a keyboard, and for a moment the space between us feels heavy with everything left unsaid yesterday. His jaw tightens when he notices me watching him.

“Good morning,” I offer quietly.

He hesitates, just a fraction of a second, then nods. “Morning.”

His response isn’t warm, but it isn’t hostile either. And for right now, that feels like enough.

I sit and take my first bite, surprised by how hungry I actually am. The food tastes better than it should, considering everything. Or maybe that’s just what happens when your body is overwhelmed and desperate for something good to cling to. 

As I eat, Zeb and Dominick move around the room with practiced efficiency. Screens refresh. Data scrolls. Voices stay low, clipped, focused. Whatever tension existed between them yesterday has been folded neatly into the work.

“Any news?” I ask after a few minutes, keeping my voice steady. “About Tyler.”

Zeb doesn’t look away from the screen. “Not yet.”

My stomach rolls, appetite fading fast.

“We’ve got the tracer ready,” he continues. “As soon as Victor makes contact, we’ll track the communication—geolocation, routing, the works. Owen’s all over it.”

When he makes contact.

I swallow hard. “Why do you think he hasn’t yet?”

Zeb’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Honestly? It’s intentional. He’s drawing it out. Taking his time. Trying to make us anxious. Throw us off our game.”

“To scare us,” I say.

“To taunt James,” Dominick adds from his work station, voice flat. “Make him desperate. Emotional. Push him into doing something reckless—which, frankly, is James’s default. Something you all seem hell-bent on pretending isn’t a problem.”

A chill slides down my spine, sharp and immediate. I want to argue. To defend James. To shut Dominick down. But fear settles in my chest all the same, because I’ve seen what happens when James feels cornered. When he’s desperate. Especially when something he loves feels like it’s slipping through his fingers.

“That’s enough.” Zeb’s gaze snaps to Dominick, sharp and unyielding. “James will do what needs to be done to keep everyone safe. He might be volatile at times, but he would never endanger Tyler—or any of us, for that matter.”

Dominick huffs quietly, his attention shifting back to his screen, clearly unconvinced. 

Zeb turns back to me, deliberately placing himself between me and the brooding man behind him.

“Bastille will call soon enough,” he says. “And when he does, we’ll be ready. Everything’s going to work out, Annelly. You’ll see.” 

His reassurance doesn’t settle anything.

It only reminds me how much is riding on Victor’s next move, and how easily everything could unravel once he decides to act.

Because with the pressure James is under, with how thin the line is between holding himself together and losing ground to the fear clawing at him, it might only take one misstep. One more loss. One more calculated push from Victor to send James spiraling back toward the darker instincts he’s spent a lifetime fighting to outrun.

And if that happens…

I’m not sure there’s anything any of us could say or do to save him from himself.

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