Felicia stepped out of the children's room. Pulled the door closed behind her. Turned toward the corridor.
A wooden figure lay on the carpet. Dead center. Precisely placed. Like someone had measured the distance on both sides.
She stopped. Her hand stayed on the door handle. Her eyes swept left and then right. The corridor was empty. She bent down. Used two fingers. Lifted the figure without wrapping her hand around it. No prints. No traces.
The wood felt smooth under her fingertips. Carved. Deliberate. She turned it over. Her thumb traced the symbol cut into the base.
Recognition hit cold and sharp. She knew this mark.
Her jaw tightened. She slipped the figure into her pocket. Didn't turn back. Didn't show the children. Just started walking.
Fast. Not running. Running would alert the guards. Would raise questions. She kept her pace controlled and purposeful.
Damien's office appeared ahead. She didn't slow and pushed the door open, stepping inside. Closed it behind her with a firm click. He looked up from papers. His pen stopped mid-signature.
She pulled the figure from her pocket. Set it on his desk. Hard. "Explain."
Damien picked it up. Turned it over. His jaw went rigid. Muscle jumping beneath skin. "Danielle's people used these."
His voice dropped low. Rough.
Felicia's hands pressed flat on the desk. "What does this sign mean?"
Sharp. Demanding.
"A warning." He set the figure down carefully. "That they're close."
Felicia's breathing stayed even. Controlled. But her knuckles went white against the dark wood. "My children won't be bait."
"They won't be." No hesitation or conditions attached. "Not ever."
He reached for the call button. Pressed it. Hard.
Felicia moved to his side. Didn't step back. Planted herself there. "I'm staying."
"I know." He didn't argue. Didn't try to protect her from hearing orders.
The head of guard arrived. He was middle-aged, scarred, and professional. Damien gave instructions—clipped, precise, military. Double the rotation. Triple-check credentials. No one approaches the children's wing without clearance from both Alpha and Felicia.
The guard's eyes flickered to Felicia. Back to Damien. "Understood."
He left and the door closed. Felicia turned and started for the exit. Damien didn't follow, gave her space.
She walked back to her wing. Her footsteps echoed off stone. Each door she passed, she checked. Tested handles. Looked for chalk marks. For anything out of place.
Her wing doors. She pushed through. Started checking locks. Windows. Closets. Everything.
Footsteps behind her. Damien. Stopping at the threshold.
"Do you want me to stay in the corridor tonight?" His voice stayed calm and steady.
Felicia turned. Met his eyes. "You can sit by my door." She paused. "But you don't enter while the children sleep."
"Agreed."
He moved to the chair positioned outside her door. Sat. Positioned himself so he faced down the corridor—visible from her angle if she looked out.
Not hiding. Not lurking. Just there.
Felicia went inside. Closed the door most of the way. Left it cracked. Enough to hear. She lay on her bed fully clothed with her eyes open. She was listening.
An hour passed. She got up. Walked to the door. Looked out.
Damien sat exactly where she'd left him. Back straight and eyes alert. She pulled back inside. Lay down again and tried to rest but couldn't.
Another hour and she checked again. Same position. Same alertness. His eyes tracked down the corridor. Scanning. Watchful.
She filled a cup with water from the bathroom. Walked out. Set it on the small table beside his chair. Said nothing. Turned to go back.
"Felicia." His voice barely above a whisper.
She stopped. Didn't turn fully. Just angled her head.
"Thank you."
Quiet. Simple. No manipulation in it. No attempt to leverage her gesture into something bigger.
She went back inside. Closed the door again.
Midnight came. Then later. Two in the morning. She couldn't sleep. Couldn't stop her mind from circling. From imagining threats. From seeing that wooden figure.
She got up. Walked to the door. Opened it wider.
Damien turned his head. Looked at her. His face showed exhaustion. But his eyes stayed sharp.
She stepped closer. Kept her voice low. "If something happens—" She paused. Made sure he heard every word. "You wake me immediately. Don't decide on your own."
His eyes held hers. "I'll wake you."
Her hand touched the inner bolt. The additional lock she'd installed herself. Extra security. Extra barrier.
She didn't slide it closed. Left it open. Unlocked. A small gesture. Tiny. Almost nothing. But everything. Trust. Given in increments so small they barely existed. But there nonetheless.
She went to bed. Lay down. Her body finally started to relax.
Outside, in the corridor, Damien stayed in his chair and didn't move. Didn't test the unlocked bolt. Didn't inch closer. Didn't take advantage.
Felicia lay in the dark. Her eyes closed. Her breathing slowed. She knew he was there. Knew that bolt was unlocked. Knew she'd chosen to leave it that way.
Sleep didn't come easy. But it came. Shallow. Restless. But there.
And when she woke in the gray pre-dawn light, she went to the door. Looked out.
He sat exactly where she'd left him. Same position. Same vigilance. The water cup empty beside him.
He'd stayed all night. Hadn't moved except to drink. Hadn't tried to enter. Hadn't pushed boundaries.
Her throat tightened. She swallowed it down. Closed the door again. Locked the inner bolt this time. Morning meant the danger had passed. For now.
But the gesture remained. She'd left it unlocked. He'd respected it. And that tiny exchange—that silent conversation of trust and restraint—carved something permanent into the space between them.
Something she couldn't take back. Couldn't undo. Something that terrified her because it meant the walls weren't just cracking anymore. They were crumbling. One small gesture at a time.
And she was letting them.