When we’re done searching the room, I sit back on the bed and stare at the pile of ruined clothes with a hollow sort of disbelief.
Thirteen pairs of shorts. Seven leggings. One pair of jeans. All shredded, stained, sliced, or soaked. The little demons had targeted everything tight or short or remotely cute. Nothing functional. Only what they knew I’d wear to training or just to feel like myself.
They knew exactly what they were doing.
Caden’s jaw ticks beside me, his silence vibrating with lethal restraint. I can feel the fury through our bond—it’s no longer hot and explosive. It’s cold. Controlled. Calculated. That’s worse.
“They thought this was funny,” he mutters. “They thought humiliating you was funny.”
I nod once. “Let’s go.”
He calls the nannies to gather every kid in the TV r
