**Chapter 18
The kitchen table had never felt so small.
Five men. One me. Shoulders brushing, knees touching, the air thick with the bond's electric hum. Micah set down a platter of eggs—scrambled, fluffy, flecked with herbs—and the smell made my stomach clench with a hunger that felt deeper than physical.
"Rotation," Zane said, picking up where we'd left off. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the morning chatter like a blade. "We need a schedule. Fair shares. No favorites."
Jax snorted. "Good luck with that. The bond doesn't do fair. The bond does—" He glanced at me, his blue eyes darkening. "The bond does what it wants."
"The bond does what we feed it," Knox corrected. He sat to my right, close enough that his thigh pressed against mine, warm and solid and patient. "If we let
