The sirens tear through the night like something alive, sharp and insistent, cutting straight through sleep and dragging me up out of it before my mind can catch up, and I’m already sitting upright in bed with my heart hammering before the sound finishes its first cycle. Axel is moving at the same time, sheets shoved aside as he swings his legs over the edge of the mattress, and Atticus is already on his feet pulling on his jeans with quick, practiced movements that tell me this isn’t confusion or panic.
This is familiarity.
“Get dressed,” Axel says, his voice tight, and I don’t argue or ask why because the answer is already humming through the bond, sharp and wrong.
Atticus freezes suddenly, one hand braced on the bedpost, his head tilting slightly like he’s listening to something only
