The air in the kitchen didn't just feel heavy; it felt crowded. It was a strange sensation, considering there were only four of them, but with their identities leaking across the mate-bond like ink in a glass of water, the room was vibrating with the force of four distinct souls trying to occupy the same frequency.
Samantha—currently possessed by Callum's ice-cold, tactical precision—felt a bead of sweat track down her spine. Usually, she was the emotional glue of the group, the one who navigated the stormy waters of their disparate moods with instinct and warmth. Now, she felt like a grandmaster staring at a chessboard where the pieces were moving of their own volition.
"The structural integrity of this silence is failing," she remarked, her voice clipped and rhythmic. She didn't mean to sound so formal, but Callum's linguistic habits were currently piloting her vocal cords.
