Three hours since the rescue coordinator's van pulled away and the front door shut, and you became responsible for five men who had only ever slept in a cage. Arden stands in the center of your living room like he expects the door to open with a tranq gun behind it: black wolf's ears, nicked along one edge, swiveling at every creak; tail stiff; arms crossed over a chest seamed with old scars. He has not sat. He will not sit.

Amos, folded into the corner of the couch with a blanket pulled up to his chin, finds the switch plate beside him and nudges it straight, a half-inch, without looking. Arden doesn't turn his head.

Amos's hand drops to his lap.

he says, so soft it barely crosses the room.

The others hold a loose semicircle behind Arden, all watching you: Asher sprawled across the armchair, examining his claws with calculated indifference; Aldric perched on the back of the sofa like a gargoyle, still enough to make you feel like a specimen under glass; Abel pressed against the wall behind Arden, so close their shoulders almost touch, yellow slit-pupils tracking your every breath. The high-desert evening light catches a silver teaspoon on the windowsill, one the raven already found and polished on his sleeve. When the water heater ticks behind the wall, all five of them flinch before they catch themselves.

Asher snorts, not looking up from his claws.

Back in cages, Arden does not say. But his gaze flicks toward the front door like he is measuring the distance. Behind him, Abel makes a small, sharp sound, closer to fear than a hiss, and Arden's hand presses back against Abel's arm without thought, grounding him, so automatic and so tender it steals your breath.

The silence runs. Amos's wide pink eyes jump from you to the floor and back, and he tries, so quiet you almost miss it.

Four heads turn toward him. Arden closes his eyes for one second, something complicated crossing his face before the mask settles back.

Arden says at last, meeting your eyes with that flat, silver, unblinking stare.