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He could still feel her. Not just through the bond, although that was loud enough, a low continuous signal that pulsed when she moved through the quarters. He could feel the muscle memory, her thighs around his waist, her hands fisting in his shirt, the way her back had arched off the shed wall when he’d pushed into her. The sound she’d made. He heard it when the room was quiet, when he let his focus slip, a sound that didn’t belong to the Sloane who drank coffee at the counter and told him his brew was too strong. A sound that belonged to the woman who’d pulled him close with both hands, who’d said now with her voice stripped of every defense she wore.

He dried his hands on the towel. Folded it over the bar.

He wanted her again. The realization arrived without ceremony. He wanted her again, and the wanting was a problem, because wanting Sloane Mercer was already complicated before he’d touched her, before the bond had cracked open between them, before she’d said don’t and walked away. Now it was worse. Now he had the specifics, the taste, the feel, the sound, and the specifics were louder than any abstraction had ever been.

He left the kitchen. Walked through the sitting area. Her boots were by the door, placed neatly, the laces tucked inside. His were beside them, larger, the mud from yesterday’s patrol still on the soles. The two pairs sat side by side, mismatched, wrong together, and yet there they were.

He went to his room. Closed the door. Sat on the bed and rubbed his palms over his face.

Tomorrow she’d be in the yard at five-thirty. He’d meet her there, wrapped in hand wraps, sweating, throwing combinations with her guard finally corrected, the left hand tucked where he’d told her to keep it.

He’d see her and his body would remember every second of this morning.

His mouth pulled sideways. He pressed his knuckles against his lips to smother it, but the thing had a life of its own; climbing through his chest, warm, reckless, entirely inappropriate given that the woman on the other side of the wall was pretending they hadn’t torn each other’s clothes off against an equipment shed forty minutes ago.

He was enjoying this.

The sarcasm, the bite, the way she fired back without hesitation, the way her mask slipped when he caught her off guard. The push. The refusal to fold. Two weeks of careful distance, of choreographed avoidance, of treating each other like furniture, and this morning had blown it apart, and what was left in its place was a fight he didn’t want to win.

He lay back on the bed. Stared at the ceiling. The bond pulsed once, twice, and through it he felt something from her side, faint, quickly suppressed, gone before he could name it.

He closed his eyes.

Five-thirty. He’d be there at five-fifteen.

Chapter 12 - Sloane

The briefing room was on the second floor of the Alpha house, through a corridor she’d walked once before, two years ago, when she’d been summoned to pledge her loyalty to Caitlynn in front of Kahn. That time, her knees had locked at the threshold. This time they didn’t lock, but the memory sat in her legs regardless.

Though she was early, Viktor was already there.

He stood at the map table with a stack of patrol reports fanned in front of him, marking positions with a red pen. He glanced up when she entered, held her gaze for exactly one second, then returned to his work. No greeting. No acknowledgment beyond the look. She appreciated that more than she would have admitted.

She chose the chair farthest from the head of the table. Pulled it out. Sat. Folded her hands on the surface in front of her, fingers interlaced, knuckles white.

Damian came in next, carrying two mugs of coffee. He set one in front of Viktor without a word, kept the other. Dropped into a chair across from Sloane, stretched his legs out, and took a drink. His eyes found hers over the rim.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

He didn’t say anything else. She waited for the look, the assessment, the careful calculation of how much space to give the woman who’d tried to sabotage his Alpha’s mate. It didn’t come. Damian Hale looked at her the way he looked at the coffee. As though her presence did not matter at all.

Gideon arrived. He took the chair beside Viktor without acknowledging Sloane at all, which was a different kind of statement, and she filed it where it belonged.

Then Kahn, with Caitlynn half a step behind him. The Alpha sat at the head of the table. Caitlynn took the seat to his left, her auburn hair pulled back, her green eyes scanning the room. When they landed on Sloane, they stayed for a beat. Not hostile. Not warm. Measuring.

Sloane held still.

Olivia slipped in quietly, taking the chair beside Caitlynn. She gave Sloane a nod. Small. Deliberate. Sloane returned it.

Chris was last. He came through the door still pulling on a jacket, his boots leaving a faint trail of mud on the stone floor. He looked around the table, clocked the open seats, took the one two chairs from Sloane. Not beside her. Not across from her. The middle distance. She noticed the precision of it.

Kahn opened a folder. “Viktor.”

Viktor set down the pen. “Three incursions in the last ten days. The first two were at the northwest perimeter, nine-hour intervals. The third was at the south gate, sixteen hours after the second. Each time, the contact retreated before patrol arrived. No engagement, no confrontation. The purpose was reconnaissance.”

“Or intimidation,” Chris offered.