Page 7

“No.” Tor did not glance at Pike. His eyes stayed on Mirelle. Hers stayed on him. There was a beat — two people clocking each other at the same time, both aware of it. She held his gaze, steady and unhurried, and her shoulders dropped half an inch, small and private, not meant to be seen.

Don’t.

The wolf: Done.

“Are you here to help,” Mirelle said, “or to look authoritative against the wall?” Drayce, at the counter, went quiet and gave the pastry case his full attention.

Tor’s gaze met hers. She returned it, composed, both hands wrapped around her mug, waiting. “Both, probably. The authoritative part is involuntary.” Surprise crossed her face, quickly masked, and beneath it, the start of a real smile she was not handing over yet. He noted it and moved on, because if he didn’t, he was going to stand here, running through her expressions, until Pike said whatever unbearable thing was already queued up.

Tor gave it to her straight, because she’d asked a straightforward question and struck him as a woman who would find being managed more insulting than being alarmed. “That’s more than one goodbye accounts for.” His eyes stayed on her. “The extra isn’t you. It’s coming from outside.” She absorbed it. No alarm. Only a slight shift in her expression as she tucked it away to think about later. “How long,” she said.

“Best estimate? Eight months.”

Her hands tightened on the mug, barely. He caught it. Her eyes dropped to her coffee. “So all those mornings I wrote off.”

“Possibly.”

She sat with her coffee for a moment. “Great. How could I not notice this?”

“I’m going to find the source,” Tor said. He had not planned to say that. It came out with considerably more certainty than strictly warranted, which was the wolf’s fault as well as his own, and he was not going to examine that right now. Mirelle studied him — measuring, deciding whether he was worth trusting. “Okay,” she said.

One word, and his chest responded in a way he’d set aside for later.

Not now.

Pike, at his elbow, was vibrating with about a thousand things to say, none of which he said. Eleven years meant Tor could manage this with a glare: Do not.

Pike’s glance back: I’m not saying anything. Tor’s glare: You’re saying it loudly.

From the table, Mirelle said into her mug: “I genuinely cannot tell if you two are arguing or agreeing.”

“Arguing,” Tor said.

“Agreeing,” Pike said at the same time.

Mirelle’s eyes went between them. This time, she did not catch the smile soon enough. It was a good smile. He was going to need better protocols.

Tor saw her go still before she said anything. Mirelle had been talking — Gerri’s call, the number she’d never given out, the timing of it — and then her attention shifted. Not obviously. Small enough that only someone tracking her closely would catch it. Her eyes moved to the window, the sentence stopped, and her shoulders went still with it, her body braced for a threat. Sixteen years of habit said check the window. He stayed on her face. “Mirelle.”

She turned to him, an edge in her expression that hadn’t been there before. “Someone in the square,” she said. “He’s staring at the café. At me, I think.” Her voice was steady, but her hand found the table’s edge. She turned back toward the glass. Whatever had caught her attention had vanished.

The warmth in the room dropped three degrees. His wolf went from still to the opposite. “What did he look like?”

“Pale. Dark hair. His eyes —” She shook her head. “Not rude. Wrong. Like the attention had weight he had not earned.”

Tor found Drayce’s eyes across the room. Faster this time, sharper: two men who had spotted the same thing at the same moment. Drayce moved to the window — no urgency visible, everything beneath. He scanned the square. When he turned back, his expression told Tor what he could not say in a room full of civilians.

Later.

“Tell me if you see him again.” Tor kept it level, even though that was not what the wolf wanted. It wanted to find the man in the square. She nodded. One of the small creatures on the windowsill drifted from its spot and settled on the table in front of her — a soft amber presence, close to her hand, as if it had decided she needed company. Her expression turned complicated and private, hers alone. Tor forced his attention elsewhere. The wolf would be impossible for the foreseeable future, with nothing to be done about it.

“I’ll log it,” Bexley said, already writing.

“Obviously in orange?” Mirelle asked.

“In orange.” Bexley recapped the pen. Done.

He left Drayce with Valene to handle the ward review addendum and walked out into the square with Pike.