Carrie shifted, glancing at Rylan now with less PR-polish and more calculation. Devin started to say something else, but Marchand leveled him with a look that dared him to continue.
I stayed quiet. Let them spiral. Sometimes silence was the sharpest knife.
Then, slowly,finally, Rylan moved.
He rose from the chair in one smooth, quiet motion, the lazy slouch gone, replaced with something leaner and far more alert. I felt his eyes on me before I saw him move—reallyfelt them. A prickle at the base of my spine. The hair on my arms rising.
I turned. Met his gaze directly.
Something in his expression had changed. His nostrils flared faintly, his eyes narrowing. His attention sharpened—not just on the conversation, but onme.
He was picking something up.
Not the scent of the others—I’d scrubbed thoroughly, dressed clean, even used scent-neutralizing balm. But his instincts were too well-honed. It wasn’t what I wore. It was what lingered beneath. Myalteredbody chemistry. A trace of something... shifted.
Rylan didn’t speak.
But his focus had changed from disinterest to laser-fine intensity.
I held his gaze without flinching.
“You’re costing yourself more than leverage,” I said calmly. “You’ve handed the Vultures doubt about your loyalty, yourjudgment, and your discretion. Even if you were released, what makes you think any team would still want you after this mess?”
Carrie frowned.
Rylan said nothing. But I saw it—the flicker of emotion behind his stillness. Disdain. Irritation. Frustration.
But also... curiosity.
It simmered in the way he looked at me, now. The kind of look predators give just before they lunge. Only this time, I was the one holding the leash.
“How sad for you,” I said softly, gaze still on Rylan. “You could’ve used the wildcard to show strength. Stability. Instead, you’ve turned yourself into a liability.”
That landed. Hard.
His mouth curled, just slightly. But there was no humor in it.
Marchand shifted behind the desk, clearly aware that the dynamic had changed. His voice was short, clipped. “Wren. Stay behind. Everyone else—out.”
Devin bristled. “She doesn’t have the right?—”
“I saidout,” Marchand barked.
Carrie stood, eyes still flicking back to me like she was trying to decide if I’d just outmaneuvered or humiliated her. I leaned into both, but I wasn’t the one keeping score. Devin huffed and muttered something under his breath. But it was Rylan who lingered last.
He stepped close enough that I had to lift my chin to meet his eyes.
“You’re not who I thought you were,” he said softly. “I should’ve paid more attention.”
“You still can,” I replied, voice just as quiet. “But next time, don’t wait until the house is on fire to ask who’s holding the extinguisher.”
His nostrils flared again. Then, without another word, he turned and followed the others out.
The door had barely clicked shut before Marchand shoved himself out of his chair and crossed to the bar cart. No offer of a drink for me. Not that I wanted one. It was barely nine in the morning.
He poured two fingers of something amber into a crystal glass and downed half of it before turning toward me.
“What the hell was that?”
