He gave a low laugh. “I’ve gotyou.”
I stared at him. Deadpan. Not playing. “That’s not how this works.”
“You’re the best mouth this team’s got.” His tone dipped suggestively. “You always knew how to manage me. I can definitely tell that hasn’t changed."
“That was never my job.”
“It should’ve been.”
There was something serious under his teasing now. Something that made my skin go cold even as the back of my neck prickled with heat.
He leaned forward, forearms on the table, eyes steady. “You’re better than this place, Wren. You always were. The way you run this team’s image? It’s a joke they haven’t made you GM.”
“And yet here you are,” I said. “Crawling back to the team that traded you.”
“Because you’re here.”
That stopped me.
It shouldn’t have. Beckett flirted like breathing. He didn’t mean half the things he said, and the other half were designed to get under people’s skin. But right now, something in his scent—sharp, focused, threaded with…something indefinable or at least something I didnotwant to define—made my stomach twist.
I hated that I felt it.
“I’m not here foryou,” I said. “If you think Marchand’s offering you a fair deal without an agent, you’re either dumber than I thought, or a lot more desperate.”
He tilted his head, watching me too closely. “You always take care of your players this personally?”
“Only the ones who’re about to self-destruct in public.”
“You care.” He made it sound like a damn accusation.
“I manage.” I clipped the words off, kept them absolutely neutral without a hint of skin in this game. His. Mine. Anyone’s.
He smiled again, but it was slower this time. Not a smirk—something almost genuine.Almost. I refused to let him fool me.
“I missed this,” he said softly. “You pretending not to care. Me knowing better.”
My throat tightened. I hated that it almost sounded real. That my body felt hot and restless and wrong, and that the shift in my scent was no longer subtle—not in this enclosed space, not with an alpha tuned to me the way Beckett always had been.
But I kept my expression cool.
Professional.
Unshaken.
“You have five minutes,” I said. “Then I need to get back to my team.” I let the emphasis linger on the wordmy. Not enough to dare him to act, but more than enough to send the message. The Howlers were my team.
Not him.
He leaned back again, all lazy confidence. “Five minutes is more than enough.”
I smiled, sharp and cold. “I’ve heard that about you.” If he wanted to let his guard down and leave me an open shot, I would definitely take it.
That finally shut him up—for a beat.
Long enough for Marchand to step back inside, smiling like he hadn’t missed a damn thing.
“Everything good in here?”
