Don’t smirk.
Don’t you dare give him the satisfaction of a smirk, Martinez.
I fight the expression with every muscle in my face, channeling the effort into a neutral mask that costs me more than it should. Because the compliment hidden in his offer isn’t the generic, patronizing “You’re so strong for an Omega” variety that I’ve heard a thousand times from Alphas who think acknowledging competence is the same as respecting it. This is specific. Targeted. He’s not saying I’m strongdespitebeing Omega. He’s saying his station needs officersbecausethey’re Omega. Needs the perspective. The steel.
When’s the last time an Alpha said he needed you instead of telling you what you need?
Stop it.
“Alright,” I say, channeling every thought into the word like a weapon. “What’s the plan?”
Alaric straightens from the visitor’s chair, the motion fluid, the coat settling around him like it was tailored for standing. The transition from seated negotiation to operational briefing happens seamlessly, the investigator and the strategist merging into a single, focused presence.
“I’d love for you to meet the rest of the team,” he says, gesturing toward the door with a motion that’s more invitation than instruction. “Since they’ll be around the office, blending inwith your officers for the duration of the assessment. Better you know faces and names now so you’re not blindsided later.”
He pauses at the doorway, glancing back.
“My packmate is just parking the cruiser with our rookie, so we can meet them out back.”
Packmate.
More Alphas. More scents. More complications folding into an already overcrowded situation like cards being dealt into a hand I didn’t ask to play.
I shrug—a deliberately casual motion aimed at communicating exactly the amount of investment I’m willing to display, which is none.
“Sure. Why not.” I push up from the desk, flattening my palms against the surface that still carries traces of his warmth. “Not like I have shit to do. This department’s been giving me busy work and blank stares for eight days. Meeting the people actually capable of conducting an investigation might be the most productive hour I’ve had since arriving.”
Alaric’s smirk sharpens.
“You’re more intrigued by knowing who to make their lives a living hell than you are about the investigation itself.”
It’s not a question.
I don’t answer.
But something cold and precise files itself alongside my growing catalogue of observations about Alaric Venezuela:This Alpha is extremely observant. He reads me too well, too quickly, with too little data. That’s either a skill set I can leverage or a threat I need to neutralize, and I haven’t determined which yet.
We walk the hallway in a silence that feels less like absence and more like mutual assessment—two professionals who recognize the other’s competence without verbalizing it, who are both running calculations behind composed expressions, whounderstand that the most important conversations often happen in the spaces between words.
The bullpen is conspicuously productive as we pass through. Officers who were scrolling phones twenty minutes ago are now typing with suspicious enthusiasm. Morales has actual documents open on her screen. Even Caldwell’s desk is Rubik’s-cube-free, the incriminating puzzle presumably shoved into a drawer to await a less volatile moment.
Amazing what the threat of unemployment does for workplace motivation.
Alaric notices. I catch his eyes sweeping the room with the same systematic assessment I’d applied earlier, and the slight tightening of his jaw tells me he’s arriving at similar conclusions about the department’s baseline functionality.
We exit through the rear of the building, the October air hitting my face with a clarity that makes the office’s recycled atmosphere feel like a crime in retrospect. The back lot is gravel and grass, bordered by a split-rail fence beyond which three patrol horses mill in a paddock that doubles as the department’s most absurd jurisdictional asset. The horses—a bay, a dapple gray, and a chestnut that has the temperament of a middle-manager denied a promotion—are currently expressing their displeasure with an agitation that I can hear from the doorway.
Ears pinned. Hooves stamping. The chestnut is actively circling the far end of the paddock with the focused irritation of an animal whose personal space has been violated.
The reason is immediately apparent.
A black cruiser—unmarked, tinted windows, the kind of vehicle that screamsfederal oversightwithout needing a badge on the hood—is parked approximately four feet from the paddock fence. Close enough that the engine heat and foreign scent are radiating directly into equine territory, triggering everyterritorial instinct in the three animals who consider that grass their sovereign domain.
I roll my eyes.
“Can you at least park properly so you’re not crowding the horses?” My voice carries across the lot with command-grade projection, cutting through the sound of agitated hooves and gravel displacement. “They need personal space. Something your driving apparently didn’t account for.”
The driver’s door opens.
