Twilson had arrived.
He always looked exactly the same. Tall, silver-haired, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than a semester's tuition. His face was handsome in a cold way—sharp cheekbones, thin lips, pale gray eyes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
Those eyes found me immediately.
"Miss Orlav." His voice was smooth. It made something in my gut twist
Cole stepped slightly closer to me. Not obviously. Just enough that I felt his presence at my shoulder.
"The inspection will begin with the recovery wing," Cole said. His voice was perfectly neutral. "I'll escort you through each section and provide documentation on our current protocols."
"Excellent." Twilson's gaze lingered on me for a moment longer. "And Miss Orlav will accompany us?"
"As requested."
The first hour was tolerable.
Cole led us through the Healing Center with clinical efficiency, explaining security measures, containment protocols, emergency procedures. He had documentation for everything—charts, logs, incident reports. His preparation was flawless. He checked every protocol off on a checklist.
Twilson listened. Nodded. Made notes in a leather-bound journal he carried.
And watched me.
I felt his attention like a weight on my skin. Every time I moved, his eyes tracked. Every time I spoke, he wrote something down. It was obvious.
I was being catalogued.
Assessed.
Studied.
"All of the feral patients are housed in this wing now," Cole said, stopping outside a heavy door. "Access is restricted to authorized personnel only. All interactions are monitored and recorded."
"Show me," Twilson said.
Cole keyed in the access code. The door swung open.
Gray was the first one I saw.
He was sitting in the common area, knees drawn up, eyes fixed on the floor. But the moment I stepped through the door, his head came up. His nostrils flared.
And he smiled.
It was small. Barely visible. But it was there—a flicker of recognition, of relief, of something that looked almost like joy.
"Gray," I said softly.
He rose. Crossed the room in quick, careful steps. Stopped two feet away from me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off his body.
Then he sat down at my feet.
Just like he had during the run. Like a dog greeting its owner. Like a wolf acknowledging its alpha.
Behind me, I heard Twilson's pen scratch against paper.
"Fascinating," he murmured. "Does he always respond to you this way?"
"Usually."
