“Shut the door.”
He does, the click of the latch unnaturally loud in the tense silence. He stays near the door, hands clasped in front of him, waiting.
I force myself to stop pacing, plant my feet, and face him directly. “I want to make some changes to the units rotating through the Alpha’s Guard.”
Anderson blinks. “Changes? What kind of changes?”
“I want more oversight. Direct input on who’s assigned to the Alpha’s and the Luna’s security details and when.”
His expression shifts, uncertainty darkening his features like storm clouds moving in. “That’s…That might be difficult, sir.”
“Difficult how?”
“Well, the Alpha’s Guard has their own command structure. They’re autonomous by design, answerable directly to Alpha Darius. They’ll collaborate with us on general security matters, but they won’t take kindly to you essentially trying to take over the logistics of the Alpha’s and the Luna’s protection.” He shiftshis weight, clearly uncomfortable with contradicting me but pushing forward anyway. “It’s sort of their whole purpose. Their pride, you know?”
“I’m aware of their pride.” My voice comes out hard, edged with the frustration I can’t quite contain. “But I’m the head of security for this entire pack. All security matters should fall under my purview, including direct coordination with the Alpha’s Guard.”
“I understand, sir, but—”
“No buts. I need this done.” I step forward, fixing him with a look that brooks no argument. “Inform them that I want control of selecting the units in charge of the Alpha’s and the Luna’s security. Frame it as enhanced coordination, improved communication, whatever makes it palatable to them. But make it happen.”
Anderson swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. “I’ll try, sir. But I can’t guarantee they’ll agree to it. The head of the Alpha’s Guard is…well, he’s protective of his autonomy.”
“Then be persuasive.” I turn away, dismissing him with the words, “That will be all.”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaves quickly, as if he’s eager to put distance between us. I don’t blame him.
I stand here in my empty office, taking deep breaths that do nothing to calm the chaos churning inside me.
I should be glad someone’s pursuing her. It’s safer for her and smarter for the mission. Exactly what I wanted when I lied to her face about having amnesia.
Except, I can’t take it. Can’t stand the thought of someone else making her smile, buying her flowers, touching her in ways I’ve been denying myself.
I leave the room, unable to stay still, needing to move, to walk, to do something other than stand in that small space andlet the rage consume me. I find myself heading down to the break room again, like maybe if I go there I’ll find that bouquet gone, thrown out. Like maybe I imagined the whole thing.
But when I reach that floor and turn toward her cubicle, the roses are still there. Still vivid red against the bland beige of her workspace, still impossible to miss.
Anne is focused on her computer, fingers flying across the keyboard, lost in the work she’s doing. Out of the blue, she looks up and smiles slightly, and my heart leaps.
But the smile isn’t for me.
A man has approached her cubicle, tall and lean with an easy confidence in his stride. He’s carrying an insulated disposable cup, probably coffee, and he hands it to her with a gesture that speaks of familiarity. She accepts it, saying something I can’t hear from this distance.
Then, he touches the roses. Runs his thumb over the petals like he has every right. When his hand moves to her shoulder, casually and comfortably, my wolf snarls inside me with such violence that I have to lock every muscle to keep from shifting right here in the hallway.
I’m too far away to hear their words, but I can read lips well enough. Learned that skill during captivity, when whispered conversations were the only source of intel.
“I hope you like them,” he says.
“They’re beautiful,” she replies.
The world reduces to a haze of white noise. My vision tunnels, edges going gray, and I force myself to retreat before I do something insane, before I march over there, rip his hand away from her shoulder, and make my claim clear to everyone watching.
I turn and quickly enter the break room. I need a moment. Just a moment to calm down, to center myself, to remember why I can’t act on these instincts that are tearing me apart.
I drop into a chair in the far corner, press my palms flat against the table and focus on breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth: the exercise they taught us for controlling the shift when emotions run too high.
