“Then he can want.”
“Can he? Because from where I’m standing, you’re already doing the job. You drew up the rotation without clearance. You briefed the patrol teams directly, bypassing me entirely—which I will be having words with you about later, by the way. You’re out here checking markers at seven in the morning. You’re doing everything an Alpha heir does except admitting that’s what you are.”
I don’t answer, because she’s right and we both know it.
We finish the boundary check in comfortable silence, and I head back towards the village with the morning sun on my face and two impossible problems turning in my head.
The rogues are getting bolder. Phoebe is getting closer. And I’m running out of time to deal honestly with either one.
Chapter 10
Coffee and Coincidence
Phoebe
I changemy jumper twice before I catch myself doing it and stop.
It’s coffee. In a café. In a village where I’ve been living for less than a week. With a man I’ve met exactly once, who brought me a welcome basket because my neighbour told him to. This does not warrant outfit deliberation. I pull the first jumper back on. The moss green one. Warm, practical, says nothing about anything. I leave before I can change my mind about that too.
The café with the blue door is called The Wren. It sits halfway along the high street between the post office and a charity shop that appears to sell exclusively porcelain dogs, and the smell that hits me when I pushthrough the door is enough to make me forgive the entire village for its eccentricities. Fresh coffee. Real coffee. Something baking that involves cinnamon, butter, probably more sugar than any medical professional should endorse.
Roan is already here. He’s sitting at a table by the window with two mugs in front of him and an expression that suggests he’s been here for a while. He stands when he sees me, which is an old-fashioned gesture that shouldn’t be charming but is.
“I didn’t know how you take it,” he says, nodding at the mugs. “So I got one black and one with milk. Your choice.”
“Milk. Thank you.” I sit down and wrap my hands around the warm ceramic, suddenly conscious of the fact that this is a date. An actual date. My first since James, which is a thought I push away before it can settle.
“You look like you’re about to conduct a job interview,” Roan says.
“What?”
“You’re sitting very straight, and you’ve got that expression. The professional one. You had it when you opened the door yesterday, too, right before you saw the basket and relaxed.”
I feel heat creep up my neck. “I don’t have an expression.”
“You absolutely have an expression. It’s very competent. Slightly terrifying.” He takes a sip of the black coffee he’s claimed for himself. “I like it.”
I don’t know what to do with that, so I drink my coffee and look around the café instead. It’s small and warm, mismatched furniture that somehow works together, watercolours of local landscapes on the walls. A woman behind the counter with flour on her apron catches my eye and smiles like she knows exactly who I’m here with and has opinions about it.
“That’s June,” Roan says, following my gaze. “She owns the place. Makes everything from scratch. And yes, she’s already decided we’re together. By this afternoon, the whole village will have an opinion.”
“We’re having coffee.”
“In Mistwood, that’s practically an engagement.”
I laugh before I can help it, and something shifts in his face when I do. A softening around the eyes, a stillness that lasts half a second before his usual easy expression slides back into place. I wonder if he knows how much he gives away in those unguarded moments.
“So,” I say, settling into the conversation the way you settle into warm water. “You said your family’s been here a long time. What do you actually do?”
“Bit of everything. Land management, mostly. Estate work. My family owns a fair amount of property around here, and someone has to keep it fromfalling apart.” He turns his mug in his hands, and I notice the same rough calluses I saw yesterday. “I also help with security. Fencing, boundary maintenance, that sort of thing. We get problems with wildlife sometimes.”
“What kind of wildlife?”
“The kind that doesn’t respect fences.” His tone is light, but there’s something careful underneath it, the same deflection I’ve noticed in other conversations. The slight turn away from specifics, the redirect towards the general. He does it so smoothly that if I weren’t trained to observe behaviour, I might not notice.
“And is that what you want to do?” I ask. “Or is it what’s expected of you?”
The question catches him off guard. I can see it in the way his hands are still on the mug, the brief tightening of his jaw. Then he smiles, and it’s different from his usual smile. Less performance, more real.
