The kind of man the Order didn’t deserve.
“You’re distracted today,” he said, blocking my strike with an ease that should have been insulting.
“I’m always distracted. You’re just getting better at noticing.”
He grinned. The scar on his jaw stretched with it, a remnant of a training accident he’d told me about during our third session. Friendly, open, genuine. Everything about Wyatt was genuine, which was exactly what made him valuable and exactly what would make the truth devastating when he finally heard it.
Because I needed him. Not just as a training partner or a smuggling ally.
I needed Wyatt on my side when the compound fell. The Order couldn’t be dismantled by three lycans and a pregnant woman alone. I needed people inside who would choose the right side when the moment came, and Wyatt’s sincerity meant that once he saw the truth, he wouldn’t be able to unsee it. I was sure he could convince other hunters too as they respect him.
But the timing had to be right. Too early and he’d panic, alert someone, get us both killed. Too late and the opportunity would pass. I also had to be sure that my assessment of him is correct.
“Elaine’s been asking about me,” I said, testing. Casual. Sparring partners trading gossip between rounds.
“She asks about everyone. It’s her job.”
“She’s persistent.”
“She cares.” Wyatt reset his stance. “Most of the medical staff here treat us as bodies to patch up and send back. Elaine actually reads the files. Follows up. She flagged a concussion I didn’t even know I had last year.”
Noted. Elaine was thorough and she cared. Both of those qualities were going to become a problem very soon.
We sparred for another forty minutes.
I let myself lean into the rhythm of it, the physical effort pushing the nausea down and the anxiety sideways. Wyatt corrected my footwork without condescension, adjusted my guard with the patience of a man who’d been teaching for years.
By the end of the session, I was breathing hard and he was barely winded, and the gap between our skill levels was obvious.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, tossing me a water bottle.
“Maybe earlier. I might have some schedule changes coming up.”
“Whatever works.”
I caught the water bottle and almost caught the second object that sailed toward me from a completely different direction. A small stone, wrapped in a scrap of fabric, arced from somewhere beyond the training yard’s eastern wall and landed at my feet with a soft thud.
Wyatt frowned. “What was that?”
“Bird probably dropped it.” I scooped it up before he could examine it, pocketing the stone with the practiced casualness. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I waited until I was back in my room to unwrap the fabric.
Solomon’s handwriting. Compact, precise, no wasted strokes.
‘The male you train with stands too close. Is this a strategic necessity or should I be concerned.’
I stared at the note. Read it again. A third time, because apparently the most feared enforcer in lycan history had just sent me a jealous love note via thrown rock while I was in the middle of a combat drill.
This was a Percival move. Not a Solomon move. Solomon didn’t do petty. The fact that Solomon had resorted to it told me those three had spent way too many centuries together.
A laugh escaped out of my control. The kind that came from the belly and surprised me with its warmth, because Solomon being petty about Wyatt’s proximity while I was building an intelligence network inside a torture compound was so absurd it circled back around to endearing.
I flipped the fabric over and found a pen in my desk drawer.
‘He’s an asset. I have a plan. Stop throwing rocks at me.’
Then, after a second of consideration, I added:
