His voice is even more measured than usual, colder, like he's intentionally stripping any warmth out of it.
"Yes, sir."
We work in silence for twenty minutes. It's not comfortable silence. It builds pressure instead of releasing it. I focus on the reading, taking notes despite how my hands cramp around the pen. The material is actually interesting once I get past the academic language, but I'm more aware of the tension than the words.
I turn a page and his pen stops moving. I can see it in my peripheral vision, his hand going still over the paper. When I glance up, he's looking at me. The second our eyes meet, he looks back down at his grading.
It happens three more times in the next ten minutes.
Finally he pushes his chair back. "Miss Bardot. Present your argument."
I stand, and my legs hold steady. "The territorial consolidation of 1847 followed predictable patterns based on pre-existing pack alliances. The Council presented it as neutral redistribution, but the evidence suggests intent manipulation."
"Incomplete." His voice is sharp. "You're missing the economic factors entirely. The consolidation wasn't about alliances. It was about resources."
"The economic argument assumes the Council acted in good faith. They didn't. If you look at Markham's primary sources alongside the territorial maps, the pattern is clear. Packs that had historical alliance structures were systematically separated."
"That's speculation, not evidence."
"It's inference from documented patterns. Markham cites twelve separate instances where allied packs were split across new territorial lines. That's not random."
He stands, walks around his desk. Now he's closer, too close, and I have to tilt my head slightly to maintain eye contact. "You're conflating correlation with causation. Show me the mechanism. How did the Council enforce these separations?"
"Through the bloodline registration laws of 1849. They required pack members to register in their new territories within six months or lose legal standing. That effectively prevented reformation of the old alliances."
"And you found this where?"
"Cross-referencing Markham with the Council archives. The registration law isn't in the main text, but it's referenced in footnote forty-seven, and if you follow that citation to the archive documents, the timing is exact. Two years after consolidation, they made it legally impossible to rebuild what they'd broken."
He goes still.
I can see it in his face, his expression shifting from dismissive to surprised. I'm right and he knows it.
The silence stretches. We're standing too close now, close enough that I can see his eyes aren't brown but grey with gold flecks that catch the lamplight. Close enough to smell cedar and old books.
"That's..." He stops.
"That's what, sir?"
"Good." It comes out rough. "That's good work, Miss Bardot."
The compliment lands differently than it should. Not because of what he's saying but because of how he's saying it, like the words cost him something.
I turn to go back to my seat and the world tilts sideways. Black spots bloom at the edges of my vision and I realize too late that I haven't eaten enough. My legs forget they're supposed to hold me up.
I stumble.
His hands catch me before I hit the desk, fingers wrapping around my arms and pulling me upright. He's stronger than I expected, more solid than I realized. Right now he's the only thing keeping me from the floor.
We both stop breathing.
His hands are warm through my shirt. I can feel each point of contact, the pressure of his grip. My pulse is hammering and I know he can feel it.
This close I can see the moment he stops fighting whatever he's been fighting. I can see it in his eyes tracking from mine down to my mouth and back up, in his grip tightening just slightly.
The pull between us isn't subtle anymore.
Neither of us moves. Five full seconds where we just stand there, his hands on my arms, my body swaying slightly toward his. The office is too quiet. I can hear his breathing. I can hear the clock on the wall.
