The receptionist's eyes move from me to Reid to Jace to Owen and back to me. And then the polite: “Good morning, how can I help you?”
"Thanks," I say, already moving. "But I know where I'm going."
She starts to stand up. "Ma'am, You need to—"
Jace pauses beside her desk. Leans one forearm on the marble. Smiles. "I'd let her go," he says. Conversational. Friendly. "It’s better if you stay out of this one."
The receptionist looks at him. What she sees in his face must tell her that he might be right. She sits back down.
I walk.
The open floor is a grid of glass and light, heads bent over screens, the quiet industrious atmosphere of people who believe their work is important and are paid enough to sustain the belief. A few glance up as we pass. I keep my focus on the offices at the back wall, on the corner one with the best view, because I've been there before once.
The corner office has floor-to-ceiling glass on two sides. Daniel is standing at the window with his back to the door, phone pressed to his ear. One hand in his pocket. The posture of a person who owns the room and everything visible from it.
I don't knock.
I walk in. The men come in behind me.
Daniel turns.
The expression lands in stages. Surprise first, his eyes widening before the rest of his face catches up. Then confusion,the phone still at his ear, his gaze jumping from me to the men and back as if the scene doesn't parse. And the irritation that replaces the confusion is the most honest thing I've seen on his face since the day I ended it.
He ends the call and sets his phone face down on his desk. Looks at me, and the mask slides into place, smooth and practiced. His mouth curves into something that is technically a smile.
"Maya." He spreads his hands. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
My heart is beating in my throat. I take a breath.
"I'm giving you a courtesy you never gave me, before turning my life into hell," I hear my voice from outside myself. "Your life is about to change. I thought you should hear it from me first."
Daniel's eyes narrow. He stays standing, the window behind him, the whole glass-and-chrome panorama of downtown LA at his back like a set piece he's been lit for.
"Is that right?" He looks past me at the men.
Daniel's mouth twitches. He pulls his chair back. Sits. Leans his elbows on the desk. Laces his fingers beneath his chin.
"Why?" he asks. "Because you found yourself some bodyguards?" He tilts his head. "Remember, Maya. I don't need to touch you to make your life miserable."
The words land where he aimed them. In the soft place under my sternum where months of fear left scar tissue.
Beside me, Jace moves. A single step forward, weight shifting, the coiled energy I've felt in him since the elevator converting into something directional. I put my hand on his shoulder.
He stops. The muscle under my palm is rigid, vibrating with the effort of staying still.
I keep my hand there for a moment. Then I let go. Turn back to Daniel.
"I took a lesson from your book," I say. "I can hurt you without touching you too." I pause because the next sentence is the one that changes everything and I want to feel the weight of it leaving me. "I'm here to tell you that today, Elena Voss is publishing my interview with the Atlantic Ledger."
The mask cracks.
Not dramatically. Daniel is too practiced for that. But his fingers unlace beneath his chin. His weight shifts forward in the chair. His mouth opens and closes, and for one second, his eyes lose the manufactured calm and I see the rage underneath. He recognizes the name. He knows what a journalist of Elena Voss's caliber can do with a story.
He stands. The chair rolls backward and hits the window. He comes around the desk toward me, and the stride has the quick, sharp quality of a man whose control center has shifted from strategy to reaction.
Reid growls.
Low, guttural, rising from somewhere in his chest that has nothing to do with language. It doesn't sound human. It sounds like the wolves at his rescue center, the warning that precedes the bite.
