“Good,” Hale muttered, already reaching for another phone. “Now get out of my office. And Rowan? Don’t think you’re clear to leave the building yet. You still need to pass your physical. Dr. Aris is expecting you in Medical. If you don’t pass, you don’t drive.”
I gritted my teeth. “Understood.”
I marchedout of Hale’s office, clutching the cargo theft file like a shield. I didn’t wait for Ashborne, but his footsteps followed—inevitable. The corridor outside the bullpen narrowed, the fluorescent lights stinging my eyes. Riven walked beside me, his pace measured. The quiet between us stretched brittle. My magic buzzed under my skin, a live wire screaming at his proximity.
We reached the office at the end of the hall. My office. The one I shared with Dane.
I pushed the door open, the sound too loud in the sudden hush, and shut it behind us quickly. The click echoed in the contained space. Privacy. Control. I needed both.
I turned on him, keeping my voice level, though the fury in my gut was unmistakable.
“You might have been assigned to me, Ashborne,” I said, my voice low and dangerous, a controlled weapon. “But you don’t steer this case. You don’t get to intervene. Whatever’s happening—I’m handling it.”
I took a step closer, refusing to let his stillness intimidate me.
“I don’t care who pulled strings to put you on my shoulder. You won’t get in my way.”
His gaze remained cool, analytical.
Then he spoke, his voice low and even, cutting through the buzzing static of my magic.
“If that is what you believe, Detective, then perhaps the first thing you should work on is… control.”
His eyes flicked, deliberate, over me. Not in a leering way. Not mocking. He was reading my magical field like an executioner assessing a target.
“Your magic is unstable,” he added, quiet, clinical. “It’s bleeding through your emotions. Anyone with power could feel it halfway across the room.”
A precise strike. It hit home. Fury ignited, hot and sudden.
“My magic is fine.” The words were out before I could snag them.
“It’s not.” Just two words. Dismissive. Certain.
A beat of cold tension stretched between us. My chest tightened. The scar on my back throbbed, a treacherous confirmation of his words.
“Anger makes you loud,” he observed.
I snapped a bitter smile at him, the expression taut on my face.
“Good. Then hear this loud and clear—you follow my lead. You don’t dictate a damn thing.”
He inclined his head, a gesture almost mocking in its subtle deference.
“As you wish.”
I turned away, tightening my grip on my jacket where it hung slack on my shoulders. My hands trembled despite the effort to steady them, breath dragging rough through my lungs. The buzzing under my skin was worse with him in the room—a persistent, static itch that threatened to unravel the last thread of my composure.
“I’ve got a mandatory assessment,” I said, not looking at him, grabbing the door handle. “Medical leave protocol.”
I didn’t slow down, didn’t soften. I just needed to get out. Get away from his unnerving stillness, from the way his presence amplified the chaos in my own body.
“Give me twenty minutes to get cleared. Or wait here. I don’t care.”
The door swung shut behind me. I didn't need to see his face to know it remained completely unreadable.
THIRTEEN
Riven
