“And otherwise?”
I give him a look. He returns it with the expression of an alpha who has compromised heroically for almost an hour. Then he inclines his head.
Barely.
Royal. Irritated. Obedient to no one.
And still giving me the room.
The love of it hits me so hard I have to look down at my notes.
Not love. I am not using that word. Not with Todd’s venom floating on a screen poisoning everything. But something large moves in my chest. Something with his name on it.
I blink once.
Then I call MacArthur.
My thumb hovers over the button for one breath too long. Skylor’s hand appears near mine on the table. Not touching. There. Warm, blue-violet, long-fingered, powerful enough to destroy worlds, and currently doing absolutely nothing. I turn my palm up and his fingers close around mine, firm and careful, while the call connects. He doesn't take the room from me. He holds the line while I speak.
MacArthur appears on the screen in her office. Books are stacked behind her, and a stainless steel water bottle sits near her keyboard. Her curls are pinned up badly. Frizzing in the heat.
“Beatrice,” she says.
“Professor MacArthur. Thank you for taking the call.”
Her gaze shifts to Skylor, then back to me. “I see this is not private.”
“It can be,” I say. “But I asked Skylor to join because I want to be as open as possible.”
MacArthur’s eyebrows lift a fraction. “I’d appreciate that.”
“I’m mated to Skylor Ak Layn,” I say.
“I heard,” she says.
“You were not told by me, and that was my mistake. Not because I owe you my private life, but because your trust matters to the article. It creates a real conflict of interest. I’m not here to pretend it doesn’t. I’m here to show you the safeguards that keep the article independent anyway.”
MacArthur leans back. Skylor remains silent. I could kiss him.
Later.
Hard.
“I’m listening,” MacArthur says.
I walk her through the charter. Dr. MacArthur’s eyes sharpen as I speak. That is good. Sharp is better than polite.
“And the coffee compounds?” she asks.
Skylor’s hand shifts in mine. I nod at him. “Your choice. Only what you are comfortable with.”
He lifts his gaze to the screen. Every inch of him becomes a prince. Controlled. Formal. Devastating. I keep my face neutral because Professor MacArthur deserves an editor, not a woman mentally climbing her own husband during a business call.
Skylor is still explaining. “The compounds slow neural degradation in Layn children affected by a genetic anomaly that began a decade ago,” he says. “The Brazilian strains have unique alkaloid stability. We are not exploiting coffee for luxury markets. We are trying to develop medicine and racing against time. During this fragile development stage, anonymity serves us well.”
MacArthur’s eyes widen. “Children.”
“Yes.”
