“Drink.”
“Lucas, it’s three in the afternoon.”
“Drink.”
I drink. It burns, but it’s good. It loosens a part of my chest that I had not realized was locked shut.
He crouches in front of me. His hand cups my knee, steadying us both, and I don’t think he notices he is doing it.
“Tell me again,” he instructs quietly. “Slowly.”
I tell him. The call. The drift into the forest without meaning to. The hair on my neck. The snarl. The chase. The claws half out. The almost-shift.
“I’m fast,” I admit, and my voice wobbles, which I hate. “I know I’m fast. But I am not a great fighter, Lucas. I’ve trained, but I am not my wolf, and she is not a warrior. I panicked.”
He studies me. “It’s good to know there is something,” he murmurs, “that you are not good at. It’s almost reassuring.”
A small, feeble laugh punches out of me.
His lips twitch. His thumb moves, one small stroke on the inside of my knee.
“You’re safe now,” he says. “Nothing can hurt you while I am around.”
I feel a pang under my ribs, sharp and sweet and unwelcome. I nod, because if I try to speak, I will say something I can’t take back.
He stays crouched there for another minute or so. Then, he stands, rubs a hand over his jaw, and moves to put the desk between us.
I let him.
“Tell me what Violet called about,” he says as he sits in his chair. “I doubt you walked into a forest that you know is restricted for a casual chat.”
I fill him in about the missing hybrids. As I talk, some of the tension abides.
He listens without interrupting. By the time I’m done, his arms are folded across his chest, his brow furrowed.
“I’ll call Darius tonight,” he says. “We can run a joint task force. My investigative network covers four territories. His covers three more. We’ll be able to get the right information.”
“Thank you.”
“Do not thank me. Your friend is right to be worried.”
“If it were people killing hybrids out of hate,” I offer slowly, “there would be bodies. Wouldn’t there? Violence needs an audience. Someone would have found at least one.”
He nods, thinking. “People committing hate crimes leave evidence. They want to be seen. Nine clean disappearances is not hate. It’s an operation.”
“An operation to what end?”
“I don’t know yet.” His jaw sets. “But I’ll find out.”
I meet his eyes. For what seems like an eternity, we simply look at each other across the room. Something passes between us that is not heat, not exactly. It is alignment. Two people who have just agreed to stand against the same thing.
I move to get up. My legs are still not entirely sure of themselves, and I stumble on the second step.
His hands catch me at the waist.
I’m not sure how he got to me so fast. I am only aware that one of his hands is flat on the small of my back, the other at my hip, and my palms have come to rest on his chest without any decision on my part. His heart is hammering under my hand.
“Sienna.”
