There was nowhere I needed to be, but I walked like I’d left a fuse burning behind me—past a shuttered flower stand, still reeking of lilies and old cellophane, past a food cart griddle still hissing at midnight, past two men in basketball shorts arguing about how to pronounce “gyro” without coming to blows or a decision.
The world is beautiful that way.
A cherry sucker was already in my mouth, dissolved to a dangerous splinter. I bit through the last sharp edge and spat it curbside, watching it bounce off the “NO PARKING” sign like a bullet.
I fished in my pocket, palmed another, and popped it without looking at the wrapper. Cherry again. Always cherry. My thumb found the switchblade in my jacket out of pure habit—didn’t flip it, just ran over the checkered handle with a kind of nervous affection.
It’s good to have a hobby.
The walk was supposed to burn off the residue, but the night was dense with it. Every breath still tasted like Wolfe’s office—smoke, leather, and a subtle musk that had no business sticking in my throat. Every city block I put between me and that desk just gave the memory more oxygen to burn.
I ran the inventory, just like seven years of Ranger protocol had drilled into me:
Threat assessment: Manageable. The men who’d tailed me were paid, not passionate; Braham’s own security was a wall, but it was a wall with rules.
The wolf stuff: It was impossible, so it slotted right next to the rest of my unsolved mysteries, sandwiched between “how does my neighbor afford that many Amazon packages” and “what is the actual flavor of LaCroix.”
Braham Wolfe: not filed. Not even close.
You’d think the whole alpha werewolf CEO thing would be the sticking point, but no. It was the way he watched me. Like I was already his. Like the rest of the city was just scenery for this one, specific chess game.
Six-three, maybe six-four. Custom suit that probably cost more than my lease, and it wasn’t just for show; the man moved like he’d been poured into it by the gallon.
The face: not pretty, not exactly. Jaw like a Soviet monument, nose that looked like it had stopped a few good punches and been the better for it. The eyes were the kind of golden brown that you only ever see in animals—a color that says I will keep you alive or I will keep you as a snack.
I should have hated him on principle alone. Instead, my body clocked him in every possible way that counted, and a few that did not.
I walked faster, like maybe if I hit a certain speed I’d reach escape velocity and shed the entire memory.
The “mate” thing was where it got sticky. Most people, you tell them a six-foot-four slab of predatory intent just declared them “mate,” and they’d either laugh or call the police. I’d done neither. I’d just watched, feeling my internal warning system flip from yellow to screaming orange and not knowing if that was supposed to be fear or the opposite.
It wasn’t fear.
Not really.
I kept replaying the word in my head. Mate. It wasn’t sentimental. It wasn’t even possessive, in the way I was used to men being possessive. It was geological. Like he’d just discovered a new mineral and now all the textbooks had to be rewritten around this one, inconvenient fact.
I didn’t want to be a fact. I wanted to be a goddamn outlier.
Three blocks from the high-rise, the city quieted. I was halfway to the bridge, the streets glassy and empty except for a single cyclist running the red, when my phone buzzed. Unknown number. Not a text; a call. The screen glared in my hand.
I stared at it for a long second, lollipop pressed flat against my teeth. Every instinct said to ignore it, to let whoever was on the other end stew in their own impatience. Instead, I thumbed “accept” and said, “Go.”
Silence, then the voice. Low, deliberate, a blunt instrument shaped to sound like velvet. “Flynn.” Not a question.
“Present,” I said. “And presumably not alone, if your guys are half as good as you pay them.”
He didn’t waste time. “The pup is in distress. Medical team cannot settle her.”
I let that sink in. “And you’re telling me because…”
“You. She will not sleep, feed, or shift. She has imprinted, I think.” There was a hesitation, barely audible. “On you.”
I stopped moving. It’s the only way I ever process anything truly shocking: absolute stillness. A late-night cab crept past,and I could see myself reflected in the window, all sharp lines and dumb surprise.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, careful to keep my voice level.
“I want you to come back.” The sentence was clean, precise, but not optional.
