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I try not to reveal how much I’m enjoying watching her try to figure this out. The little slant in her brow as she considers possible options for my presence here is fucking adorable.

“Did something happen with the patrols?”

“No.”

Her green eyes flash sharply. Always cataloging. Always assessing. “Then why are you at my door? And why are you dressed like a fortune teller?”

I grin as she takes in the flowing pants that barely reach my ankles but are wide enough for two of me in each leg and a baggy blouse—navy blue with shooting stars woven in gold throughout. “It was either this or naked. Do you prefer the latter?”

“What?” Her cheeks flush. “Of course not.” She tries to look disgusted, but her scent tells another story.

It’s divine.

Or it would be if I could get a taste.

“Aren’t you going to invite me inside?” I ask.

Another pause. Longer this time.

Then she steps back and lets me in. Grudgingly, from the look she wears.

The apartment hits me all at once—vivid color, clean lines, light even at night from the glow of the city pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The walls are decorated with abstract canvases in cobalt and gold and a deep arterial red that somehow manages not to clash. It’s deliberate; the colors, the boldness, all of it. Intentional in the way that her suits are intentional. She built this space like armor, and it tells me more about her than she’d want it to.

I take my time looking.

She watches me from near the kitchen island, arms crossing loosely below her chest, which only makes it harder not to look at her tits. She’s glaring. Waiting for the punchline. “Dutch said it looks like clown vomit.”

Dutch. That’s Grey’s second. I’ve never met him, but if he doesn’t understand her choices in this space, it means he doesn’t understand her. Good. I want to be the only one who gets her.

My wolf’s jealousy is sudden and irrational. I shove it down.

“Dutch is a fucking idiot.”

At my words, something shifts in her expression. Just slightly. “You don't find it overwhelming?”

I shoot her a smirk. “All this color balances your dark soul. It’s like yin and yang.”

The laugh comes before she can stop it—a short, involuntary sound she cuts off almost immediately. She looks briefly furious with herself for it, which is its own kind of victory.

And the perfect opening.

“You’re even more beautiful than I remember,” I say. “Which should have been impossible.”

The humor dies. She looks at me steadily, like she’s deciding whether I’m serious. Or maybe whether to kill me. “That was a long time ago.”

“Two years.”

“Long enough to forget what I looked like altogether.”

“I haven’t forgotten a single detail.” Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, so I decide to throw caution to the wind and go for raw honesty as I add, “How could I when I’ve thought about it every day since?”

For a moment, she says nothing. But I know better than to assume her silence is indifference.

“Is that why you came?” she asks finally. “To tell me that?”

“I came because we have a problem.”

“The problem has a name, and it’s Ramsey Greco. We’re handling it.”