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“What about him?” I ask.

“Interesting guy.”

“Is he?”

I can feel Dutch’s eyes boring into me like lasers. “Very—” Dutch appears to search for the word “— tailored.”

“He runs an elite institution and built one of the richest empires the packs have ever seen. He dresses accordingly.”

“He asked me what you do for fun.”

“I heard.”

“What did you want me to say? Because I went with ‘She doesn’t have fun, fun has her,’ and then I felt like that wasn't quite right either⁠—”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“He asked for your number, Mia.”

“I’m aware.”

“I hardly think a perfect stranger would have asked me that.”

“He’s not a stranger.”

“So, you do know him.”

I stop walking. Turn to face him. Dutch is wearing his most innocent expression, which is the least innocent expression I’ve ever seen on a human face.

“He’s an alpha,” I say evenly. “We've crossed paths in a professional capacity before. He’s here now because Grey asked him to be here. That’s the entire story.”

Dutch looks at me for a long moment. “Crossed paths,” he repeats.

“Professionally.”

“Right.” He nods slowly. “So, the way he looked at you during the meeting just now⁠—”

“Was professional.”

His eyes are bright with the specific delight of someone who has found a loose thread and is pulling as hard as he can. “Mia. I've seen men look at their fated mates with less thirst.”

Fated mates. I pretend those two words don’t make my stomach turn to lead.

“Goodbye, Dutch.”

“I’m just saying⁠—”

“Goodbye.”

He holds up both hands in surrender, backing away down the corridor with a grin that tells me this conversation is absolutely not over, just temporarily tabled. “I’m here when you want to talk about it,” he calls.

“That will never happen,” I call back.

“I’ll be here anyway.”

Now, it’s just a threat.

I turn the corner before I can see whatever face he makes next and keep walking until the sound of his breathy chuckle fades. Then I stop, exhale once, and roll my shoulders back.