Chapter 4 Chris
CHRIS
The competition hall was already buzzing by the time we arrived.
Handlers streamed through the broad glass doors in tight clusters, leashes looped around their wrists, dogs pacing at their sides with that restless mix of focus and excitement.
Temporary ring barriers carved the massive ballroom into orderly lanes, and vendor booths lined the walls beneath hanging banners and bright overhead lights.
Judges’ tables were being set up at the far end of the room, volunteers darted between stations with clipboards and radios. The air was thick with layered scents like disinfectant, rubber matting, treats, nervous sweat and excitement.
And beneath it all, something sharper. Tension.
“Stay close,” Jaime murmured beside me, his voice low and careful. “Too many variables here.”
I nodded. “Got it… Peter.”
Saying my fake husband’s name still felt strange on my tongue.
Jaime didn’t look at me, but I felt the faintest pause in his stride. A tell, maybe. Or maybe I was imagining it. Pampi trotted between us with light, precise steps, plumed tail held high.
Papillons were known for their elegance and intelligence, but Pampi carried herself like a tiny empress.
Apparently, she normally didn’t tolerate anyone except Jaime, snapping or retreating if a stranger got too close. But somehow, she’d taken a liking to me.
She brushed against my leg as we walked, checking in like I was part of her territory now.
Jaime didn’t seem to like it. His gaze flicked to the dog, then to me, faint surprise ghosting across his usually controlled expression. Or maybe Jaime didn’t mind, I decided.
We’d already cleared registration. Next came health verification.
A volunteer in a bright blue vest scanned our paperwork and motioned us forward with a practiced flick of her wrist.
“Handlers and dogs to the inspection stations, please,” she said.
We joined the slow-moving line inside a cordoned-off section of the ballroom, where portable exam tables had been set up beneath rows of bright overhead lights.
The polished hotel floor echoed with claws and footsteps, the sharp taps of nails mixing with low voices and the soft whine of nervous dogs.
Somewhere overhead, the ventilation system hummed steadily, pushing cool, sterile air through the crowded space. The surrounding mix of scenes made my wolf paced restlessly beneath my skin.
Pampi still rode the wave of noise like a queen, occasionally turning her head as she took everything in. When the vet called our number, she didn’t hesitate.
She stepped forward with a light, confident prance, as if this whole thing had been built for her.
Jaime knelt beside her immediately, one knee to the floor, his movements smooth and unhurried. The vet lifted Pampi onto the table, checking her teeth first.
Jaime kept one hand on her back, steady and warm, his thumb making slow, reassuring circles between her shoulder blades.
“She’s calm,” the vet noted.
“She trusts him,” I said without thinking.
Jaime’s eyes flicked up to mine for half a second before returning to Pampi.
The vet checked Pampi’s gums, eyes, and joints, then ran skilled hands along her ribs and spine before lowering a stethoscope to her tiny chest.
Pampi stood perfectly still, dark eyes locked on Jaime’s face like he was the only thing anchoring her in the room.
Jaime leaned in close, murmuring praises under his breath, rhythmic words I couldn’t quite make out, but the tone wrapped around Pampi like a lullaby. Her tail flicked once, slow and content.
I watched without meaning to. There was something about the way Jaime handled a dog.
He was patient and precise. Gentle without ever tipping into softness. He didn’t baby her and didn’t dominate her. Jaime simply met her where she was.
Pampi leaned into him instinctively, pressing her tiny body closer to his steady presence. My wolf stirred, not with jealousy, but with something warmer, stranger, a sense of recognition.
The vet listened for a few seconds longer, then straightened.
“Heart sounds good. No signs of distress. Weight is excellent for her frame. This little one’s in perfect condition,” the vet said.
Pride flickered across Jaime’s face before he smothered it. But I saw it. It was brief, so brief he probably thought no one noticed, but it was real.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
As the tech marked us cleared and waved us on, Pampi gave one last affectionate lean into Jaime’s chest. Then to my surprise, she turned and bumped her nose against my knuckles.
My breath caught. Her tail swished and Jaime paused. Slowly, he looked at me.
“She normally doesn’t do that,” he said again, quieter this time.
My pulse thudded loud in my ears.
“Guess she’s got good taste, honey,” I said.
For the first time, the corner of Jaime’s mouth almost curved. My wolf paced in tight, restless circles, like it had just found a path it very much wanted to follow.
Next came equipment inspection. Collars off. Harnesses examined. Leashes measured and stress-tested. Paw grips checked. Every buckle tugged. Every clasp inspected.
A judge lifted our leash and gave it a sharp pull. “Sturdy.”
My turn with Pampi came during the paw grip inspection. I dropped to one knee beside the low exam table as the inspector crouched to examine the rubberized traction pads strapped to her tiny feet.
“Easy, girl,” I murmured, lifting one delicate paw into my palm.
She allowed it with regal patience.
Jaime leaned in at the same moment to steady her balance and my fingers brushed his. It was brief. Barely a touch, but it felt like a spark snapped between us.
Heat lanced straight up my arm, sudden and sharp. My breath stuttered.
I pulled back too fast, flustered and nearly upset Pampi’s balance. Jaime reacted instantly, one steady hand at her chest, the other bracing her hips.
“Whoa. I’ve got you, princess,” he murmured.
Pampi settled immediately. I stared at his hands. At how easily he controlled the moment. How easily he controlled me.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, glancing up at me.
“Yeah. Yeah. Fine,” I said, probably a little too fast.
Something shifted in his gaze, curiosity, maybe. Or suspicion or even awareness. It lingered just long enough for my heart to do something stupid in my chest then the mask slid back into place.
The inspector finished testing the grip and straightened. “All secure,” he said.
Equipment cleared. One more hurdle crossed. Then a volunteer waved us toward the main competition floor for the handlers’ walkthrough. This was it, the part where the nerves showed.
Without the dogs, handlers flowed onto the rubber-matted course in loose clusters, whispering to coaches, counting steps under their breath, tracing imaginary leash paths through the air with tense fingers.
The massive ballroom stretched wide beneath hotel chandeliers, transformed into a sleek obstacle maze.
Ramps gleamed under spotlights, tunnels nestled between barriers, weave poles standing like sentinels, balance beams elevated on metal frames, scent markers tucked into corners.
The entire thing felt unreal. Controlled chaos under fluorescent lights.
I walked it slowly, methodically, committing angles and distances to memory. Jaime moved beside me, silent and observant. Close enough that our shoulders almost brushed with each turn.
Almost. That’s when it hit me. Something felt wrong. It wasn’t obvious but it just felt a little off. My instincts never failed me before so I decided to trust it. I’d done some homework.
One hurdle near the fourth turn was angled a few degrees too far inward toward the tunnel entrance. Barely noticeable unless you watched how a dog’s momentum would carry through the jump and into the turn.
It wasn’t dangerous, but it was sloppy. And in a course built by professionals, sloppy didn’t happen. I slowed. Jaime didn’t. My wolf surged forward.
It became sharp, alert, and uneasy before my brain caught up. The air felt tilted, wrong in a way I couldn’t explain.
“Jaime,” I murmured. Then I cleared my throat. “I mean, Peter.”
He stopped immediately and turned. “What?”
I tipped my chin subtly. “That hurdle. Before the tunnel.”
He studied it. “What about it?”
“It’s shifted. If Pampi hits it at full speed, her landing angle will be off. She’ll overcorrect and clip the tunnel edge,” I pointed out.
Jaime stepped closer, eyes narrowing. Then his jaw tightened.
“You’re right,” he said.
We approached it casually, like two handlers doing a final mental run. Jaime knelt and brushed his fingers over the support bar. The peg shifted slightly beneath his touch.
It was loose. Not enough to collapse, but it was enough to wobble. It was designed to look accidental.
“Whoever did this didn’t want to hurt a dog,” I murmured. “They wanted a fault.”
Jaime nodded slowly. “Disqualification. Public failure. Public embarrassment.”
A low growl rumbled in my chest before I could stop it.
We flagged a nearby official. They inspected the hurdle, tested it, exchanged quiet looks. Confirmed.
“Good catch, Mr. Hill,” one of them said, looking embarrassed. “We’ll reset the entire section and check the rest.”
Jaime stood beside me in silence as they worked.
Then, quietly, he said, “You did good, John.”
My cover name slid off his tongue like it belonged there. It barely reached my ears over the roar of the ballroom, over the hum of voices, the scrape of chairs, and the constant patter of paws on rubber matting.
But it still landed like thunder in my chest.
“Thanks, darling,” I said, leaning into the act just enough, trying and failing, to make it sound casual.
For half a second, I braced for his usual cold reaction. The clipped correction. The narrowed eyes. The reminder to stay professional. It never came. Jaime didn’t even flinch at the nickname.
There was no reprimand and no visible irritation. Just a brief, unreadable pause in his expression before he turned his attention back to the course.
Something shifted after that. Not dramatically and not in any way I could point to and name with certainty, but unmistakably.
Earlier, during registration, I’d felt his resistance like a solid wall between us. Polite but distant. Guarded. Now that wall felt thinner. Not gone completely, but no longer impenetrable.
Don’t read into it, I warned myself. Now is not the time to analyze whether he likes you or still can’t stand you, you idiot.
This wasn’t about me. It was about the mission Cooper had entrusted us with. About keeping the peace between humans and shifters.
It was also about proving I was worthy of the faith my alpha had placed in me.
Jaime walked closer. When he leaned in to whisper strategy, he angled his body so I could hear. When he compared timing, he murmured his thoughts instead of keeping them locked behind his walls.
Once, his fingers brushed mine again when we both reached for the same course map. This time, neither of us pulled away right away.
Twice, my wolf reacted before my mind did. The first time, I felt tension spike off Jaime like static before a storm. A warning pulse straight through my bones. I turned…
And caught a thin, red-haired man lingering too close to the barrier, pretending to scroll through his phone while watching the handlers’ section far too closely.
The second time, Jaime stiffened before a metal crate crashed behind a vendor booth across the hall. I felt his flinch before he moved. Felt it ripple through me like a shared nerve.
We were syncing, and that both thrilled and terrified me. By the time the walkthrough ended, the air between us was charged with something unsaid. Not hostile or warm, but undeniably aware.
“Good instincts out there,” Jaime said as we headed back toward Pampi’s rest pen. “You see details.”
“So do you,” I pointed out.
“Different ones.”
I hesitated. “Look, I know we’re not exactly friendly.”
“We don’t have to be friendly,” he cut in gently. “We just have to be effective.”
A pause. Then quieter, “And we were effective today.”
That was more than I’d expected. We returned Pampi to her rest enclosure and stepped aside near the indoor water station. The roar of the ballroom rolled around us like surf.
“Chris,” he whispered my name.
I turned. Jaime hesitated for the first time since I’d known him.
“You felt that earlier, didn’t you?” he asked. “Before the hurdle.”
I swallowed. “Yeah.”
“You sensed it before you saw it.”
“Yes.”
His eyes searched my face. Then something inside him shifted. It was acceptance, perhaps. Or reluctant recognition.
“Good,” he said. “Because I felt it too.”
My breath caught. For the first time since this whole thing started, I realized this mission wasn’t just about sabotage anymore. It was about two wolves learning how to hear each other.
Even when neither of us was ready to admit what that might mean.