Chapter 3 Recognition, Not Choice
Grady
"What the hell!?!" I yell in my brain. "Veron, I bet you knew."
I am in my truck in the university parking structure. The engine is running. I don't trust myself to drive.
My hands are shaking. Long coarse hair sprouts on the backs of my hands. I am breathing like a steam train. Breathe in. Hold, Exhale out. Hold.
I should drive to Veron's house right now and give him a piece of my mind. My mind is racing. I'm torn. Marris is not there. My fated mate is there. A punch to the gut followed by a swallow of fine champagne.
I could use a drink.
The wolf says mate before I have her name. But it isn't Marris.
The scent hit me the moment I clear the doorway. Warm paper. Bergamot and black tea. Something underneath those two things that is entirely her own, a new scent, her scent. This bypasses every rational decision center in my brain regarding my need to be there.
They set off a feeling in the center of my chest like a forgotten firework going off on its own.
I sat with that scent for four months after Hamish's intel confirmed Marris Walker was still connected to the university archive.
I told myself this trip was about the Veron boundary dispute, and the 1987 survey.
I had put Marris behind me and moved forward and I was coming to this city purely for documentation purposes.
I sat in that archive and my wolf recognized a different woman.
Lilly. Her younger sister.
She was probably in grade school the last time I had any reason to think about what a future looked like.
My phone rings.
Denholm. He creates more problems than it solves. I always answer.
"Status on the Veron dispute." No preamble. That's Denholm. "Did you make contact with the archivist?"
"I did." I bark into the phone. "I have an appointment on Thursday next week. The archivist confirmed the 1987 survey should be in the collection."
I stare at the parking structure pillar in front of my windshield and try to put my voice somewhere neutral.
"Should be."
"It's logged in the index. I'll confirm the physical document Thursday."
"Good." A pause. "Who did you speak with?"
"The head archivist." I do not say her name. I don't know why, except that her name doesn't belong in this conversation. "She knows the collection well. This will be straightforward."
Denholm makes a sound of acknowledgement and hangs up. No social small talk. It's one of the things that makes him effective at getting results. It's also one of the things that makes him difficult to read.
I set my phone on the passenger seat.
I think about Marris.
I haven't let myself do that in a long time. At least I did not recently properly consider the full weight of what that year cost both of us.
I was twenty-four and Marris was eighteen. She made me feel like being the kind of person worth trusting with something careful. She was funny and sharp and she walked through the world with a lightness I never figured out how to imitate.
Part of it was her looks, sure. She has eyes of crystal clear sky blue. That flawless skin framed by jet-black waves that cascaded down nearly to her waist sent a shiver through me. She is the only one who ever gave me that feeling. Then things changed.
And Denholm sat across from me at the lodge table and laid out the clan's position on human mates, and I let his voice be louder than my own instinct.
Every time. For eight months. Until Marris made the decision for both of us and walked out of this city with her chin up and her eyes clear and I haven't seen her since.
I spent the next eighteen years not letting anyone get close enough to repeat the mistake.
And then I walked through an archive door and my wolf said mine before I could stop it.
The wolf picked a human woman anyway.
The wolf picked the archivist.
I drive out to the compound because there is nowhere else to go. I head straight to the workshop instead of the office.
? ? ?
I can work with my hands. It's the only solution when my head is doing something I can't interrupt. Now, if I stand at the workbench and pick up a project, I can go on working for hours.
Today is different.
I see brown eyes behind glasses, looking me in the eye, and looking away. A pen tapping. A precise voice explaining a collection index with the metered competence of someone who does the real thing and is simply always present.
The other Walker sister.
I am in significant trouble.
? ? ?
At five o'clock I call the archives main line to confirm Thursday. I tell myself it is a professional courtesy.
A woman answers. She is a graduate assistant. She very politely takes down my confirmation and reads it back to me in a flat, bored monotone.
It is not Lilly.
I am aware, with a specificity that embarrasses me, that I am disappointed.
I put my hands on my hips in the empty workshop and look up at the open beamed ceiling.
Thursday, I tell myself. Two more days.
That is not a professional thought.
The workshop door scrapes behind me. A draft of cool pine and damp soil unravels its tendrils in the room. Someone's been hunting.
Hamish.
He fills the doorway, not because he is big, exactly, but present, using a bit more air than most. Lilly has a different register, that thing where a person occupies their own space without apology. He looks at my face for three seconds.
"You found her, didn't you? You found Marris."
Not a question.
I look at my beta and I don't answer and the silence is its own answer.
Hamish nods slowly. Leans against the doorframe crossing his arms. The expression he wears is almost smug.
"Is she—"
"She's Marris's sister."
The silence after that is a different kind. A low whistle escapes Hamish and floats around the room.
"Sister, well okay. That's progress." Hamish says finally. "Okay. When's the appointment?"
"Next week, on Thursday. It's not really progress. Marris is married."
He nods again. "I guess. Think about it, you met your fate. That's cool."
"Aren't you about ready to lead your pack?"
"Yes, and you are changing the subject."
"I am. You went faster than I did when Denholm mentored me."
"I'm not sure what his deal was or is. He's held about a dozen positions in this Clan and he's not very good at any of them."
"You got that right."
Later, after Hamish went home, I am alone with the wood grain and the cooling air. The pull behind my sternum gives a tug. For the first time since Marris, I'm stuck in something I can't argue my way out of.