Chapter Seventeen
~ Rooster ~
I stood behind Liam's chair with my feet planted shoulder-width apart, my hands clasped behind my back to keep from touching him.
The conference room felt foreign with its formal setup—leather portfolios placed precisely at each seat, the club's emblem hanging beside the Shifter Council insignia on the wall.
The Shifter Council investigator sat across from Liam, his charcoal suit impeccably pressed, not a single silver hair out of place. He'd introduced himself as Investigator Crosby, his clipped tone revealing his wolf shifter heritage even before the distinctive amber flecks in his eyes confirmed it.
Wolves always carried that edge of formal dominance, like they needed everyone to know they were apex predators even when discussing mundane matters.
"The evidence provided by your Security Advisor has proven invaluable," Crosby said, sliding a folder toward Butch, who sat at the head of the table. "We've coordinated raids on seven facilities based on the intelligence he gathered."
The projector hummed to life, casting a blue-white glow across the conference table as Crosby tapped his tablet. Satellite images appeared on the screen—an isolated compound in Wyoming, surveillance photos of armed guards, thermal imaging of interior spaces.
"Based on Mr. Liam's intel," Crosby continued, "we identified this facility as one of Victor Markus's primary processing centers."
Liam's head tilted slightly to the right—a gesture I'd come to recognize as disagreement. His fingers began their rhythmic tap against his thigh, barely audible but speaking volumes to me.
I caught Butch's eye across the table and gave a subtle shake of my head. Butch nodded once, understanding my silent translation: Liam didn't agree with Crosby's assessment.
"Something wrong with the intel?" Butch asked, interrupting Crosby's methodical presentation.
The investigator paused, frowning slightly at the interruption. "No, the intelligence was sound. As I was saying—"
"I believe my Security Advisor has concerns about your characterization," Butch pressed, nodding toward Liam.
All eyes turned to Liam, who reached for the notepad that never left his side.
His pencil moved with quick precision before he slid the pad toward Crosby.
I leaned forward slightly to read over Liam's shoulder: "Not primary.
Tertiary at best. The real processing happens elsewhere.
This was just sorting and temporary holding. "
Crosby's lips thinned as he read the note. "Yes, well. That's a matter of interpretation. The Council classifies any facility housing shifter subjects as processing centers."
The dismissive tone made my bear stir beneath my skin. I shifted my weight, moving a half-step closer to Liam's chair, my hand dropping to rest casually on its back. The motion wasn't lost on Crosby, whose nostrils flared slightly as he registered my protective stance.
The presentation continued, with Crosby clicking through images of other raided facilities—a warehouse in Nevada, an abandoned mining operation in Colorado, a private medical facility in northern California.
With each new location, I watched Liam's reactions, fascinated by the subtle language of his body that spoke so clearly to me now.
A slight forward lean when something interested him. The barely perceptible tightening around his eyes when Crosby oversimplified complex operations. The way his golden eyes narrowed when important connections went unmentioned.
"The most significant discovery," Crosby said, bringing up a series of photographs showing laboratory equipment, "was the extensive blood and tissue sample collection. Over three thousand cataloged specimens, many from shifter communities that have been missing for years."
Liam's pencil tapped three times against his notepad—our signal for something important being overlooked. I caught Butch's eye again and tipped my head slightly. Butch immediately picked up the thread.
"Any indication of where the processed samples were sent?" he asked.
Crosby hesitated, his confidence faltering for the first time. "We're still analyzing the data recovery. The systems were quite sophisticated."
Liam's fingers drummed faster against his thigh, his frustration evident to me even if invisible to others. I fought the urge to place my hand over his, to soothe the agitation I could feel radiating from him.
In these formal settings, he preferred minimal contact—something I respected even when my bear grumbled about it.
"Mr. Liam's contribution to this investigation cannot be overstated," Crosby continued, his tone shifting to something almost reverential.
"His detailed maps of surveillance points, his documentation of extraction protocols, his timeline of operational evolution—it's unprecedented intelligence work. "
Photos appeared on screen of Liam's hand-drawn maps and diagrams—the same ones I'd watched him create late into the night, hunched over our kitchen table, his golden eyes intense with concentration.
Seeing his private work displayed so publicly sent a surge of contradictory emotions through me—fierce pride in my mate's abilities, and protective anger at having his methods exposed.
"The Council extends its formal gratitude," Crosby said, looking directly at Liam, who immediately dropped his gaze to the table. "Your observation skills may have saved hundreds of shifters from capture and experimentation."
I felt Liam's discomfort like a physical wave rolling off him. Public praise was still something he struggled with, especially from authority figures. His fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening slightly.
Without thinking, I shifted again, moving close enough that my leg pressed lightly against the back of his chair—not touching him directly, but close enough that he could feel my presence, my support.
The tension in his shoulders eased fractionally. We'd developed our own language of proximity and pressure over the past weeks—how close was comforting versus suffocating, when touch was grounding versus overwhelming.
"We've prepared a formal commendation," Crosby said, removing an embossed document from his briefcase. "The Shifter Council recognizes Liam of the Soldiers of Fortune Motorcycle Club for exceptional service to shifter-kind."
He placed the document on the table and slid it toward Liam, who stared at it with an unreadable expression. I knew what this moment symbolized—not just recognition of his contributions, but formal acknowledgment of his existence after fifteen years of invisibility.
For someone who had survived by leaving no trace, having his name on an official document was both validation and vulnerability.
Butch looked to me, a question in his eyes.
I gave a slight nod, indicating Liam was handling the moment well enough.
Our silent communication had become seamless in the weeks since the attack—Butch deferring to my understanding of Liam's limits, me translating Liam's unspoken thoughts when necessary.
"The Council is particularly interested in how you developed such detailed knowledge of Victor's operation," Crosby said, fixing Liam with a penetrating stare. "Your tracking methods could be valuable for our other investigations."
Liam's body went completely still—the stillness of prey deciding whether to freeze or flee. I felt my muscles tense in response, prepared to intervene if necessary. This was straying dangerously close to questioning Liam's past, territory we'd all tacitly agreed was off-limits.
"I think we've covered enough ground for today," Butch said smoothly, rising from his chair. "The Soldiers of Fortune appreciate the Council's recognition and will continue to cooperate with your investigation where appropriate."
The dismissal was polite, but unmistakable. Crosby hesitated, clearly wanting to press further, but Butch's stance—arms crossed, shoulders squared—left no room for negotiation.
The investigator nodded once, gathering his materials with efficient movements. "Of course. We'll be in touch regarding the next phase of the investigation."
I remained standing behind Liam's chair as the formalities concluded, my presence a shield between my mate and the wolf shifter's probing questions.
Fifteen years of running had taught Liam to recognize predatory interest, and right now, Crosby's curiosity about his methods felt far too much like hunting for comfort.
As the investigator finally exited, I felt the collective tension in the room release like air from a punctured tire. Liam's shoulders dropped a full inch, and I allowed my hand to settle lightly on one of them, offering the contact I'd been restraining throughout the meeting.
He didn't pull away. Progress that still made my heart swell, even weeks after he'd first allowed my touch without flinching.
"You did good, baby boy," I murmured, pitching my voice low enough that only he could hear. "Real good."
The door clicked shut behind Investigator Crosby and the artificial formality drained from the room like air from a popped balloon.
Butch immediately loosened his tie with a grunt of relief.
Bear slouched back in his chair, propping his boots on the table edge.
I rolled my shoulders, grateful to shed the diplomatic stiffness I'd been maintaining throughout the presentation.
But Liam's reaction caught me completely off guard. Instead of relaxing, he snorted—an actual, audible sound of dismissal—and reached for his notepad.
His pencil scratched rapidly across the page, and he slid the pad toward Butch with unusual force. Two words stood out in his neat handwriting: "Too easy."
Butch raised an eyebrow, glancing between the notepad and Liam. "Care to elaborate?"