Chapter Five
TOM
Tom had spent years perfecting the art of detached observation, tight-lipped politeness and, above all, neutrality. It was a skill that had served him well, working on the Hill.
But all of that went out the window the moment Bryce Reynolds walked into the kitchen.
Bryce was still laughing, some teasing thing he’d shouted over his shoulder to Tristan, and there was so much light in his face it made Tom’s chest ache.
His brown hair was untidy, his deep blue eyes crinkled at the corners with humor, and his smile was open and easy, genuine in a way Tom had nearly forgotten people could be.
It had been months since anyone looked at Tom like that—months since he’d looked at someone and felt that spark. With Zack, that last year had been all tension and negotiation, with desire used as leverage. But Bryce looked like the kind of person who gave easily, maybe even without keeping score.
Or maybe Tom was seeing what he wanted to see because part of him still longed for that.
His gaze lingered, caught by the long lines of Bryce’s body.
His weight was shifted onto one hip, jeans clinging to his legs like they’d been broken in over years of work and weather.
The hem of his t-shirt caught on his belt as he leaned, just enough to hint at skin, and the flash of silver at his buckle felt indecent somehow—like an invitation.
Bryce looked good. A dangerous kind of good. And for a heartbeat too long, Tom let himself feel it, want curling low and fierce.
Down, Barrington.
He pulled himself back to the job with effort, wrapping his professionalism like armor around the sudden heat that had no business being there. He was here to work.
That was harder to remember as he ran through the fallen leaves beside Bryce. Not because of anything Bryce said—they were in wolf form—but because of the ease of it. The rhythm of paws hitting ground, the shared awareness, the way Bryce didn’t crowd him or pull ahead, just kept pace, matching him.
He hadn’t felt that kind of quiet companionship since long before things with Zack had gone bad.
That used to be his favorite part—running as wolves.
No talking, no need to perform. Just instinct and motion and the sense that someone understood him on a level too deep for words.
Zack had been declining his invitations to run together for months before the end, and he should have understood what a bad sign that was.
If he had, the ending wouldn’t have come as such a shock.
He dragged his attention back to what he was supposed to be doing. He was here to do a job, and he wasn’t going to budge an inch from his professional standards. Not when they were all he had left.
* * *
By the time they were back at the house, getting dressed once more, his thoughts were filled with questions he had for Bryce about their perimeter. The knot in his chest that felt a lot like longing was irrelevant.
“Did you get everything you need?” Bryce’s voice, casual, a little rough around the edges, drifted over.
Tom turned, and there he was, pulling a long-sleeved t-shirt over his head, hiding that torso like doing so wasn’t a crime against nature.
“I need to see the room where the meeting’s going to be held,” Tom said, tamping down whatever that flutter in his chest was.
They stepped inside, the kitchen warm with late-afternoon light and the faintest trace of something sweet lingering in the air. Chocolate cake, maybe. Tom scanned the room again. Big windows, poor cover. Too many entrances, too many lines of fire.
“Kitchen or living room are the only rooms big enough for this meeting,” Bryce said. “Final choice depends on how formal Matt’s feeling. Or how much coffee he thinks he’ll need. Anyway, let me give you the grand tour.”
Tom followed him into what looked like a mudroom-slash-laundry space. He clocked the second exterior exit immediately, and the array of boots—different sizes, worn but well kept.
“How many of the pack actually live in the house?”
“About half.”
Tom turned. “Doesn’t that get a little crowded?”
Bryce leaned back against the washer with the casual confidence of a man used to being at the center of things.
Tom’s gaze was drawn to the way that showed off his long legs in those dark jeans, and then he found himself staring at the buckle of his belt, from where it was so easy to let his gaze drop the tiniest bit to the stretch of denim, just snug enough to hint at everything underneath.
“So far it works,” Bryce said. “Though at the rate we’re picking up new members, I wouldn’t put money on that lasting.”
“Colby’s not the only new arrival, then?”
A flicker of caution passed through Bryce’s eyes. “Riley’s not been with us long. And you undoubtedly know that Jesse only came to us a few months ago. Before that, he was on his own.”
Tom kept his face neutral. Jesse Turner’s background was still a foggy mystery, and the idea that he’d just walked into a pack after years alone was convenient. Too convenient. But Tom didn’t push. That was Councilor Steadman’s job.
And he still wasn’t convinced that Jesse Turner really was an Argent, though he had more sense than to mention that fact to Bryce.
“I’m guessing the councilors are going to want to know where he comes from,” he said, in what might just be the understatement of the century.
“Ya think?” Bryce’s lips curved into a smile.
“I’m not paid to do that,” Tom disclaimed. “I’m just the muscle.”
That got him a slow once-over, Bryce’s gaze trailing shamelessly down his body and back up again. “You sure are,” he said, deadpan, then grinned like he knew exactly how corny he sounded and didn’t care.
Somehow, and Tom had no idea how, it worked for him. The mix of boldness and warmth and the lack of hidden barbs counterbalanced the cheese.
“I also think you’re selling yourself short, for what it’s worth,” he added, quieter this time.
Tom looked away, uncomfortable at the sincerity. That had been a little too close to something real. It reminded him of things Zack used to say—back when things were good. Before it all went wrong.
He cleared his throat. “So, this other meeting room…”
Bryce didn’t push, just nodded and led the way.
The hallway walls were lined with mismatched photos. It felt like a house people lived in rather than one that was staged for effect. Tom noted the layout, the doorframes, the poor sightlines. The space made sense for a pack. For security? It was a nightmare.
The living room was less exposed than the kitchen, but tighter.
Fewer exits and more corners. Tom would mark it as a soft target on any recon sheet.
But Jax, the head of the Council security detail, would make his own call, and it would probably be the opposite of whatever Tom recommended.
He’d never gotten over Tom being seconded to Steadman’s personal detail.
That was one of Jax’s few weaknesses—too much ego.
Tom let his gaze drift, searching not only for threats but for clues.
The books on the shelves weren’t arranged by size or author, just jammed in however they fit.
Dog-eared thrillers, battered recipe books, the occasional poetry collection.
A stack of DVDs sat beside the TV, Barbie rubbing shoulders with John Wick.
His gaze landed on a dark patch on the floorboards. It looked like a bloodstain.
“Someone spill their coffee?” he asked, tone mild.
Bryce followed his line of sight and didn’t bother to lie. “Not exactly.”
Tom waited, but no further explanation was offered. Just that easy, infuriating calm that Bryce had displayed in the face of every one of Tom’s questions. He added it to his mental inventory.
Bryce glanced at him sidelong. “You know, not to knock your job, but this all feels a bit much.”
“You’ve got the most powerful shifters in the country coming to a rural pack with no security infrastructure,” Tom said.
“If someone wanted to make a point, this would be the place. It makes me wonder why they didn’t invite Jesse to Washington instead, where there’d be a controlled environment.
” He knew damn well that they had, but was hoping for a clue as to why the invitation had been turned down.
“Oh, they asked.” Bryce’s mouth curved. “Jesse said—and I quote—I ain’t no goddamn freak show to be paraded around and stared at.”
Tom almost smiled, the thought of someone not sucking up to the Council novel enough to amuse him. He also wondered, for the first time, just who this Argent was as a man, a person, rather than an improbable discovery.
“Matt backed Jesse,” Bryce continued. “Said if the Council wanted to meet Jesse, they could do it here, on his terms.”
“You agree with that?”
“Hell, yes.” Bryce’s eyes sharpened. “This might be a big deal for shifters, but it’s Jesse’s life. He doesn’t owe anyone anything just because of his bloodline.”
That caught Tom off guard. Not the opinion so much as the conviction behind it. There was no angle or spin. Just truth. It was the kind of thing Tom hadn’t heard in a long time.
He wrenched his mind back to work. “I hate to be intrusive—more than I’ve already been,” he added, as Bryce lifted an eyebrow quizzically. “But I need to inspect every room in the house, checking ingress and egress points.”
Bryce considered it for a long moment. Long enough that Tom wondered if he was going to refuse. He hoped Bryce didn’t. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t why Steadman had sent him on ahead, but he was supposed to be getting to know this pack, and this was as good an excuse as any to spend more time here.
“I won’t touch anything,” he added.
Unlike Jax, who’d undoubtedly toss the bedding in his search for assassins.
Bryce shrugged. “Don’t really see why not,” he said, but he stuck very close to Tom as he opened each door along the hallway in turn.