Chapter 7 Maeve
MAEVE
The delivery truck pulled up at two-forty-five, fifteen minutes early.
Maeve stood in the Silver Fang's back lot, arms crossed against the cold, watching the driver climb down from the cab. She knew this routine by heart. Check the manifest, inspect the seals, sign off on everything before it came inside. Simple. Efficient.
Until Dante Deleuve materialized from around the corner like some kind of golden-haired plague.
"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered.
He wore the same dark jacket from yesterday, jeans that fit too well, and an expression that said he knew exactly how unwelcome he was. His breath misted in the cold air as he approached, hands shoved in his pockets like he had every right to be there.
"Afternoon, Cub."
"Don't call me that." She turned to the driver, forcing a smile. "Hey, Cash. Everything look good?"
"All sealed and accounted for." The grizzled bear shifter handed her the manifest. "Twenty cases of whiskey, ten vodka, five gin. Premium stuff."
"Perfect." Maeve scanned the paperwork, checking dates and numbers. Everything matched. "Let's get it unloaded."
"I'll help." Dante moved toward the truck bed.
"No, you won't." Maeve blocked his path. "This is my delivery. My business. You can leave now."
"Can't do that."
"Why not?"
"Council business." He stepped around her, infuriatingly graceful for someone his size. "Varric wants me keeping an eye on shipments. Making sure nothing goes wrong."
"Nothing's going to go wrong."
"That's what you said about the last three deliveries." He grabbed a crate from Cash, muscles flexing under his jacket as he lifted. "Right before they got damaged."
Maeve's lioness snarled. "Those were accidents."
He carried the crate toward the storage shed, not even breathing hard. "Funny how accidents keep happening to your inventory."
"Funny how you keep showing up where you're not wanted."
"I've been told I have that talent." He set the crate down, turning to face her. "Among others."
Cash coughed, badly hiding a laugh. "Should I, uh, come back later?"
"No." Maeve grabbed a crate herself, proving she didn't need some arrogant lion's help. "Ignore him. He's leaving."
"I'm really not."
"Yes, you are."
"Make me, Cub."
She set the crate down with more force than necessary. "Call me that one more time and I'll show you exactly how much of a cub I'm not."
His mouth curved. Not quite a smirk. Something darker. "Promise?"
Heat flooded her cheeks. Her lioness awakened, gold bleeding into her vision. Around them, the air crackled with the kind of tension that made smart shifters back away slowly.
Cash cleared his throat. "I'll just, uh, finish unloading."
He disappeared into the truck, leaving Maeve and Dante staring at each other across ten feet of snow-covered pavement.
"You need to leave," she said quietly. "Before I do something we'll both regret."
"Like what?" He stepped closer. "Throw me out again? That worked so well last time."
"I could try harder."
"You could try." Another step. "But we both know how that ends."
With her wanting to claw him or kiss him or possibly both at once. With her walls cracking and her lioness purring and everything she'd built to protect herself crumbling under the weight of amber eyes and that insufferable confidence.
She held her ground. "What are you really doing here, Dante?"
"My job."
"Which is what? Babysitting me?"
"Protecting you." The words came out rougher than she expected. "Whether you appreciate it or not."
"I don't need protecting."
"Maybe not." He studied her face, something shifting behind his eyes. "But your shipments do. Someone's targeting the Silver Fang, Maeve. Someone with resources and knowledge of your routines. These aren't random accidents."
The words settled into her bones like ice. "You think someone's sabotaging me deliberately?"
"I know they are." He pulled out his phone, showing her photos. Claw marks. Barrel seals. Evidence she hadn't wanted to see. "Varric asked me to investigate quietly. Figure out who's behind it before they escalate."
Maeve studied the photos, her mind racing. The damaged crates. The poisoned barrels. The pattern she'd been trying to ignore because admitting it meant admitting someone wanted to destroy what she'd built.
"Why didn't Varric tell me?"
"Because he knows you." Dante pocketed his phone. "Knows you'd go hunting on your own. Start a fight that could turn into a war."
"Damn right I would."
"Which is why I'm here." He moved toward the truck, grabbing another crate. "To handle it quietly. Find proof. Stop whoever's doing this before you have to get your claws dirty."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him she could handle her own problems. But the evidence was right there in those photos, undeniable and damning.
Someone was coming after the Silver Fang.
Coming after her.
"Fine," she said. "You can help with the delivery. But that's it. You're not camping out in my storage shed."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"And you're not interrogating my regulars."
"Only the suspicious ones."
"Dante—"
"Relax, Cub." He flashed her that grin, the one that made her want to hit him and pull him closer all at once. "I'm a professional. I know how to be discrete."
"There's nothing discrete about you."
"You say the sweetest things."
Breck appeared in the tavern's back door, coffee cup in hand. "You two done flirting? Some of us are trying to enjoy our afternoon."
"We're not flirting," Maeve snapped.
"Could've fooled me." Breck sipped his coffee, grinning. "Looked an awful lot like flirting from here."
"Get back inside before I ban you."
"Yes ma'am." He retreated, laughing.
Maeve grabbed another crate, carrying it toward the shed. Behind her, she heard Dante talking to Cash, asking casual questions about the delivery route and timing. Smooth. Professional. Like he'd done this a thousand times.
Maybe he had.
They worked in tense silence for the next twenty minutes, moving cases from truck to storage.
Maeve kept her distance, hyperaware of every time Dante came close.
The way he moved with predator grace, muscles shifting under his jacket.
The way he smelled like pine smoke and cold winter and something that made her lioness purr.
She hated it.
Hated how her body responded to his proximity. Hated that after ten years, he could still make her feel like the young lioness who'd watched him choose duty over everything else.
Over her.
Cash finished unloading and left with a wave, promising next week's delivery would be on time. The truck rumbled away, leaving Maeve and Dante alone in the back lot with twenty cases of liquor and enough tension to ignite the snow.
"Last one," Dante said, hefting a keg.
"I've got it." She reached for the other handle.
Their hands collided with aggression and shock hit her like lightning, sharp and bright and electric. Magic sparked where their skin touched, gold and amber light flaring between them. Her lioness roared, recognizing something.
Dante went still, his eyes bleeding to full lion gold. "Maeve—"
She jerked back, breaking contact. The light died but the heat remained, burning under her skin like fever.
"Don't," she whispered. "Don't say it."
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"Liar."
His mouth curved, but there was no humor in it. "Yeah. Maybe."
They stood there in the snow, three feet apart and a decade of hurt between them, while her hand still tingled from where his skin had touched hers.
While her lioness paced and snarled and wanted.
While the Veil hummed overhead, pleased with itself.
"The keg," Maeve managed.
"Right." Dante grabbed the handle she'd released, lifting like it weighed nothing. "Storage shed?"
"Yeah."
She followed him inside, watching him set the keg with the others. Watching the way firelight from the tavern caught in his golden hair. Watching him turn to face her with those amber eyes that saw too much.
"This changes nothing," she said.
"Didn't think it would."
"Good."
"Good."
They stared at each other, the air thick with unspoken things. Then Dante moved past her, close enough that she caught his scent again, and headed back toward the tavern.
"See you around, Cub."
Maeve stood in the storage shed, hand still tingling, lioness still prowling.
And cursed the Veil for having a sense of humor.