Chapter 6
MIA
Ishould have told them. Ten days ago. And every day since.
But especially ten minutes ago when they all wondered if Ramsey had tried recruiting anyone else.
I should have come clean then. Told them about the way he sent a message using an old contact only a handful of us knew about back when we were stupid enough to think we could change this city from inside the rot.
He didn’t threaten me. Didn’t beg. Just offered me a place at his side like that wasn’t the most insulting thing anyone had ever put in writing.
But telling them meant admitting Ramsey still thought he knew me well enough to tempt me.
It meant they might, even for a second, entertain that I could say yes.
Not because they’d question my loyalty but because we were all questioning everything after Ramsey’s betrayal.
And I hated that for us more than I hated the offer itself.
So, I burned the note, buried the guilt, and told myself it didn’t matter because my answer was never going to change.
The meeting breaks with an air of controlled chaos and muted rage.
Chairs scrape. Tablets close. Curses are muttered—all of them aimed at Ramsey and involve giving him what he deserves.
Donahue and Camila talk in low voices with their heads together as they leave for patrols.
Dutch follows Andy into the hall, already asking her what she’s doing for lunch.
Crow’s breakfast sandwiches are long gone, and I suspect that’s mostly because Razor stuffed the last two into his pockets on his way out.
I hang back, gathering my notes, and drift toward the window under the pretense of checking the patrol grid on my tablet.
Really, I’m looking for Echo.
It doesn’t take long for me to spot him.
He’s in the topiary near the east garden wall, perched on top of what used to be a very dignified hedge sculpture of a wolf—Franco’s, obviously—and is now a slightly lopsided wolf with a raccoon perched between its ears like a furry cap.
I glance around to see if anyone else has noticed, but so far, it seems the coast is clear.
Elena is going to find him eventually, and when she does, I plan to know absolutely nothing about it.
This morning, when I’d parked and opened the car door, he’d taken one look at the grounds, assessed them with the critical eye of a general surveying a new theater of operations, and launched himself across the lawn before I could say a word about who to hide from or how bad it will be if he’s caught.
Which is how Echo has always operated. On his own terms. In his own time.
I relate to this more than I’d like to admit, which is probably why I’ve always felt an affinity for the little monster. But if he puts me in Elena’s crosshairs, I’m going to wring his neck.
Movement behind me catches my eye in the window’s reflection, and my breath catches when I see Nash slowly retreating from the room.
He straightens to his full height, and I find my gaze traveling the length of him, appreciating his broad shoulders and thick biceps.
Even through the suit, his toned body is evident. Something stirs in my lower stomach.
Hunger. Attraction.
He turns. Through the glass reflection, our eyes meet.
Busted.
My cheeks flush, and I look away, but not before darting one more glance back at his reflection just in time to see his toned ass saunter out.
Then, I go back to watching Echo and will my breath to even out. I’m watching my prodigal raccoon steal what appears to be a decorative stone from the base of the topiary when Dutch materializes at my elbow with the stealth of a large, extremely nosy golden retriever.
“Mia.”
“Dutch.”
“I texted you this morning.”
That’s an understatement. I turn and gather my things. “I saw.”
“You didn't answer.”
“I was busy.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the door. Dutch stays close on my heels.
“You’re always busy. You answered my texts during a car chase once.”
That’s unfortunately true. “I wasn’t that busy if I was just riding in a car, Dutch.”
“You were driving.”
Refusing to dignify that with a response, I turn down the east corridor.
He follows without breaking stride.
Ugh.
“So,” he says with the energy of a man settling in for a long and enjoyable conversation, “Nash Cross.”
My stomach does a little flip at the sound of his full name. I refuse to acknowledge it.
“What about him?” I ask.
“Interesting guy.”
“Is he?”
I can feel Dutch’s eyes boring into me like lasers. “Very—” Dutch appears to search for the word “— tailored.”
“He runs an elite institution and built one of the richest empires the packs have ever seen. He dresses accordingly.”
“He asked me what you do for fun.”
“I heard.”
“What did you want me to say? Because I went with ‘She doesn’t have fun, fun has her,’ and then I felt like that wasn't quite right either—”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“He asked for your number, Mia.”
“I’m aware.”
“I hardly think a perfect stranger would have asked me that.”
“He’s not a stranger.”
“So, you do know him.”
I stop walking. Turn to face him. Dutch is wearing his most innocent expression, which is the least innocent expression I’ve ever seen on a human face.
“He’s an alpha,” I say evenly. “We've crossed paths in a professional capacity before. He’s here now because Grey asked him to be here. That’s the entire story.”
Dutch looks at me for a long moment. “Crossed paths,” he repeats.
“Professionally.”
“Right.” He nods slowly. “So, the way he looked at you during the meeting just now—”
“Was professional.”
His eyes are bright with the specific delight of someone who has found a loose thread and is pulling as hard as he can. “Mia. I've seen men look at their fated mates with less thirst.”
Fated mates. I pretend those two words don’t make my stomach turn to lead.
“Goodbye, Dutch.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Goodbye.”
He holds up both hands in surrender, backing away down the corridor with a grin that tells me this conversation is absolutely not over, just temporarily tabled. “I’m here when you want to talk about it,” he calls.
“That will never happen,” I call back.
“I’ll be here anyway.”
Now, it’s just a threat.
I turn the corner before I can see whatever face he makes next and keep walking until the sound of his breathy chuckle fades. Then I stop, exhale once, and roll my shoulders back.
Crossed paths professionally.
Solid. Airtight. Completely believable.
I take my Null from my jacket pocket and then realize I already took it this morning and put it back.
That’s twice I've reached for it in the last hour. I normally don’t even carry it with me, but these days I can never be sure if I’ll make it home for bed or end up sleeping here.
Or worse. In the woods on a patrol somewhere. Better to be safe than sorry.
I put it back and go find Donahue and Camila to go over the revised barracks assignments and patrol schedules. Nash Cross can wait.
An hour later, the new patrol teams are sorted, and I am officially out of excuses to stay away from our newest ally. Andy finds me in the hall and tells me, “Mr. Cross is waiting for you in the conference room whenever you’re free.”
“Thanks,” I say, forcing a smile.
Mr. Cross?
It sounds so proper. And there’s nothing proper about that man. I’ve seen every inch of him, and it’s all deliciously improper.
But the conference room is empty when I arrive.
I take a second to steady myself in the quiet.
The map overlays are still spread across the table, marked up from the morning session in three different colors of dry-erase: Donahue’s blue, Camila’s red, and Nash’s black; a color coding that was Nash’s idea, which is precise and economical in a way that is frankly irritating because it means he thinks like I do, and I didn’t want to know that.
I pull up the patrol list on my tablet and get to work assessing how in the world we’ll cover so much ground now that our search area has expanded with these new camp discoveries.
I’m twenty minutes in, three routes restructured for next week’s schedule, when the door opens.
“You decided to join me at last. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”
I don't look up even though my heart starts galloping. “I’m not the one late to the meeting.”
“No, that was earlier this morning.”
I glance up with a scowl, only to find his eyes gleaming. Like he’s smiling but only on the inside. Ugh.
I go back to my work.
He comes around the table to my side, not close enough to crowd, not far enough that our attraction is deniable, and looks at the overlays. “You’ve already adjusted the northern grid.”
“It had two blind spots.”
“I know. I flagged them this morning.”
“I know. I’d already found them last night.” I tap the tablet. “I'm cross-referencing your perimeter sweep data with our internal patrol logs. We have a two-hour gap on the northeast corridor every third rotation.”
He leans in slightly to see the tablet. Close enough that I catch the faint trace of pine and snow that apparently follows him everywhere. His wolf, pressing at the edges.
Or mine, reaching toward his.
Ugh.
I refocus on the screen.
“Close it with a Crossvale pair,” he says. “But split and pair them with two of yours. Keeps the gap covered and starts building trust between the packs.”
“I was going to suggest the same thing.”
“I know.”
I look up at that. He’s watching the map, expression completely unreadable. I hate that I want to read it.
“Marcus,” I say. “Your second. Has he worked joint operations before?”
“Extensively. He’s better in the field than anyone I have. He just prefers not to talk about it.”
For some reason, that makes me think of Crow.
“He and Donahue should coordinate directly. Cut out the chain of command for the field decisions. Faster and more efficient that way.”