Page 26

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.”