Page 71

Chapter 26 - Sloane

She woke early, and he was already gone.

His coffee mug sat rinsed in the dish rack. His boots were missing from the mat by the door. The quarters held the ghost of him, cedar and soap, a warmth that had settled into the cushion of the chair where he read at night.

Sloane stood in the kitchen with her hands flat on the counter. The bond hummed low in her sternum, steady, pointed east. He was out there. Patrol, maybe. Walking the boundary line he’d been walking every morning since the wards were recalibrated.

He hadn’t come to her door last night.

She’d lain on her side for hours, waiting for the knock that didn’t come. The corridor had stayed silent. His breathing through the wall had been even, controlled, the rhythm of someone who was awake and choosing to be still about it. She knew because she’d been listening, cataloging each shift of his weight on the mattress, her wolf tracking his proximity with an attention she couldn’t override.

He’d let her go. Again.

She poured coffee. His, the pot he’d made before dawn, still warm. She drank it standing, facing the window, watching the tree line lighten from black to grey to the soft green of early morning.

The coffee was terrible.

She drank all of it.

She trained for an hour. The heavy bag took everything she gave it without comment, which was the appeal. She worked until her shoulders burned, until the wraps were damp through, until the space behind her ribs stopped vibrating with the memory of his hands slowing when anyone else would have rushed.

She showered. Dressed. Went to the dining hall because skipping meals drew attention she couldn’t afford.

The hall was half full. She filled a plate, sat at her usual table in the back corner, kept her eyes down. The murmur of the room washed over her in waves. Voices, laughter, the scrape of cutlery. Normal sounds for normal people who hadn’t spent the last twelve hours memorizing the shape of their own silence.

“Mind if I sit?”

Sloane looked up.

Olivia stood across the table with a bowl of porridge in one hand and a stack of folders tucked under her arm. Her dark hair was pulled back. She wore a blue shirt with the sleeves pushed to her elbows, ink on her left index finger.

Sloane glanced at the empty hall behind her. Plenty of open seats. Closer ones. Better ones.

“It’s a free country.”

Olivia sat. She set the folders beside her bowl, pulled a spoon from her pocket, and started eating with the unhurried focus of someone who’d learned to take meals when they came. She didn’t speak. She didn’t look at Sloane with the careful, loaded expression people wore when they were working up to a conversation.

She just ate.

Sloane picked at her bread. The silence between them should have been uncomfortable. It wasn’t. Olivia’s attention was on her porridge, on the folder she’d opened one-handed, on the notes she was scanning between bites. She occupied the space the way she occupied briefing rooms: completely, without apology, without requiring anyone else to adjust.

“You’re reading ward reports at breakfast,” Sloane said, her brows raised.

“I’m reading constitutional amendments at breakfast. The ward reports were yesterday.” Olivia turned a page. “Caitlynn wants the consent clause restructured before next month’s council session. I want it restructured before lunch.”

“Who’s winning?”

“I am. I’m always winning. She just hasn’t noticed yet.”

Sloane’s mouth pulled. She caught it, pressed her lips together, and looked back at her plate.

Olivia closed the folder. Set her spoon down. When Sloane glanced up, Olivia was looking at her.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” Olivia said.

“Charming.”

“I’m not trying to be charming. I’m telling you what I see.”