Chapter 3 - RAYLYNN

"Before you say anything—"

"Ivy."

"Just hear me out—"

"Ivy, I'm literally holding your underwear right now, can this wait thirty seconds?"

She is sitting on the edge of her bed watching me sort through the laundry bag I brought to the hospital, her legs crossed, her expression carrying the specific energy of someone who has made a decision and is now managing the rollout.

I haven't let her join me to do our house chores since she was discharged two days ago. Doctor said she has to take things easy so bed rest it is.

I didn't text Zephyr that night, and I haven't seen him since. But maybe it's better this way. I just have to keep reining in my desire, just as I did in his car. I can only hope I managed to keep a tight lid on it.

"I made a call," she says.

"What kind of call?"

"The helpful kind."

I pause with a pair of her jeans in my hands.

"Ivy?"

"You missed your interview because of me," she says. "I felt terrible about it. I still feel terrible about it. So I fixed it."

I set the jeans down slowly.

"What did you fix?"

"I got you an interview." She says it quickly, like speed will help. "At my dad's company. Blackwood Group. They have an active internship programme for architecture students and I called the HR line and—"

"Ivy—"

"Before you say no — before you say no — I did not use the backdoor. I didn't call him. I didn't ask anyone to do me a favour. I called the general HR line, gave them your name, and told them to pull your portfolio from their system because you'd submitted an application three months ago and hadn't heard back."

I stare at her. “No response is a response, Ivy.”

"No, it's a HR issue, and one that should be looked at because your portfolio is brilliant. So, I reached out to them to remind them,” she continues, "and they just — hadn't gotten to it yet. They called back, and scheduled the interview themselves. I didn't do anything except remind them you existed."

My stomach drops for two reasons simultaneously. The first is Zephyr. The second is Terry, who works in the structural development team at Blackwood Group. Everyone who follows his social media knows this.

And now Ivy has walked me directly into it… technically.

She's right that I applied. I apply everywhere, every firm, every programme within a forty-mile radius that takes fourth year students, because internship placements are competitive and my portfolio is good but my last name is Hale and that closes certain doors before I can knock on them. Which is why I didn't think it'd be an issue with Terry… until now.

"Say something," Ivy says.

"I'm thinking."

"You're panicking."

"I'm thinking." I pick up the jeans again and fold them with great precision. "It's a good firm."

"It's a great firm. The internship pays actual money, which is not something you can say about half the programmes in this region." She tilts her head. "What's the hesitation?"

The hesitation is six feet four inches tall with stormy grey eyes and a voice that does things to my nervous system that I cannot medically explain, and he runs the company. The idea of seeing him in a professional context while pretending I am a normal person who feels normal things is nerve wracking. Not to mention, my boyfriend works there.

"It's a big company," I say. "I just want to make sure I'm going in on my own merit."

"You are," she says firmly. "Your portfolio got you the interview. Your merit gets you the rest." She pauses. "You're the best architect I know."

"I'm the only architect you know."

"You're the best one." She says it simply, like it's fact. "Go to the interview, Raylynn."

I fold the jeans and place them on her pile. "What do you want for dinner?" 

She blinks. "What?"

"Dinner. I was thinking lasagna but if you want something else I can check what we have."

A pause.

"You're doing the thing where you change the subject when you've already decided," she says.

"I'm doing the thing where I'm hungry and it's nearly six." I pick up the next item from the bag. "Lasagna or not lasagna?"

She watches me for a moment.

"Lasagna," she says.

"Good." I don't look up. "Rest your ribs. I'll call you when it's ready."

She slides off the bed, pauses in the doorway.

"Raylynn."

"Mm?"

"Thank you. For the hospital. For staying. For—" She stops. "Just. Thank you."

I look up then. 

She is standing in the doorway with her bruised jaw and her careful eyes and the particular expression she gets when she means something so much she doesn't know how to carry it.

"Always," I say.

She nods once and disappears down the hall.

I turn back to the laundry.

I am going to the interview.

I am going to be professional and competent and completely normal and it is going to be absolutely fine.

What the fuck am I supposed to wear?

There are already seventeen ways this could go wrong. Seventeen ways, and Terry is twelve.

♣♣♣

A couple days later, I am sitting in the waiting room of Blackwood Group's main office in a vintage black silk shirt and white skirt.

The building is exactly the kind that I would design if someone handed me an unlimited budget and told me to make power look effortless — clean stone facade, double height glass entrance, the kind of interior that says we are serious people without having to raise its voice. The waiting area alone has better furniture than my entire apartment.

"Raylynn Hale?"

I stand up.

A beautiful lady appears in the doorway to the corridor, holding a tablet, her eyes scanning me with the quick efficiency of someone who has already formed an opinion and is now simply confirming it.

I recognise her as Elder Doran's wife, Felicity, as I follow her down the corridor and into a small and very white interview room.

She sits across from me with my file open on the desk between us.

"So," she says, without looking up. "Raylynn Hale."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Fourth year. Architecture." She turns a page. "Your grades are adequate."

"My grades are a distinction average," I say.

She looks up then with a thin smile that's probably saying I should shut up.

"Confident," she says. "That's interesting."

I hold her gaze and say nothing. She looks back down at the file.

"You submitted a portfolio." Another page turned. "Some of it is quite good."

"Thank you."

"Tell me about your mother."

I keep my face exactly where it is. "I'm sorry?"

"Your mother." She folds her hands on the desk. "Estelle Hale. Currently serving a life sentence in Blackridge Supernatural Facility." She tilts her head. "For the murder of your father."

"I'm aware of my mother's situation," I say carefully. "I'm not sure how it's relevant to an architecture internship."

"Character," she says simply. "We assess the whole person here. Not just the portfolio."

"Then assess me," I say. "I'm right here."

"I am." She studies me with the cool patience of someone who is enjoying this. "A mother who is a convicted murderer. A father whose name is — well." She makes a small sound that is not quite a laugh. "We all know what your father was. What his bloodline produced." She pauses. "Or didn't produce, in your case."

Rage tightens in my chest but I keep my voice level.

"I'd like to keep this conversation focused on my qualifications—"

"You have no wolf," she says, cutting across me cleanly. "A war-wolf's daughter with no wolf. Do you have any idea how that reads to this pack?" She leans back slightly. "War-wolf blood is rare. It's powerful. And in you it produced—" her eyes travel over me, "—nothing. A human girl with a criminal family and a portfolio."

The tightness in my chest has moved into my throat.

"My family history," I say, and I am very, very careful with every word, "is not a reflection of my ability to do the work. My portfolio speaks for itself. My grades speak for themselves. And the fact that you are sitting across from me bringing up my mother's imprisonment and my lack of a wolf in a professional interview setting says considerably more about your character than it does about mine."

Her eyes go flat.

"You would do well," she says softly, "to remember who you are speaking to. I am the wife of Elder Doran and a senior member of this pack's HR council, and you are a wolfless girl from a disgraced bloodline sitting in a chair that a dozen more suitable candidates would fill without complaint."

She closes my file. "I think we both know this interview is over."

I don't move.

"War-wolf blood." She shakes her head slowly, almost to herself. "What a waste.”

Her eyes travel over me with the slow deliberateness of someone making an inventory. "And look at you," she says, softly. "All that war-wolf legacy and what did it produce? A girl with no wolf, a mother in prison, and a body that belongs in a nightclub rather than a boardroom." She tilts her head. "We have a certain standard here. I'm sure you understand."

Some part of me wants to apologise for looking the way I do. To go quiet. To make myself smaller than I already am in this chair.

A newer part doesn't.

I open my mouth to speak but the voice from the doorway that sends shivers to my lady parts beats me to it.

"I didn't know this was how interviews are conducted nowadays."