Chapter 3: Is He Telling the Truth?

I smelled him before I heard the knock.

Rain and pine and that underneath thing my wolf recognised before my mind did. The sign on the door said Closed. The clock said four forty-seven in the morning.

I looked at the door for a long moment. Then I went and unlocked it.

Not because I wanted to. Because I had spent the night turning the same thought over — a man who watched my shop for seven hours and said nothing threatening had not done so because he did not know how. He had done it because he was choosing his approach. Carefully.

The careful ones always wanted something specific.

* * *

He came in and stood on the customer side of the worktable, which I appreciated because at least it kept something solid between us.

My name is Caelan Voss, he said. I am the Lycan King.

I had picked up the morning order sheet when he walked in and I did not put it down. I looked at him over the top of it.

Alright, I said.

You carry werewolf blood. You already know this. My trackers have been searching for you for eight months. You are my fated mate — recognised by the Moon Goddess, confirmed by bond markers. You were born into a pack that failed to identify you correctly, and you have been living unprotected in human territory for five years.

He delivered all of it the way a general delivers a briefing. Precise. Not cruel, but not gentle. Just factual.

I listened to all of it. Then I squared the order sheet with the edge of the worktable and said: I would like you to leave now.

* * *

He did not leave.

Aria, he said.

My name in his mouth landed differently than I expected. Not like a command. More like recognition — like he had been saying it privately for a long time and was only now saying it out loud.

You do not know me, I said. You know my name and my address and apparently my blood, and you have decided what I am based on information gathered by other people about someone you have never spoken to. A mate bond does not change that. A title does not change that.

I kept my voice quiet. Almost pleasant.

The last person who told me what I was stood in front of my entire pack and called me defective. He was my father. So I have some experience with powerful men informing me of my nature, and I have found, consistently, that they are doing it for their benefit and not mine.

Something shifted in his expression — slower than yesterday, like a weight settling.

I am not here to tell you what you are, he said. I am here because what you are has put you in danger. Whether you accept the bond or not.

* * *

Tell me about the rival pack, I said.

The Ashvale Pack has known about you for three weeks. They have scouts in this city. Their Alpha wants leverage against the Lycan throne — and an unbound mate is exactly that.

If you accepted the bond, you would be under the protection of every pack and law in our world. Without it—

Without it I am a woman who sells flowers and has managed fine for five years, I said. I understand the threat.

I turned and filled two mugs from the morning pot and set one on his side of the worktable.

He looked at the mug. Then at me.

You are offering me coffee, he said.

It would be rude not to. I picked up my own mug. I was raised with manners, whatever else I was raised with. Drink it or do not.

He picked it up. Drank. Set it back down.

I will leave if you ask me to, he said. I will not compel you. But the Ashvale scouts are real. And I would like to help.

I appreciate the information, I said. I would like you to leave now.

* * *

He left. He drained the mug first, set it back with quiet precision, and walked to the door.

If I am in as much danger as you say, I said, why are you not posting guards?

He stopped. Turned just enough to look at me over his shoulder.

Because you told me to leave, he said.

I stared at him.

That is a terrible reason, I said.

Yes, he said. It is.

And then — fast enough that I almost missed it — something moved at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. The shape of one, briefly, like a door opened an inch and closed again.

He walked out. The door swung shut behind him.

I stood there holding my mug, staring at the space where he had been.

The problem was not that he was lying.

The problem was that I was almost certain he was not.