"It could be dangerous," Fen says. "Whatever draws hellhounds is not to be taken lightly, Astrid."
"I can handle myself." I meet his gaze directly, chin tilted in defiance. "As you well know."
Something like appreciation flashes in his eyes. "Yes, you can." He steps closer, the electrical sensation between us intensifying again until it's almost visible, like heat waves rising from summer asphalt.
I catch myself before I lean close enough to touch him, though every cell in my body seems to be straining toward him, as if we're two halves of a broken whole seeking reunification.
"But you don't have to handle it alone."
"Are you offering to help?" I ask, skepticism clear in my voice. "A wolf-shifter helping a GUIDE agent?"
"I'm offering to help you, Astrid." The distinction hangs between us, significant in ways I'm so not ready to examine. "There's a difference."
Before I can respond, he reaches out, his fingers barely grazing my cheek—the lightest touch, but it sends warm sparks cascading through my system like a live wire touching water. My skin tingles where his fingers were, the sensation lingering like an echo.
"I'll be watching," he says softly.
"Is that supposed to be comforting or creepy?" I manage, despite the electricity still dancing beneath my skin where he touched me.
His laugh is low and warm, washing over me like velvet. "Both? Neither? You decide."
Then he's gone, melting into the morning fog, leaving me alone with the echo of his touch on my skin and a thousand questions spinning in my mind.
By the time Sutter and Mendez reach my position, I've composed myself. Outwardly, at least. Inside, I'm a riot of conflicting emotions. Duty warring with desire. Training battling instinct.
"Ma'am, what happened?" Sutter asks, frustration clear in his voice. "We almost had one cornered."
"No, you didn't," I correct him. "What we're dealing with isn't what we thought."
"They weren't really dogs, were they?" Mendez has always been the sharper of the two, her dark eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"Not exactly. And not our primary concern anymore." I begin packing up my surveillance equipment, movements precise and efficient despite the lingering buzz under my skin. "I believe there's something else happening at this complex that requires further investigation."
"Like what?" Sutter looks skeptical, his face still flushed with exertion and frustration.
"I'm not sure yet," I admit. "But I intend to find out. Let's head back. I need to speak with Director Hayes."
As we leave the warehouse complex, I feel eyes on me—not hostile, but watchful. Protective, even. I don't turn around. I don't need to.
I know he's there, just as I know the hellhounds are there, too. Both hunting in their own way, both inevitable.
And for the first time in years, I'm not sure which side of the hunt I'm truly on anymore. The line between hunter and hunted, between duty and desire, blurs a little more each time he appears in my life.
Hayes looks up from his desk as I enter his office, his expression carefully neutral. "Agent Mathieson. I trust the mission was productive?"
"Informative," I reply, standing at parade rest before his desk. The fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows across his face, highlighting the lines of strain that have deepened since Rome.
His eyebrow raises slightly. "Explain."
"The canines reported at the Ellison Holdings complex exhibit behavior consistent with non-standard entities," I say, choosing my words carefully. "Their movement patterns, ability to seemingly phase through solid objects, and selective visibility suggest they're not ordinary animals."
I deliberately avoid using the term "hellhounds" that Fen used. GUIDE has its own clinical taxonomy for magickal entities, and dropping supernatural folklore terms in an official report would only raise questions about where I got my information. "Non-standard entities" is the kind of sanitized bureaucratic language Hayes expects—specific enough to justify further investigation but vague enough not to reveal my source.
"And your rookies?" Hayes asks, moving on.
"Performed as expected given their experience level," I answer diplomatically. No need to throw them under the bus when they were chasing creatures they had no hope of seeing clearly, let alone capturing.
Hayes leans back in his chair, studying me. "You're suggesting these are magickal dogs."
