He shakes his head. "That's two questions. My turn." His eyes hold mine, unblinking. "Why are chimeras so important to you?"
The strange connection humming between us makes secrecy feel almost painful, like holding my breath underwater for too long. It’s like every cell in my body just want to tell the truth. So I do. "One killed my father when I was twelve," I say finally. "Distinctive double canines spaced exactly a half inch apart. I've been hunting it my whole life."
His expression softens. "And now you've found one?"
"Two actually, males working together," I confirm, studying his face for any reaction. "Which apparently defies everything we know about them. Our expert said they shouldn't be able to cooperate like that. That they are solitary."
"He's right," Fen says. "They're territorial to the point of violence against their own kind. Two males cooperating is... highly unlikely."
"I saw them communicating," I say, watching him closely.
Fen is quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "I believe you," he says finally. "But I cannot explain it for you, I’m sorry."
I search his face for any hint of deception, for the telltale signs I've learned to spot in years of interrogations. There are none. The disappointment hits harder than I expect. Another dead end when I thought I might finally have a breakthrough.
I nod, swallowing the urge to press him further. His golden eyes hold a genuine regret that tells me he's not withholding information out of malice or distrust. He simply doesn't have the answers I'm desperate for. The honesty in his voice only makes it worse somehow. If he were lying, I could hate him for it, could channel my frustration into anger. But believing him means accepting that my search continues with no new data.
"It was worth asking," I say, my voice carefully controlled despite the hollow feeling spreading through me.
"My turn," he says softly. "What would you do if I kissed you?"
The question hangs in the air between us, electric and dangerous. My breath catches in my throat, the familiar hum beneath my skin intensifying until it feels like every nerve ending is standing at attention.
"I don’t know," I answer, though the words feel wrong on my tongue, like a lie. I know if he kissed me right now, I’d crawl into his lap and kiss him back. Not happening. Can’t happen. "My turn."
His eyes track over my face with unnerving precision, the gold in them shifting like he's calibrating some internal detector. There's a knowing tilt to his head, perfectly timed with the exact moment my resolve wavers. Like a predator that's caught the scent of indecision on the wind. As if he can hear me arguing with myself inside my head. Which is impossible.
"How did you become what you are?"
He studies me for a moment, as if weighing how much to reveal. "I was born this way," he says finally. "You've heard of Norse mythology, yes? Asgard, Odin, Thor?" When I nod, he continues, "Those stories are based on reality, distorted over time. I come from Asgard, not the mythological realm from your storybooks, but a real planet connected to Earth through Yggdrasil."
Seeing my expression, he clarifies. "The World Tree I mentioned in Louisiana. It connects eight realms, including Earth. My people from Asgard all carry the soul of a wolf alongside our human form." His eyes watch me carefully, gauging my reaction. "It's why I can shift forms."
The revelation settles between us, heavy with implications. Multiple worlds. The Norse gods. All real. It should sound like madness, yet after everything I've seen at GUIDE the existence of other planets and mythologies feels strangely plausible.
"Your turn," he says softly.
His gaze returns to mine, and the intensity there steals my breath. "Why did you become a hunter of your own kind?"
His question slices through my defenses with surgical precision, the kind of clean tactical strike I'd admire professionally if it weren't aimed at the one vulnerability I've spent a career concealing. There's nowhere to retreat, no cover to seek.
I stare out at the warehouse, my fingers tightening around the thermos. I could deflect. Could give him the sanitized GUIDE recruitment speech I've memorized for official functions. Could tell him to mind his own business and end this dangerous game we're playing.
But something about sitting here in the darkness with him, about the way he looks at me like he's actually seeing me—not just Agent Mathieson, not just a GUIDE asset—makes the practiced lies stick in my throat. Maybe it's because he's offered me truths I didn't expect. Maybe it's because after years of lies and half-truths, I'm exhausted by the weight of them.
Or maybe I just want someone besides my mother to finally know.
"I swore I'd find the monster that killed my father," I say, my voice steadier than I expected. "GUIDE offered training, resources, access to information I couldn't get elsewhere." I look down at my hands, feeling strangely vulnerable. "I hide in plain sight. Hunt the monsters to find the one that matters."
When I look up again, his expression isn't what I expected. Not pity or judgment, but understanding. Deep, profound understanding that makes my chest ache.
"My turn," I say. "What are you really doing here? With me?"
He doesn't hesitate. "Finding you," he says simply. "You belong with me. Everything else is secondary."
The words seem to vibrate in the air between us, laden with meaning I can't fully grasp but can feel like electricity on my skin.
"Your turn," I whisper.
