My hand, of its own volition, comes up and smooths the knot of my tie.
I don’t even register doing it until I feel the fabric under my fingers. I look down. Today it is a soft green, the color of new leaves in early spring. I picked it out this morning with the same dishonest care I have been using to pick ties out of my closet for six straight days. Every morning, I put on some version of the same lie: that I am a grown man who can wear whatever colors he pleases, that I am simply branching out, that it does not mean anything. None of it is true.
My wolf makes a sound inside me that is somewhere between a growl and a whimper.
I drop my hand.
“Okay,” I hear her say through the window, voice lifting slightly. “I want to take a break and stretch my legs. Let’s reconvene in an hour.”
I stand up without meaning to.
The gardensat the back of the estate are the one part of the grounds my mother loved. My father kept them for her after she died, and I have kept them for him since he followed her. They run long and green from the west wing down to the tree line, lowstone walls dividing the herb beds from the lawn, a single old oak standing sentry in the middle like a green cathedral.
I watch from my office window as Sienna steps out into the courtyard below.
Her dark hair is up in a loose twist. She’s wearing a cream blazer, charcoal trousers that fit her too well, and low heels that she kicks off the moment her feet hit the grass. She carries them dangling from two fingers like a girl sneaking out of a boring party.
Something in my chest does a slow, stupid roll.
She walks toward the oak tree, head tilted back to catch the sun. Her shoulders drop an inch as she breathes out, and it occurs to me that she has not had a single waking moment to herself since Lydia set up her office. She is always working, always on. The version of Sienna I’m watching now, barefoot and squinting at the light with the professional armor falling off her in pieces, is the one I am not supposed to see.
She reaches the tree and flops down against the trunk as if she has done it a thousand times. Knees up. Head back. Then, she digs into the pocket of her blazer and pulls out a sandwich wrapped in wax paper.
I frown. A sandwich. Stuffed into a pocket for lunchtime, like a kid at school.
I know, without having to ask anyone, that she didn’t eat breakfast today. I was in the dining room at seven. She didn’t come down. I would have seen her. I would have felt her. There was more coffee in the pot than usual when I left, and Lydia said something about Miss Carter being an early riser who has decided to work through breakfast from now on.
She skips other meals, too—lunch one day, dinner the next. I noticed it this past week and told myself to stop noticing. It is not my business what and when the strategic advisor of another pack eats.
My wolf disagrees. My wolf has very firm opinions about whether my mate eats her breakfast.
I am out my office door before I can talk myself out of it. Halfway down the back staircase, I see Lydia crossing the path below at an oblique angle, a tablet in her hand.
She sees me before I can change course, and her face lifts into a warm smile. “Lucas.”
“Lydia.” I slow down, but I don’t stop. I keep my voice low, casual, as if what I am about to say is a passing thought. “A word.”
She falls into step beside me at an inobtrusive distance. The oak tree is far enough across the lawn that Sienna will not see or hear us.
“Miss Carter is skipping meals,” I say.
Lydia’s stylus pauses over her tablet. “I’ve noticed the same thing,” she says carefully. “She’s been very focused on the—”
“Make sure food is sent up to her office. Every day. If she doesn’t come down to the dining room at meal times, the kitchen should have a tray on her desk within fifteen minutes. Breakfast, lunch, whatever she’s missed. I don’t care if she waves them off. I want the food in front of her.”
Lydia stops walking. I look back at her, and for a split second, the mask slips. I see the question on her face before she has the discipline to bury it. Concern, maybe. Caution. A sharp edge underneath it, whatever it is. The mask returns quickly, and she is the household coordinator again: composed, attentive, professional.
“Of course.” She waits a beat before asking, “Is everything alright?”
I hear the question underneath the question. A week of seeing me wear colorful ties—along with every careful, measured thing she has not said aloud since the library—sits in the air between us.
I lie.
“Miss Carter is the liaison for the merger,” I say, my voice flat. “She’s doing work that matters to this pack, and she’s doing it well. I’m not having our guest faint at a meeting because our household didn’t feed her. That would reflect poorly on me. Make sure the food gets delivered.”
Lydia watches my face for one second too long. “Absolutely. I’ll see to it right away.”
She makes a note on her tablet and moves off toward the house. I stand there on the path for a minute or two with the breeze in my hair, telling myself I have not done anything wrong.
