Page 78 of Claimed By The Tracker

He crossed the lobby and held out a hand.

"Ms. Arden. Gideon Cross, Pack Guard Agency."

Even voice.

Controlled.

A man who'd spent years sanding the tells out of himself in rooms that punished tells.

I recognized the work because I'd done the same thing to myself for decades.

I took his hand.

His fingers closed around mine.

His jaw tightened.

There and gone.

A fraction I almost missed.

His eyes shifted, something going very still behind them, like a man bracing a door shut from the inside.

His hand was warmer than mine.

Mine had run cold for years, keeping her quiet.

The contact lasted three seconds.

Four.

When he let go, the warmth stayed pressed into my palm like a thumbprint.

I was still aware of it four minutes later, when I had no business being aware of anything but the brief.

He handed me his credentials without ceremony.

Pack Guard intelligence division.

Assigned to my security for the Veil Summit.

One operative—because a team made protection visible, and visible protection told everyone there was something worth protecting.

"You know what I actually do here?" I asked. "Before we get to the cover story."

"Independent negotiator, Arden bloc."

Flat delivery.

Like he was reading a report rather than guessing.

"Charter disputes. Trade corridor rights. Mediation between packs that won't sit in a room together without someone neutral running it. Nine agreements closed in three years—four after Council mediators had already walked away."

"Then you know why my father hates that I'm good at it."

"I know why the wrong people love it."

His eyes didn't leave mine.