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Then my brain comes back online, and I remember what else I wanted to share with him.

“Mallory,” I say tiredly.

“What?”

“Detective Mallory, the cop on your case. Cillian had his cases pulled. I’ve been through forty of them so far. And I found three where his report cites forensic evidence prior to the lab logging it in. Same as in your case. One day, two before. All three defendants had organized crime ties, and all three were a problem for the same people at the time they went down…” I wriggle around as far as the knot lets me so I can see his face. “One wrong date is a clerical error, baby.” I shake my head before continuing, “Four? That’s a pattern. Somebody’s been feeding Mallory the evidence before the lab results come back. And that is how we get a judge to…”

I stop because he’s staring at me. Hard.

Dec pushes a curl off my forehead. “Jesus Christ, woman.”

“What?”

“You’re fucking amazing.”

I hide my face in his neck and breathe him in, smoke and rain and sex...

* * *

When the ten-minute knock comes, Declan’s wolf comes up again. He breathes through it with his forehead on mine and my hand on his chest, and it passes.

My skirt’s a lost cause at the back seam, so I tie my suit jacket around my hips with the sleeves like I have no fucking sense of style. And my guy strips off his undershirt without being asked and tucks it in my bag.

“The last one wore out,” I say softly, sadly.

He cups my face. “I know, sweetheart. I could feel you not sleeping.”

I stop at the door, go up on my toes and rub my cheek along his jaw on both sides, then his throat, taking my time.

“What’s that for?” he asks, amused.

“I’ve got court again on Monday.” I pick up my briefcase. “I want every Alpha in that building to know exactly whose wife they’re holding the door for.”

Then I leave him standing there with a grin on his face I can feel all the way out to the parking lot.

Nine

Declan

Having my wife as my lawyer is the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to me.

Best, because twice a week, I get to sit in the visitation room and watch her work. She comes in behind Cillian, lays her files out in neat little rows, uncaps her pen, and turns into someone else. Sharp. Quick. She finishes Cillian’s sentences, corrects his citations, and once, she told him his argument was “fine, if we’re trying to lose.” I’d pay money to watch this shit.

Worst, because I’m cuffed to a table with a camera in the corner, and I can’t fucking touch her. All I get is her ankle, hooked around the back of my boot under the steel where no one can see. She does it every time. First thing, before she even opens a folder.

And I’d burn this building down for that ankle.

Mine, my wolf says, every time it happens. Mine.

Today she’s in dark green, with her hair up and a pencil behind her ear; she’s forgotten about. She’s got Mallory’s cases spread across the table, five flagged now.

“We still don’t know who, or how they knew what to feed him in your case.” She turns her big, dark eyes on me. “Had to be someone who knew where you were going to be.” She pauses. “How many people knew where you’d be that night, Declan?”

Silence.

“How many people, Alpha?”

“Zahra.”