Chapter 5 Dinner

Julius

I step out through the front door and stand on the porch for a moment before walking toward the car.

I needed a reason to get close enough to Patricia to manage the heat in the future. The ring solves it.

Next time, I won't have to stand in a corridor sniffing her laundry.

"Clever," Caesar concedes. "Still won't fix the real problem. Our mate is out there, Julius. Gloria—"

"Shut up."

He goes quiet. He always does, eventually.

I don't go home for the next few days. My office has a private suite, and I use it. The heat stays manageable. Guess the worst of the cycle has passed. I work. I sleep in four-hour increments and attend three cross-species negotiations without incident.

On Saturday morning, I clear the evening schedule. At noon, Patricia messages to say the lab has an emergency materials intake that afternoon and she will be late.

I tell Finn to adjust the departure time and message her: I'll pick you up from the institute.

Her reply comes back in under a minute. That works. Thank you.

Finn has already handled the gifts. I reviewed the selection briefly two days ago and approved it. He has an instinct for these things, knowing precisely what carries weight with a werewolf family without crossing into ostentation.

Patricia is waiting outside the institute's east entrance when we arrive. She has changed out of her lab clothes, but the day is still visible on her: a slight tension across her shoulders.

"Sorry," she says before she gets in.

"It's fine."

She smells faintly of chemical disinfectant and something underneath it that is entirely her own. I keep my eyes forward and say nothing.

The Greyson estate is smaller than Blackrock, but it has been lived in. The silver laurels along the stone path are trimmed with care. The territorial scent at the boundary is layered. I pull in my own Lycan presence the moment we cross the perimeter. There is nothing to prove here.

Marge Greyson is waiting at the door. This woman came into Warren's life through the hospital ward where she worked as a nurse, tending to him in the months after the accident that killed his first luna. Whatever she had been before that, she has spent the years since learning how to hold herself carefully in a house that was not originally built around her.

She is younger than I expected, her expression composed but not quite steady. When her eyes move to my throat, I notice the absence she is checking for. Then they drop to my hand, and something in her face shifts.

I carry the heaviest gift box up the steps myself. "Thank you for having us, Luna Greyson."

"Oh, please." She takes a breath and steadies. "Come in, come in."

Warren is in the sitting room, a territory operations report in hand. He sets it down when I enter. His Alpha presence is solid, and he has the discipline not to push it, which I respect. When we shake hands, his grip is firm and measured.

"Alpha Lycan Morrow. Good of you to make the trip."

"Of course."

We sit by the fireplace. Warren moves fast, skipping the pleasantries within two exchanges and landing on the Greyson family's current expansion plans. I respond in the minimal register that keeps conversation alive without yielding anything actionable. Warren is doing exactly what I would do in his position: taking stock of his investment.

I don't hold it against him. He has lost a daughter. He has to get something back. But my attention drifts toward the kitchen, where I can hear the low murmur of voices.

When Warren steps away to handle a call, I stand and move into the hallway.

The kitchen door is not fully closed. I stop just outside it and hide my odor.

"Is he good to you?" Marge's voice is barely above a murmur.

"He's fine, Mom." Patricia's answer is uninflected. "We're well-suited."

"You're not finding it difficult?"

"No. Really. Look, we even have matching rings."

We're well-suited.

Her voice carries no hesitation, no performance. It is simply flat, like...

"Like she's managing her mother. You know that," Caesar says dryly.

"I know."

"Your ring trick won't fix what's actually broken. If you'd just let me—"

Fanning away his voice, I turn and walk back to the sitting room.

Dinner is better than I expected. Marge has cooked silver deer braised until it falls apart, seasonal vegetables marinated in moonhoney wine, and a traditional werewolf broth. The atmosphere is warmer than the sitting room had been.

Warren raises the mark ceremony partway through the meal, leaning toward a large-scale event. I let him finish, then turn to Patricia. "What do you want?"

She pauses, spoon in hand. "I don't have a strong preference."

She doesn't care about the ceremony. This arrangement is a line item to her.

"We'll discuss the details separately," I tell Warren.

He doesn't press. He is too practiced for that.

I watch Patricia through the rest of the meal. Here, at this table, she laughs at something Marge says. She refills her father's glass without being asked. The careful composure she maintains at Blackrock is still present, but the edges are softer.

She is more fully herself in this house... I find I am cataloguing the difference before I can decide whether I want to.

Don't, I tell myself.

After dinner, Marge walks us to the door. Warren and I exchange a few brief words on the porch, then shake hands. Finn has already brought the car around.

I am halfway down the steps when I catch Patricia and Marge standing close, exchanging. I don't try to listen. But I see Marge's eyes go bright, and Patricia's hand cover hers, and then Marge turns away and composes herself before anyone else can see.

I wait at the bottom of the steps.

Patricia comes down a moment later and falls into step beside me.

"Tonight," she says, after a few steps. "Thank you for coming."

The sentence is measured. She has considered it before saying it.

"It was the right thing to do."

We don't speak again after that.

Patricia watches the city lights from the window. I work through a set of acquisition documents on my phone. Finn takes the long route to avoid the traffic in the lower district, and by the time we reach Blackrock, it is past ten.

Inside, Patricia moves toward the staircase. I follow at a distance, and it is only when we reach the upper landing that I notice she turns left instead of right.

The guest room.

She has been sleeping there. Nearly a month, and she has been in the guest room. I don't know why I didn't realize this before now, or why it registers so sharply now.

I reach out and close my hand around her wrist before she can walk another step.

She turns, startled. "What's wrong?"

Releasing her wrist, I tilt my head toward the other end of the hallway.

"We are mates," I say. "We're sleeping together."