Chapter 5 She Is Lying And I Know It

MIRA POV

"You look terrible."

That was Dani, at the front desk, not even looking up when I walked in. She had a pen behind her ear and a stack of intake forms in front of her and the particular expression of someone who had already been at work for an hour and had feelings about it.

"Thank you," I said.

"Did you sleep?"

"Some."

She looked up at me properly then. Did the quick scan that people who knew you well did, top to bottom, checking. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not even a little bit."

"Fair enough." She went back to her forms. "There's fresh coffee in the back. Actual coffee, not the powder. And someone's been in the side corridor for about ten minutes. I was going to say something but he's not doing anything, just standing there." She paused. "Tall. Dark jacket. Very tall."

I stopped walking.

"Did he say anything?"

"No. He's just standing. Should I call someone?"

"No," I said. "It's fine. I'll handle it."

She watched me change direction toward the side entrance with an expression that had a lot of questions in it. She kept them all to herself. I really did appreciate that about her.

He was exactly where she'd said. The side corridor was narrow, one of those in-between spaces that old buildings always had, with a noticeboard on one wall covered in outdated memos and a row of coat hooks on the other and a window at the far end that looked out onto the car park. Fluorescent light overhead, one of them slightly off, flickering every few seconds in a way that had been happening for two weeks and nobody had fixed. He was standing with his back to me, facing the window, two coffees in his hands.

I stood in the doorway and looked at the back of him and took a breath.

He turned around before I said anything. Of course he did.

"I wasn't sure what time you came in," he said, like this was a completely normal thing to be doing at eight-fifteen in the morning.

"How did you know I'd use this entrance?"

"I didn't. I tried the front first."

He'd walked around the building. Looking for me. With two coffees. I did not know what to do with that information so I filed it somewhere I could deal with later and kept my face even.

He held one out. "I wanted to ask you a few more things."

I looked at the cup. Paper cup from the place on Garner Street, the good one. I took it and lifted it to my mouth before I could think about it too hard and immediately knew.

Black. No sugar.

I took the sip and swallowed it and kept my face the way I needed it to be. Still. Open. Nothing behind it.

He used to know how I took it. Oat milk, one sugar, he'd made it for me so many times he didn't even ask anymore, he just made it. And now he was standing here with a coffee that was wrong in every way that mattered and he had no idea it was wrong and that was somehow the thing that got me, more than the meeting yesterday, more than his hand on my wrist. This small wrong thing. This ordinary missing piece.

I drank it anyway.

The thing about carrying someone's memories was that you also carried the small stuff. Not just the big moments. The ordinary things. The way they took their coffee. The side of the bed they slept on. The specific sound they made when they were reading something that surprised them. Five years of small things living inside me and now he was standing three feet away getting the small things wrong and I had to just stand there and let it happen.

"What did you want to ask?" I said.

"Your previous pack. Northmere. Why did you leave?"

"Opportunity. There was a position open here. Better role."

"You left a full pack to take a healer's assistant position somewhere else."

"Yes."

"People don't usually do that."

"Maybe I'm not a usual person."

Something crossed his face. Quick. Gone before I could catch it properly. He looked down at his cup for a beat and then back at me and when he looked back it was just the steady attention again. Even. Careful.

"Is there anything about your time here that should have been logged and wasn't?" he asked. "Anything that slipped through while I was gone."

"No."

"Nothing you think I should know about."

"Nothing."

He nodded. Slow. The flickering light above us did its thing, off and on, off and on. Somewhere in the main centre a door opened and then closed and then the corridor was quiet again except for the sound of water still dripping off the roof outside from last night's rain.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

My stomach went tight. "Sure."

"And I want an actual answer. Not a polite one."

I waited.

He took one step toward me. Not aggressive. Not crowding. Just closing the gap by about a foot and I had to physically tell myself not to step back because stepping back would mean something and I couldn't afford for things to mean things right now.

"You keep looking at me," he said, "like you're waiting for me to remember something."

The corridor went very still.

Or maybe that was just me.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes you do." He said it the same way he said everything, no heat in it, just certain. That certainty was almost the worst part. "Every time I look at you there's something in your face that's waiting. I've interviewed a lot of people this week and none of them looked at me the way you do."

"Maybe I'm an unusual person," I said. "Like I told you."

"Mira."

My name. That was it. Just my name in his mouth the same way it had always been, first syllable first, and I felt it the way I always felt it, somewhere behind my ribs where I had no business feeling things.

"What do you want me to say?"

"The truth."

"I have been telling you the truth."

"Parts of it."

I looked at him straight. I made my face do the thing I needed it to do. Neutral. Open. A person with nothing behind her eyes except what she was showing.

"I have never met you before," I said. "You are my Alpha and I respect you but there is nothing between us to remember. Whatever you think you're seeing when you look at me, it isn't that."

He listened to every word. He didn't move and he didn't argue and his expression didn't change at all. He just took it in. All of it. And then he nodded, once, slow.

And he reached out and took the coffee back out of my hand. Gently. No rush. Just wrapped his fingers around the cup and lifted it away and I let him because I was too thrown off to do anything else.

He turned and walked toward the door at the end of the corridor.

Pushed it open. Cold air came in off the car park, that wet morning cold that sat in your lungs for a second before it warmed up.

He stopped in the doorway.

Didn't turn around.

"My wolf thinks you're lying," he said.

The door swung shut.

I stood in the corridor alone under the flickering light with the noticeboard full of old memos and the coat hooks nobody used and I did not move for a long time.

Both coffees were gone. He'd taken them both with him.

My hands were empty and the corridor smelled like rain and burnt coffee and I stood there and stared at the closed door and thought about his wolf.

What a wolf felt, an Alpha felt. Maybe not in words. Maybe not even clearly. But he would feel it, that low insistent thing, the same flicker I'd felt when his hand closed around my wrist yesterday. His wolf was talking to him about me and he didn't know what it was saying and I did and I couldn't tell him and that was the situation I was living in now.

I finally moved. Back toward the main centre, past the front desk where Dani didn't ask anything, down the hall to my shared office with the filing cabinet that didn't close right. I sat in my chair. I put my hands flat on the desk.

His wolf thinks you're lying.

Not he thinks. His wolf thinks. He'd separated them deliberately, said it like that on purpose. Like he already understood that what was happening was coming from somewhere below his own reasoning. He was smart enough to name the thing even when he didn't fully understand it yet. He had always been like that. That was the thing I'd loved about him first.

I thought about the coffee.

Black. No sugar. Wrong in the smallest, most ordinary way possible.

And somehow that was the thing I couldn't shake.