I stilled the moment I heard the door click and sensed Alpha Kyo step inside.
Relief — awkward and unexpected — curled in my chest. Not warmth exactly, but something solid, something that kept the fear at arm’s length. Footsteps crossed the floor with measured precision; parchment rustled.
“They are migration papers,” he said, voice quiet yet cold, like the surface of a freshly honed blade. He guided my hand—first gently, then with firmer pressure—placing a pen between my fingers and settling the document beneath my touch.
Scratch, scratch, scratch. The nib cut tiny rivers of ink into the parchment while his hand steadied mine. I couldn’t see the words, qqbut I let the motion carry me, trusting his direction if not his heart.
When the final flourish was done, he pulled the pen and pape
