Denver.
The door closes behind her with a soft sound that lingers longer than it should.
I remain where I am, my gaze fixed on the grain of the desk, a copy of the contract still lying open where I placed it. I do not move. I do not exhale. Years of command have taught me how to sit with decisions without flinching, but this one settles differently in my chest. Heavier.
She did not run.
Most women would have. Most would have recoiled from the terms, from the coldness of it, from the way I reduced something sacred to ink and obligation.
That alone tells me more than I expected.
My fingers curl around the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening. I hate that her choice unsettles me. I hate that it does not. My wolf stirs beneath the surface, restless, recognizing something I refuse to name
