Remy
Holland came to the door on light footsteps like the floor had laid itself down just to catch her. She wore jeans and a soft top, hair pulled back, face bare and better than anything paint could pretend at. The bond woke without jarring, more like someone turned up a lamp.
“You wanted to see me?” she asked, curiosity first, not anxiety. Progress.
“If you’re up for it,” I said, leading her out toward the elevator.
Once we got back to the packhouse, I took her to my personal office and I took a seat at my desk, pointing her toward the chair so the distance was human and the moment wasn’t a summit. “Two things. One, how are you?”
“Still good,” she said. “Nightmare came, then left. Coffee helped. You helped.” A smile tugged at one corner of her mouth; I hoarded it. “Two?”
“Training,
