He was reading when I came to his rooms.
Not the administrative reading — the other kind, the kind he did when the day was done and the work was filed and the Alpha King had been set down with the reports. His book was the one from the bedside table, the one with the receipt bookmark that had been there so long the receipt had faded. He looked up when I came through the door.
His expression did the thing.
The open version. The private one.
"The library," he said.
"Maren," I said.
"Folder?"
"Significant folder," I said. "Three things."
He set the book down. "Come here."
I crossed the room. Sat beside him on the bed — the beside version, shoulder to shoulder, the arrangement. He did not press for the three things. He waited the specific way he waited when he understood I was organiz
