Chapter 22
Nora's POV
"Thank you," I said quietly, unsure if he could hear me over the rain.
He said nothing. But something in the set of his shoulders, the slight loosening of his grip on the wheel, told me he'd heard.
---
"You know," he said, his tone lighter now, almost conversational, "when I first arrived here, everyone I met smiled at me like I was their favorite person in the world. But I could feel it—the calculation. They were figuring out how to use me. Or how to keep me from finding what they'd hidden."
I glanced at him, surprised by the admission. His eyes stayed on the road, but his grip on the steering wheel had tightened slightly.
"Here," he continued, "I don't have friends. I have people who want favors, people who are afraid of me, and people who are waiting for me to leave." He paused, then added dryly, "It's not exactly a warm welcome."
I stared at him, trying to reconcile this confession with the image of the man who'd stood in that conference room this morning, commanding absolute authority.
"That sounds..." I hesitated. "That sounds lonely."
His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "It is what it is."
But it wasn't. I could hear it in his voice—the weariness, the resignation. This wasn't just about work. This was about isolation.
"I believe in your character," he said, glancing at me briefly. "So... consider this helping a friend."
A friend.
The word hung in the air between us, strange and significant. Did he really see me that way?
Either way, my chest tightened with something I couldn't name.
"I'll do my best," I said finally.
---
As we left the main highway, the road narrowed, the SUV's tires crunching over gravel and broken pavement. The rain had eased to a drizzle, but the sky remained gray and oppressive.
"By the way," he said suddenly, "there's compensation for this. Consulting fees for accompanying me on the inspection. If it extends into the weekend, there's overtime pay as well."
I blinked, caught off guard. "That's... really not necessary. This is part of my job—"
"Don't." His tone was firm, brooking no argument. "You're providing professional expertise. I'm paying you. That's how it works."
I opened my mouth to protest again, but he cut me off.
"Aren't you worried people might misunderstand? Think you got ahead through... special treatment?"
I fell silent, clearly not having considered this.
"Standard federal consulting rate, processed through the IG office. No gossip."
I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. "You're very thoughtful."
"I don't like leaving loose ends."
The way he cared about and considered everything for me made me briefly wonder if he was trying to buy my loyalty.
But then again, there was no need for him to go through such trouble for a lowly social worker. He was just... honoring what I'd given.
"Alright," I said. "Thank you."
He nodded, satisfied.
---
A few minutes later, the silence grew comfortable. Almost companionable. I watched the landscape shift from neglected farmland to the outskirts of something more industrial, more broken.
Perhaps it was this relaxed atmosphere that emboldened me. Without thinking, I asked: "How old are you?"
Julian raised an eyebrow. "Why the sudden question?"
"Just curious," I said, feeling my cheeks warm as I quickly added an explanation.
"I'm thirty."
"Thirty." I did the math quickly. "That's... still pretty young for a Lycan, isn't it?"
The corner of his mouth lifted. "Yes, we generally live longer than humans."
I couldn't help but smile. "So by werewolf standards, you're basically still a teenager?"
He let out a short laugh, the warm sound catching me by surprise. "I wouldn't go that far. But yes, relatively young."
"What about... fated mates?" The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them. The question was too personal.
Julian's fingers paused on the steering wheel. The air in the car seemed to freeze.
"Sorry," I said quickly. "I shouldn't have—"
"It's fine." He interrupted me, his voice calm, though I could detect the tension beneath. "Fated mates... are one of the most complex concepts in the Lycan world."
He paused for so long I thought he wouldn't continue.
"It's a... recognition," he finally said, his voice dropping lower. "When you meet that person, you just know. Scent, heartbeat, their very existence—everything tells you this person is yours."
My heartbeat quickened.
"But it's not a fairy tale," he continued, a trace of bitterness in his tone. "Instinct doesn't mean everything. A human mate might not accept the mark, might not want that bond. And..."
"And what?" I asked softly.
"And sometimes, the recognition comes at the most inconvenient time." He said, then suddenly changed the subject. "We're here."
I looked out the window. The SUV slowed as we approached a cluster of crumbling buildings. Abandoned factories, their windows shattered, their roofs sagging.
Julian parked near a chain-link fence, the engine ticking softly as it cooled.
"According to our intel," he said, "there have been multiple missing persons reports filed here. People who applied for assistance, then vanished."
I stared out at the desolation. "I've been here before. Every time I came, the landlords said they'd moved out. Neighbors claimed they didn't know them."
"Then let's find out what they're hiding."
He opened his door and stepped out. I followed, pulling my jacket tighter against the damp chill.
Julian reached into the back seat and pulled out a waterproof field jacket, handing it to me. "Put this on."
I took it and put it on.
Before we started walking, he paused, turning to face me.
"One more thing," he said. "From now on, don't call me 'Inspector.' Just Julian."
I froze. "That's... not really appropriate."
"If you call me 'Inspector,' people will know who I am. We need to blend in—two NGO workers, not federal officials."
"Julian," I said slowly, testing the name.
His expression softened. "Good. And I'll call you Nora. Is that alright?"
Hearing my name in his low, steady voice sent an unexpected flutter through my chest. I nodded quickly, not trusting my voice.
"Alright then." He gestured toward the street. "Let's go."
---
We walked down a cracked sidewalk, past boarded-up storefronts and rusted cars. The air smelled of mildew and decay.
A man sat on a sagging porch, smoking a cigarette. He looked up as we approached, his eyes narrowing.
I stepped forward, keeping my voice friendly. "Hi. We're with a community health survey. We're just trying to understand the living conditions in this area."
"Another survey," the man muttered. "DSW came through last month. Asked questions, then left. Nothing changed."
"We're not DSW," I said carefully. "We're independent researchers."
He took a long drag on his cigarette, then jerked his chin toward the end of the street. "You want to find people? Try the Riverside Apartments. End of the block."
"Thank you."
He didn't respond, just turned his attention back to the gray sky.
---
The Riverside Apartments loomed ahead, a crumbling brick structure with boarded windows and a rusted fire escape. The front door hung half-open, swaying slightly in the wind.
Julian seemed to sense something and moved closer to me. "Stay close."
I nodded.
We circled around to the back alley, where a metal door stood slightly ajar.
Julian pushed the door open carefully. The hinges creaked.
Inside, the hallway was dark, lit only by cracks of daylight filtering through broken boards.
I exchanged a glance with Julian. We stepped inside.