"Someone was in here."
It's not a question. The air carries traces of an unfamiliar presence, masculine and predatory. My hands clench at my sides as I catalog the evidence—the too-neat papers, the adjusted curtains, the laptop she's holding like it contains state secrets.
"How could you possibly know that? Unless you or your deputy did this to throw me off balance?”
"You’ve been reading too many mystery novels. I know because I know when things are wrong in my town." The words come out rougher than intended, edged with the authority I've spent years learning to wield. "And right now, you're closer to something dangerous than you realize."
Her chin lifts in that stubborn way that's becoming familiar. "Dangerous how? According to who? You keep throwing around vague warnings like fortune cookie prophecies, but you won't tell me anything concrete."
"Because, in this case, concrete gets people hurt."
"People are already hurt!" She sets the laptop down with deliberate care, her movements controlled in a way that signals barely leashed anger. "That's why I'm here. That's what I'm trying to…"
"What you're trying to do is stumble blindly into something that could get you killed."
The words hit the air between us like a physical blow. Her face goes pale, then flushed.
"Killed." She repeats the word like she's testing its weight. "Finally, some honesty. Who wants to kill me, Sheriff? The same people who made those hikers disappear? The ones whose tracks you've been covering for years?"
"I haven't covered anything."
"Then explain the missing files. Explain why everyone in this town gets nervous when I ask questions. Explain why you always seem to know exactly where I am and what I'm doing."
The mate bond is demanding I tell her everything—about the pack, about the rogues, about why every instinct I possess screams at me to keep her safe. Instead, I force my voice level.
"Some explanations are more dangerous than ignorance."
"That's not your call to make."
"It is when you're reckless enough to go wandering alone in the woods after dark."
"Reckless?" Her laugh carries no humor. "I'm doing my job. I'm following leads. I'm trying to find the truth about what happened to those people, and you…" She steps close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her eyes. "You keep treating me like I'm some fragile thing that needs protecting from reality."
"You do need protecting."
The admission slips out before I can stop it, raw and honest in a way that makes my chest tight. Her expression shifts, confusion replacing anger.
"From what?"
I watch her face, memorizing the curve of her mouth, the way her breathing has quickened. Everything in me wants to answer her, to lay the truth bare and let the consequences fall where they will.
"From things you're not equipped to handle."
"Try me."
The silence is deafening, filled with everything I can't say. Her eyes search mine, looking for answers I can't give without destroying everything I've sworn to protect.
"Please." Her voice is barely a whisper. "I need to know what I'm really dealing with here."
My mouth opens. Closes. The weight of decades of secrecy wars with the desperate need to keep her safe, and I realize I'm trapped between two impossible choices.
I say nothing.
Her face changes, disappointment replacing hope. "Your silence is an answer too, you know."
I don’t mean to reach for her. My hand moves on its own, fingers closing around her wrist. Her pulse hammers against my thumb, a frantic, living thing. “You have no idea what you’re playing with.”
“Then tell me.” She doesn’t pull away. Her breath hitches. “Or is shutting me down easier than actually talking?”