The Wolf Between Cedar and Sea

Chapter One

The Man Looking for a Painting

I wasn’t looking for a mate.

I was looking for a painting.

There was an important distinction between the two, though Torrent had never shown much respect for distinctions once he decided something mattered.

Go.

I tightened my grip on the cargo strap and ignored him.

The dock smelled of diesel, cold salt, wet rope, and several thousand pounds of freshly unloaded salmon. None of those scents should have encouraged romance.

Torrent disagreed.

Now.

“Unless you’ve developed an urgent interest in nineteenth-century coastal art,” I muttered, “you can wait.”

Jake glanced over from the open side of the cargo container.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He studied me for half a second, decided I was lying, and returned to checking the manifest on the tablet in his hand.

That was one of the benefits of having the same Beta for more than a decade. Jake knew when to ask questions.

He also knew when the answer would annoy him.

Rain had been falling since before dawn. Not a storm. Vancouver rain rarely needed drama to be effective. It simply settled over the harbor and committed itself to the day.

Water darkened Jake’s navy jacket and collected along the brim of his cap. Mine had given up pretending to be waterproof an hour earlier.

Three dockhands guided the last pallet down the loading ramp while a forklift beeped behind them. The shipment had arrived from Prince Rupert nearly six hours late after heavy weather forced the vessel to slow south of Haida Gwaii.

Nothing had been damaged.

No one had been injured.

Which meant the morning qualified as a success.

I stepped beneath the container overhang and checked the steel restraint locking the final crate in place.

“Seal’s intact,” I said.

Jake nodded. “Temperature record stayed stable.”

“Customs?”

“Cleared.”

“Driver?”

“Waiting beyond Gate Four.”

“You’re getting efficient.”

His mouth barely moved.

“I’ve had an excellent teacher.”

“Your sarcasm is improving too.”

“That part came naturally.”

Torrent gave a low pulse of impatience beneath my ribs.

Go.

I straightened and rolled one shoulder, trying to loosen the knot that had formed there sometime between midnight and sunrise.

The painting had waited almost eight years.

It could wait another hour.

Probably.

The artwork had hung in my father’s private office for as long as I could remember. A broad coastal scene painted in muted shades of blue, gray, and cedar-green. Mountains rose in the distance while a narrow vessel cut across dark water beneath a storm-heavy sky.

No grand ship.

No heroic captain.

Just a small boat traveling between islands while the weather gathered around it.

My father had never told me who painted it.

He had never explained why he valued it.

When he died, the painting disappeared before I inherited his office.

Not stolen, exactly.

Removed.

Sold.

Misplaced.

No one seemed able to agree on which.

For several years, I told myself I didn’t care.

Then I moved into his old office.

The wall above the cedar cabinet was lighter where the frame had once protected it from the sun.

I noticed the empty space every day.

Torrent noticed it too.

Find.

“That’s what I’m trying to do.”

Jake glanced up again.

“You’re definitely talking to yourself.”

“To Torrent.”

“That’s still yourself.”

“You know he finds that insulting.”

“I’m prepared to accept the consequences.”

A forklift rolled past us, carrying the final pallet toward the refrigerated truck. Jake checked something on his screen, then looked at me more carefully.

“You haven’t slept.”

“I slept.”

“When?”

“Wednesday.”

“It’s Friday.”

“I’m aware.”

“Fern is going to notice.”

“Fern notices cloud formations in another province.”

“She’ll feed you.”

“She’ll feed me anyway.”

“Twice.”

“Probably.”

That was the risk of returning to the Salish house in my current condition. Fern could measure exhaustion by posture alone. She would look at my face, say nothing, and place food in front of me until resistance became pointless.

Laurel would support the operation from inside her, radiating calm disapproval.

Jake folded his tablet beneath one arm.

“Go home.”

“I have one stop first.”

His eyes narrowed.

“What stop?”

“A gallery.”

He waited.

I could practically hear Izane listening from behind his silence.

“A gallery,” Jake repeated.

“Yes.”

“You smell like fish.”

“I’ve smelled worse.”

“That isn’t a defense.”

“I’m not defending it.”

“You’re wearing dock boots.”

“I’m aware.”

“There’s grease on your sleeve.”

I glanced down.

There was, in fact, grease on my sleeve.

“Adds character.”

“It adds grease.”

Torrent shifted beneath my skin, restless enough that the back of my neck tightened.

Mate.

The word landed hard.

I went still.

For three years after becoming Alpha, I had assumed Torrent would recognize our mate in some dramatic place.

A moonlit run.

A council gathering.

A crisis at sea.

Not while I stood ankle-deep in rainwater beside a cargo container full of fish.

I pushed the thought down.

Not rejected.

Not denied.

Contained.

Torrent disliked containment on principle.

His growl rolled through my chest.

Jake’s expression changed.

“What did he say?”

“Nothing useful.”

“That bad?”

“Potentially.”

Jake watched me for another moment, then looked toward the harbor as if expecting a threat to emerge from the rain.

“Do you need me?”

“No.”

“Security?”

“No.”

“Driver?”

“I can drive myself.”

“You’ve been awake for nearly two days.”

“Thirty hours.”

“That isn’t better.”

“It’s more accurate.”

He exhaled slowly.

“Where is this gallery?”

“Water Street.”

His brows lifted.

“Kelly Antiquities?”

I should not have been surprised that Jake knew.

Flora had mentioned the gallery often enough. Usually in the same breath as her closest friend, Victoria Kelly.

Victoria collected maps, restored paintings, authenticated maritime artifacts, and apparently forgot to eat whenever she became interested in a new piece.

Flora complained about it with the long-suffering affection of someone who planned to continue interfering forever.

I had seen Victoria before.

Across crowded rooms.

At one Salish fundraiser.

Once at the harbor beside Flora, her long brown hair catching gold in the late afternoon sun.

We had never spoken alone.

Until today.

“That’s the one,” I said.

Jake’s gaze sharpened.

“Why?”

“I’m looking for a painting.”

“Since when?”

“Since before you learned subtlety.”

“So, recently.”

I ignored him and headed toward the edge of the loading zone.

Behind me, Jake called, “At least change your jacket.”

“No time.”

“You own the company.”

“That doesn’t create more time.”

“It should create access to a clean shirt.”

I lifted one hand without turning.

The rain cooled my face as I crossed the yard toward my truck. Cranes moved above the harbor like dark steel birds. Beyond them, mist softened the glass towers of downtown until the city seemed to rise directly from the sea.

Torrent pressed forward again.

Not aggressive.

Certain.

Go.

I opened the driver’s door.

“You’ve said that.”

She waits.

That stopped me.

For one strange second, the harbor noise seemed to recede.

The engines.

The gulls.

The clang of metal against metal.

All of it faded beneath the steady beat of my heart.

I had never met Victoria Kelly.

Not really.

Torrent had never stood close enough to scent her wolf.

There was no reason for him to know anything about her.

Especially that she was waiting.

I climbed into the truck and closed the door against the rain.

“Fine,” I told him.

Torrent settled immediately.

Too immediately.

I started the engine.

The gallery was less than fifteen minutes away.

I told myself I was going for the painting.

Torrent did not bother answering.

The gallery occupied the ground floor of a restored brick building three blocks from the harbor.

Kelly Antiquities was painted in small gold letters across the front window, understated enough that anyone hurrying past might miss it. Behind the glass, a carved cedar mask rested beneath warm lights beside a brass marine compass and a stack of leather-bound journals.

Nothing crowded the display.

Each object had room to matter.

I parked at the curb and looked down at myself.

Jake had been right.

The grease on my sleeve had spread. Rain had dried unevenly across my jacket, leaving salt-colored marks near the shoulders. My boots carried enough dock mud to offend anyone responsible for the gallery floors, and the faint smell of fish had survived both the drive and the open truck window.

Torrent seemed unconcerned.

Inside.

“I know.”

Mate.

“We don’t know that.”

His silence had weight.

I had spent most of my life trusting Torrent’s instincts. At sea. In pack disputes. During rescue operations when instruments failed and weather changed faster than forecasts.

I trusted him with my life.

That did not mean I intended to reorganize it because he had spoken one word beside a refrigerated container.

I stepped out of the truck.

Rain tapped against the awning as I crossed the sidewalk. The brass handle was cool beneath my palm.

A bell chimed softly when I entered.

Warmth met me first.

Then cedar.

Old paper.

Beeswax.

Stone cooled by years of shadow.

The gallery was deeper than it appeared from the street. Tall shelves lined one wall, holding boxed archives and small framed studies. Paintings hung against deep green walls beneath carefully angled lights. A long glass case displayed maritime instruments: sextants, signal lamps, a captain’s watch, several carved toggles, and a weathered compass whose face had clouded with age.

Nothing had been arranged simply because it was beautiful.

Everything appeared to be part of a conversation I had entered halfway through.

At the far end of the room, a woman stood on a ladder.

Her back was to me.

Long brown hair, streaked with gold where the light touched it, fell between her shoulder blades. One hand steadied a painting while the other adjusted a wire behind the frame. She wore dark trousers, a cream sweater with the sleeves pushed to her elbows, and no shoes.

Her feet rested on the wooden rung in pale socks.

I recognized her immediately.

Victoria Kelly.

Flora’s closest friend.

The woman I had seen at fundraisers and harbor events, always standing slightly outside the loudest part of the room, listening to someone with such complete attention that people forgot anyone else existed.

She did not look down when the bell rang.

“We’re not expecting the crate from Pier Seven until this afternoon,” she said. “You can leave the invoice on the desk.”

Her voice was lower than I expected.

Warm.

Unhurried.

“I don’t have an invoice.”

She paused.

The frame shifted slightly beneath her hand.

Torrent surged forward so hard that my vision sharpened.

Mate.

The word struck through me with enough force to stop my breath.

Across the room, something answered.

Not a voice.

A presence.

Soft at first. Silver. Still.

Then every scent in the gallery separated.

Cedar oil.

Dust.

Rainwater.

Victoria.

And beneath her—

a wolf.

White fur beneath moonlight.

Cold sea mist.

Ancient paper warmed by careful hands.

Delta.

She had been moving behind Victoria’s thoughts, curious and bright.

Now she went completely silent.

Not frightened.

Stunned.

Torrent pressed against my skin, enormous and certain.

Ours.

“No.”

The word escaped under my breath.

Victoria glanced over her shoulder.

Her green eyes found me.

For one second, neither of us moved.

Then the painting tilted.

I crossed the space before thought caught up with instinct, catching the bottom edge as she steadied herself against the ladder.

“Careful.”

“I had it.”

“I’m sure you did.”

She looked down at my hands on the frame, then at me.

Up close, the gold in her hair was more than a reflection. Fine lighter strands ran through the brown, catching warmth from the gallery lamps. Her face was composed, but her pulse had quickened at the base of her throat.

Delta remained silent.

Torrent did not.

Closer.

I tightened my grip on the frame instead.

Victoria climbed down one rung at a time. I kept the painting level until her feet reached the floor.

She took the opposite side from me.

“Thank you.”

“You’re my pleasure.”

For a moment, we stood holding the same painting between us.

It depicted a narrow beach beneath a rain-dark sky. Driftwood lay scattered along the tide line, and a single white bird rose over the water.

Victoria looked at my jacket.

Then my boots.

Then, with visible restraint, at the dark smear on my sleeve.

“You’re not from Pier Seven.”

“No.”

“Pier Four?”

“No.”

“Repair crew?”

“Not today.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

I almost smiled.

“Then you’ve brought the harbor in with you recreationally?”

“That appears to be the case.”

A small line appeared between her brows.

Behind her, Delta finally stirred.

Large.

Torrent’s satisfaction rolled through me.

Bright.

Delta went quiet again.

Victoria’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the frame.

She had heard her wolf.

Or felt enough to know something had changed.

I stepped back first.

“You can let go,” she said.

“I was waiting for you.”

“I own it.”

“That doesn’t make it less breakable.”

Something flickered in her expression.

Amusement, perhaps.

She set the painting on a padded table, smoothing one hand over the protective paper before finally looking at me.

Not at my face.

At my jacket.

Then my boots.

Then the streak of grease running down my left sleeve.

Her nose wrinkled almost imperceptibly.

“You aren’t from Pier Seven.”

“No.”

“Pier Four?”

“No.”

“The repair crews?”

“Not today.”

She folded her arms.

“Then you’ve chosen to bring the harbor into my gallery recreationally.”

I looked down at myself.

She wasn’t wrong.

Rain had dried in uneven patches across my jacket. Dock mud clung stubbornly to my boots, and somewhere between unloading the last pallet and driving downtown I’d apparently collected enough grease to qualify as industrial equipment.

“I’ve had better mornings.”

“I imagine my floors have.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

She hadn’t smiled once.

Not yet.

But I was beginning to suspect she had a dry sense of humor hiding somewhere beneath all that professional composure.

Torrent wasn’t paying attention to any of that.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off Delta.

Mate.

I pushed him back.

Not now.

He ignored me.

Naturally.

Victoria reached for a soft cloth resting on the table and gently wiped the faint gray fingerprint I’d left on the protective wrapping.

“You touched a nineteenth-century frame with dock grease.”

“I’ve been told grease builds character.”

“It builds restoration invoices.”

“I’ll pay it.”

“You don’t even know how much it costs.”

“I’m choosing optimism.”

“That’s usually expensive.”

There it was.

The smile.

Small.

Almost reluctant.

It changed her entire face.

Dangerous.

Torrent agreed.

Beautiful.

No.

Yes.

I cleared my throat.

“So...”

She folded the cloth neatly before setting it aside.

“What brings you here?”

“I’m looking for a painting.”

“That narrows it considerably.”

“A coastal scene.”

“What period?”

“I don’t know.”

“The artist?”

“I don’t know.”

“The size?”

I held my hands apart.

“About this wide.”

One eyebrow lifted.

“Your research is inspiring confidence.”

“I hoped enthusiasm would compensate for details.”

“It isn’t.”

“I was afraid of that.”

She walked toward the nearest computer, motioning for me to follow.

As she passed, I caught the faint scent of cedar and rain.

Not perfume.

Something quieter.

Like old books stored in dry wood.

Torrent stilled.

Delta did too.

Neither spoke.

Neither seemed quite sure how.

Victoria woke the monitor with practiced movements.

“Let’s try this another way.”

Her fingers flew across the keyboard.

“When did you last see it?”

“I was twenty-seven.”

She looked up.

“You remember the exact age.”

“My father died that year.”

Understanding softened her expression.

“I’m sorry.”

“So was I.”

Silence settled between us for a moment.

Not awkward.

Respectful.

She broke it gently.

“What made the painting matter?”

I didn’t answer immediately.

Because I hadn’t expected the question.

Not...

What did it look like?

But...

Why did it matter?

I looked past her toward a painting of rough Pacific water hanging on the far wall.

“It always looked like the storm was winning.”

She waited.

“The boat never turned around.”

Her hands stopped moving across the keyboard.

For the first time since I’d walked in...

she wasn’t studying the painting.

She was studying me.

“I think...”

she said quietly,

“...that’s a better description than anything you’ve told me so far.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

She resumed typing.

“A painting isn’t only paint.”

“No?”

“No.”

She looked over her shoulder.

“It’s the story someone wanted remembered.”

Something about that sentence landed harder than it should have.

Maybe because I’d spent years trying to remember my father through meetings...

through responsibilities...

through an office that no longer felt like his.

Maybe because this stranger understood why I was searching before I’d figured out how to explain it myself.

Flora had been right.

Victoria didn’t simply collect history.

She listened to it.

She found several photographs.

None of them were mine.

Close.

Wrong mountains.

Wrong boat.

Wrong light.

She frowned thoughtfully.

“I’ve seen something similar.”

“You have?”

“A carved cedar frame.”

Hope rose before I could stop it.

“Where?”

“Private estate.”

She leaned back.

“The records were incomplete.”

“Can you find them?”

“I can try.”

“I’ll take ‘try.’”

“I don’t promise what I can’t deliver.”

I smiled.

“I noticed.”

She smiled back.

Very slightly.

“I suspect you don’t hear that often.”

“Not enough.”

Her eyes narrowed just a little.

“You work for Vancouver Shipping?”

“I do.”

“How long?”

“A while.”

“What do you do?”

“A little of everything.”

“I’ve heard that’s what supervisors say.”

“I’ve also unloaded fish before breakfast.”

“I noticed.”

She looked at my jacket again.

“I assumed you worked the docks.”

“I do.”

“You...” She frowned. “You supervise the docks?”

“Sometimes.”

“The operations manager?”

“Sometimes.”

“The harbor master?”

I couldn’t help smiling.

“No.”

She waited.

Clearly expecting me to help.

I didn’t.

Finally, she sighed.

“You enjoy making people guess.”

“Only a little.”

“I don’t.”

“I’ve noticed.”

She shook her head.

“Fine.”

She reached into a drawer and pulled out a business card.

“If I find anything, where should I send it?”

I accepted the card.

Our fingers brushed.

Torrent surged.

Delta inhaled sharply.

Both wolves froze.

Again.

Neither of us moved.

Victoria looked at our hands.

Then slowly back up at me.

“I should probably know your last name.”

I smiled.

“Vance.”

She blinked.

“...Vance?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

Then another.

“The Vance?”

“I’ve heard there are several.”

Her eyes widened.

“You’re Mateo Vance.”

“I am.”

“You own Vancouver Shipping.”

“I do.”

She looked me up and down once more.

The muddy boots.

The weathered jacket.

The grease on my sleeve.

Then she laughed.

Not politely.

Not quietly.

Honestly.

“I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes explaining gallery etiquette to the CEO.”

“I appreciated the lesson.”

She shook her head, still smiling.

“I thought you were a dockworker.”

“I was.”

“You...”

She laughed again.

“No wonder Flora likes you.”

“I’ll consider that a compliment.”

“It was.”

The silence that followed felt...comfortable.

Unexpectedly so.

I slipped her business card into my jacket pocket.

“There is one way you could continue helping me.”

She tilted her head.

“How?”

I nodded toward the rain-speckled windows overlooking the harbor.

“There’s a little café down by the seawall.”

She waited.

“I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee.”

She looked from me to the rain beyond the gallery windows.

Then back again.

“I should probably finish hanging the rest of these.”

“I was hoping you’d say no.”

One corner of her mouth lifted.

“I almost did.”

“But?”

“But now I’m curious.”

“About the painting?”

She looked directly into my eyes.

“You.”

Torrent stretched lazily inside me.

Better.

I wasn’t nearly as confident.

“I know a place,” I said.

“Do you?”

“It’s walking distance.”

She glanced down at my boots.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether they’re allowed inside.”

“I’ve been there enough times they usually pretend not to notice.”

She laughed again.

“I’d like that.”

Five minutes later we stepped back onto the sidewalk.

The rain had settled into that familiar Vancouver mist that somehow managed to dampen everything without actually looking like rain.

Victoria locked the gallery door, then checked it twice.

Not because she was forgetful.

Because she was careful.

I found myself wondering how many times she’d repeated that same routine.

Every morning.

Every evening.

Always the same.

Torrent nudged me.

Watching.

“I noticed.”

Victoria turned.

“I’m sorry?”

“I...”

Smooth, Mat.

“I was admiring the building.”

She looked over her shoulder at the brick façade.

“It’s older than it looks.”

“I believe it.”

“It survived two major renovations.”

“You know the history.”

“I know most of the history on this block.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

She smiled.

“I probably know too much.”

“I suspect that’s impossible.”

The harbor lay only a few blocks away.

Neither of us hurried.

The sidewalks glistened beneath fresh rain.

Flower baskets overflowed from old iron brackets.

A street musician played violin beneath an awning across the intersection.

Victoria slowed just enough to listen.

“You know him?”

I asked.

She nodded.

“Every Thursday.”

“You stop?”

“Usually.”

“You don’t have to today.”

“I know.”

She listened through the end of the song anyway.

When the last note drifted away, she slipped a folded bill into the open violin case.

The musician smiled.

“Thank you, Miss Kelly.”

“My pleasure.”

We continued walking.

“You know everyone.”

“I don’t.”

“It seems like you do.”

“I just remember people.”

That...

might have been the most Victoria Kelly sentence imaginable.

The café overlooked Burrard Inlet.

It wasn’t fashionable.

It wasn’t expensive.

It didn’t need to be.

Half the harbor seemed to pass through its doors every day.

The owner looked up as we entered.

“Mat.”

I smiled.

“Morning, Elsie.”

“You look terrible.”

“I’ve been told.”

She walked around the counter without waiting for permission.

Before I realized what she intended...

she brushed grease from my sleeve with a damp towel she’d apparently been carrying for exactly this purpose.

“There.”

“Thank you.”

“You skipped breakfast.”

“How do you know that?”

“You become agreeable.”

Victoria covered a laugh behind one hand.

“I don’t think that’s an insult.”

“It wasn’t.”

Elsie turned toward Victoria.

“So...”

Victoria blinked.

“So?”

“You’re the reason he’s smiling.”

I nearly choked.

“I’m standing right here.”

“I noticed.”

She looked back to Victoria.

“He almost never smiles before coffee.”

Victoria glanced at me.

“Is that true?”

“I’d rather not answer.”

“I’ll take that as yes.”

Elsie nodded with obvious satisfaction.

“The usual?”

“Please.”

She looked at Victoria.

“And for you?”

“Tea.”

Elsie gasped dramatically.

“In this establishment?”

Victoria looked mildly alarmed.

“Is...is that allowed?”

“Only because you’re with him.”

We carried our drinks to a small table overlooking the water.

Outside, a ferry pulled away from the terminal while gulls wheeled overhead.

Victoria wrapped both hands around her mug.

“I expected...”

She stopped.

“What?”

She looked at me for a long moment.

“You.”

“I’m here.”

“No.”

She smiled.

“I expected someone who owned Vancouver Shipping to act differently.”

“Disappointed?”

“Confused.”

“I’ll take confused.”

“You unloaded cargo.”

“I did.”

“You drove a pickup.”

“I did.”

“You carried your own bag.”

“I usually do.”

“You didn’t tell me who you were.”

I shrugged.

“You didn’t ask.”

“I did ask.”

“You asked what I did.”

“You answered...”

“‘A little of everything.’”

She laughed.

“That was technically true.”

“It usually is.”

She shook her head.

“I think Flora intentionally forgot to tell me what you were like.”

“Probably.”

“Why?”

“Entertainment.”

“I can believe that.”

For a few minutes neither of us spoke.

We simply watched the harbor.

I couldn’t remember the last time silence had felt this...

easy.

Board meetings filled silence because people were waiting to disagree.

Pack meetings filled silence because someone was deciding how to solve a problem.

This...

was just quiet.

Peaceful.

Delta finally spoke.

Nice.

Torrent answered immediately.

Very.

I smiled into my coffee.

Victoria looked up.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing.”

“Our wolves appear to approve of coffee.”

She studied me for another moment.

Then looked back toward the harbor.

“I’ve never seen Delta this quiet.”

“I’ve never seen Torrent this patient.”

We both knew there was more beneath those words.

Neither of us reached for it.

Not yet.

“I have a question,” Victoria said after a while.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Why that painting?”

Not what painting.

Why.

Again.

Always the question underneath the question.

I looked out across the gray water.

“My father believed every office should remind you who you were working for.”

She waited.

“He didn’t hang awards.”

“No?”

“He hung landscapes.”

“Why?”

“So he never forgot.”

I turned my mug slowly between my hands.

“I think...”

I smiled a little.

“I forgot to ask him what he meant.”

Victoria didn’t answer immediately.

When she finally spoke, her voice was almost thoughtful enough to disappear beneath the rain.

“Maybe...”

she said,

“...that’s why you’re looking for it now.”

I met her eyes across the table.

For the second time that morning...

she understood something I hadn’t said aloud.

And somehow...

that was even more unsettling than the fact our wolves had recognized one another.

Victoria traced one fingertip along the rim of her cup.

“My father collected landscapes too,” she said.

The admission came quietly, as if she had not intended to offer it.

“What kind?”

“Mostly coastal work. Some local. Some European. He liked paintings where the weather was doing something inconvenient.”

“That seems specific.”

“He said sunshine made people careless.”

I smiled. “I might have liked him.”

“You might have argued with him.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Her mouth curved.

“No,” she said. “They weren’t.”

Outside, the ferry moved farther into the gray, becoming a darker shape beneath the low clouds. I watched it for a moment before looking back at her.

“Is that how you started?”

“With paintings?”

“With all of it.”

Victoria glanced toward the harbor, but I had the sense she was looking somewhere much farther away.

“My family collected things,” she said. “Furniture. Jewelry. Art. Objects people displayed because they were expensive enough to prove something.”

“And you?”

“I wanted to know who had touched them.”

The answer fit her so completely that I almost laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because of course she did.

“Not what they cost,” I said.

“That part is easy.”

“What isn’t?”

“Knowing why someone kept an ordinary object for fifty years. Why a woman carried the same little silver box across three countries. Why a fisherman repaired one compass twelve times instead of buying another.”

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear.

I had watched her do that twice already.

Three times now.

Torrent noticed me noticing.

Pretty.

Quiet.

Still pretty.

I took a drink to avoid answering him.

Victoria continued, unaware of the argument happening inside my head.

“Sometimes the least valuable object in a collection is the one that matters most. Dealers overlook those. Families do too. They see scratches or damage and assume no one cared for it.”

“But someone did.”

“Usually.”

Her eyes returned to mine.

“That painting may not have been worth much.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You know that?”

“My father once refused to have it insured separately.”

“Why?”

“He said assigning it a number would miss the point.”

Victoria went still.

Delta stirred beneath her presence, suddenly attentive.

True.

Torrent answered with a low pulse of agreement.

Victoria leaned slightly forward.

“Did he ever talk about the frame?”

“No.”

“Did anyone else?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Did the carving continue along all four sides?”

“I think so.”

“And the branches—were they definitely cedar?”

“I assumed they were.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“You sound like Flora.”

“She says that when I’m being annoying.”

“I wasn’t going to use that word.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking thorough.”

“That’s safer.”

I nodded solemnly.

“I’ve survived board meetings. I know when to adjust vocabulary.”

Her laugh came easily now.

I liked that more than I should have.

Most people laughed around me because they were expected to. Executives did it to soften disagreement. Pack members did it when they wanted something. Reporters did it because silence made them nervous.

Victoria laughed because something amused her.

Nothing added.

Nothing withheld.

I realized I was looking at her again.

She noticed.

Not with embarrassment.

With curiosity.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That seems to be your favorite answer.”

“I’m reconsidering the painting.”

“In what way?”

“I thought I wanted the original.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m wondering whether I want what it represented.”

Her expression softened.

“That may be harder to find.”

“Most worthwhile things are.”

Torrent pushed forward at that.

Tell her.

I refused.

I had known this woman for less than an hour.

I knew she preferred tea to coffee, listened to street musicians in the rain, remembered people, and cared more about the hands that held an artifact than the price attached to it.

I knew Delta’s silence had shaken her.

I knew Torrent had not doubted for a second.

None of that gave me the right to place the full weight of mate recognition on the table between our cups.

Not yet.

Victoria sat back.

“What did the office look like?”

“My father’s?”

She nodded.

“Dark wood. Too many windows. A desk no one should have tried to move.”

“Books?”

“Some.”

“Charts?”

“Everywhere.”

“Ships?”

“Models. Three of them.”

“Family photographs?”

“One.”

Her brows rose.

“Only one?”

“My mother hated having her picture taken. My father respected that until he found one she didn’t know existed.”

“Did she forgive him?”

“Eventually.”

“You sound unsure.”

“She made him sleep in the guest room for two nights.”

Victoria smiled into her tea.

“I like her already.”

“She would have liked you.”

The words came too quickly.

Her eyes lifted.

For one second, the air between us changed.

Not heavier.

Closer.

My mother had been gone nearly six years. I rarely spoke about her with people who had not known her, and never that easily.

Torrent quieted.

Delta did too.

Victoria did not offer sympathy.

She did not ask what happened.

She simply said, “I’m sorry I won’t meet her.”

That was somehow worse.

And better.

I looked out at the harbor until I trusted my voice again.

“So am I.”

The café door opened behind us, carrying in wet air and the smell of rain. A group of deckhands took the table near the counter, their voices familiar enough that I recognized two before turning.

One of them noticed me.

“Morning, Mat.”

“Morning.”

His gaze shifted to Victoria and then very deliberately away again.

That would travel through the docks before noon.

Jake would know before I returned to the office.

Flora would know before Jake.

Victoria watched the men settle in.

“Everyone calls you Mat.”

“Most people.”

“But Flora calls you Mateo.”

“Flora enjoys using full names when she’s preparing to disagree.”

“That’s true.”

“What does she call you?”

“Victoria when she’s annoyed.”

“And when she isn’t?”

“Tori.”

I tested the name silently.

Torrent liked it.

Too much.

“May I?”

Her eyes narrowed with amusement.

“You’re asking permission to use my nickname?”

“I’ve been told I should improve my gallery manners.”

“That seems unrelated.”

“I’m trying to apply the lesson broadly.”

She considered me for a moment.

“Tori is fine.”

“Tori.”

The name felt different aloud.

Closer than Victoria.

Less polished.

Hers.

Delta made a small, pleased sound.

Torrent answered at once.

Mate.

I ignored him.

Poorly.

Tori lifted her tea.

“What do people call you when they’re annoyed?”

“Mateo.”

“That sounds backward.”

“My mother used it when she loved me and when she wanted me to reconsider every choice that had brought me to the moment.”

“Efficient.”

“Very.”

“So Mat is safer.”

“Usually.”

She smiled over the rim of her cup.

“Mateo.”

Torrent went utterly still.

So did I.

She could not have known.

It was only my name.

A name hundreds of people used every month.

But from her, spoken softly across a café table with the harbor behind her, it struck somewhere I had left unguarded.

Tori lowered her cup.

“Was that wrong?”

“No.”

My voice came out rougher than intended.

“No. It was fine.”

Her gaze lingered.

Delta moved closer inside her, bright and curious again.

Torrent seemed entirely too satisfied.

She knows.

“She knows my name,” I told him silently.

She knows us.

That remained to be seen.

Tori glanced down at the card I had tucked into my pocket.

“I’ll begin with the estate catalogues tonight.”

“You don’t have to do it tonight.”

“I know.”

“You’re going to anyway.”

“Yes.”

“Flora says you forget to eat when you’re researching.”

Her mouth opened.

Then closed.

“She talks too much.”

“She’s an attorney. I assumed that was professional training.”

“She carries a tablet everywhere so no one can escape documented evidence.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“She calls it her Pad.”

“I’ve also noticed that.”

“And if she learns I left the gallery with you, she’ll want a full report.”

“She’ll get one from the docks first.”

Tori looked toward the men near the counter.

One of them immediately became fascinated by his chowder.

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m the CEO.”

She gave me a look.

“Apparently that means less than I thought.”

“It means I’ll hear the gossip sooner.”

She laughed again.

I wanted to keep her doing that.

The realization was inconvenient.

I had an afternoon full of meetings, a delayed vessel waiting on inspection, three disputed contracts, and an Ember Ridge delegation preparing to cross into Salish territory within days.

I did not have room for inconvenient.

Torrent disagreed.

Make room.

Easy for him.

He never answered email.

Tori took another sip and glanced toward the rain.

“What is the painting for?”

“My office.”

“The company office?”

“My pack office.”

Her expression sharpened.

That distinction mattered to her.

“Those are separate?”

“They’re supposed to be.”

“But?”

“They haven’t always been.”

She did not ask for a political history of the Salish Pack.

She waited.

I found myself telling her anyway.

“My father ran the company and led the pack from the same rooms. Same desk. Same decisions. Over time, it became difficult to tell whether someone obeyed him because he was Alpha, employer, or both.”

“And you changed that.”

“I’m trying.”

“Separate offices.”

“Separate meetings. Separate records. Separate authority whenever possible.”

“That sounds difficult.”

“It is.”

“Why do it?”

Because leadership had become ownership.

Because wolves deserved choices no employment contract should influence.

Because I had watched good people hesitate before disagreeing with my father, then carry the consequences of their silence.

I turned the coffee cup slowly between my hands.

“Because no one should have to risk their livelihood to disagree with their Alpha.”

Tori studied me with the focused stillness she had given the painting.

Not impressed.

Not startled.

Listening.

“I think the painting belongs in the pack office,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because you remember a boat continuing through a storm.”

“That may not be the healthiest leadership metaphor.”

“No.” Her smile was faint. “But you also remember that it wasn’t a large ship.”

I waited.

“It didn’t dominate the sea,” she continued. “It traveled through it.”

Torrent rose beneath my ribs.

Not with recognition this time.

With respect.

Tori had taken one blurred childhood memory and seen the meaning inside it more clearly than I had.

“You do that often?” I asked.

“What?”

“See what other people miss.”

Her gaze dropped briefly to her cup.

“Sometimes.”

“It wasn’t criticism.”

“I know.”

The answer came softly enough that I wondered who had made her expect it to be.

Before I could ask, Elsie approached with a plate between us.

Two thick slices of sourdough toast, still warm, with butter melting into the centers.

“I didn’t order that,” I said.

“You didn’t order breakfast either.”

“I’m drinking coffee.”

“That’s not breakfast.”

Elsie looked at Tori.

“Make sure he eats.”

Tori blinked. “I’ve known him less than an hour.”

“You’ll have better luck than the rest of us.”

“Elsie.”

She patted my shoulder.

“Eat.”

Then she walked away.

Tori looked at the toast.

Then at me.

“Does everyone tell you what to do?”

“Only the people who aren’t afraid of me.”

“How many is that?”

“More every year.”

She pushed the plate slightly toward me.

“Eat.”

Torrent approved of her immediately.

I picked up one slice.

“You’re very comfortable with borrowed authority.”

“I’m an antiquities dealer. Borrowed authority is half the profession.”

I laughed and took a bite.

Tori reached for her tea at the same moment Delta suddenly surged inside her.

Her hand jerked.

The cup caught the edge of the saucer.

Tea tipped across the table in a warm amber wave.

Straight toward me.

I caught the cup before it hit the floor.

I did not catch the tea.

It ran over the table, across my hand, and down the front of my already ruined jacket.

Tori froze.

For one perfect second, neither of us spoke.

Then she stared at the spreading stain.

“Oh no.”

I looked down at myself.

Dock water.

Grease.

Fish.

Now tea.

Torrent was delighted.

Delta disappeared beneath a flood of mortification.

Tori grabbed a stack of napkins.

“I am so sorry. Delta moved, and I—she never does that—and your jacket—”

I started laughing.

I could not help it.

Her horrified expression only made it worse.

“This isn’t funny.”

“It is a little.”

“I spilled tea on you.”

“Good thing I was already dirty.”

“That does not make it better.”

“It makes it difficult to prove damages.”

She pressed napkins against my sleeve.

“I own a gallery. I can prove anything.”

“I believe you.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

She looked up.

We were closer than we had been in the gallery.

Close enough for me to see the gold around the centers of her green eyes.

Close enough to feel Delta standing just beneath her skin.

Torrent pushed forward, quiet now.

Certain.

Tori’s hand remained wrapped around my wrist.

Neither of us moved.

Then Delta whispered, almost too softly for Torrent to catch.

Mate?

Torrent’s answer filled every silent place inside me.

Yes.

Tori’s eyes widened.

She heard her wolf.

I knew she did.

Her fingers loosened.

The café, the rain, the harbor beyond the windows, everything seemed to pause with us.

I had come looking for a painting.

Instead, I had found the first person in years who made me forget there was anywhere else I was supposed to be.