He reached her side, and she did not retreat, which he grudgingly respected. He stood several inches taller than she, so she was forced to look up at him. She regarded him evenly, probably assuming he would jump at the chance to be absolved of the responsibility to see to her safety.
“You forget that I have read the letter,” he said.
She swallowed, parted her lips as if to speak, but then stepped aside and sank into one of two chairs flanking the hearth. The firelight reflected on her face as she stared into the flames, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of her lip. “You were correct, of course, in your observation months ago in the police carriage. I am amassing an entire stable of enemies.”
Oliver sat opposite and leaned toward her, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I’ve no doubt you can defend yourself. You and I have engaged in more tussles than I care to remember, and I’ve suffered my share of bruises; even then, I imagine you were using restraint. If not, it is a lie I’ll choose to believe.”
She laughed quietly, reluctantly, and closed her eyes.
“But, Emmeline—may I call you Emmeline?—I daresay I’ve touched you with more familiarity than any other man in your life—”
Finally, a decent laugh, and even a blush. He ought to have known that little short of shocking her would disarm her.
“My friends call me Emme.”
“You prefer I call you Emmeline, then, very well.”
She rolled her eyes at him, but a corner of her mouth lifted.
“Regrettably, I have seen ugly things over the course of my career. The malice in the letter you received is . . . extreme.”
She exhaled, and her knee bounced restlessly. She looked deflated, and for all that she usually drove him mad with frustration, he did not like seeing her that way. “It is sobering to realize someone hates me so very much.”
“Someone hates your cause very much, hates the shifter community, and likely realizes your voice has grown powerful. I doubt you would have received such a threat otherwise.”
“But why, after all this time? I have been so involved, devoted, for years.” She looked at him in bafflement, green eyes wide and fringed with dark lashes that matched the midnight blackness of her hair.
“Perhaps they read your editorial as well, Spokeswoman O’Shea. Your voice is a powerful one, and you are about to address the world. Chief-Inspector Conley has asked that I fill the role of bodyguard for you.”
Emme tried not to stare at the man sitting across from her. Detective-Inspector Reed was to be her bodyguard? He was treating her nicely, which meant he’d already begun the role. And that could mean only one thing: the threatening letter was truly as awful as she’d feared, though she’d tried to convince herself otherwise.
If only Reed would simply return to his usual, horrible self, her life could resume its normal rhythm and flow. Certain things should be predictable, constant. She should be able to count on the reliability of the detective’s rotten timing and interference in every meaningful event she planned.
Emme was nothing if not honest. “You’re treating me kindly, and I find it quite off-putting.”
He raised a brow. “Do you doubt my sincerity?”
Emme sighed. “No, I believe you are sincere. If you would behave toward me as you customarily do, then I could dismiss the severity of that blasted letter and be on my merry way.”
He was quiet, and she glanced at him. His lips twitched in a smile. “How do I customarily behave toward you?”
“With complete and utter contempt.”
Something quickly crossed his features but was gone before she could identify it. “I have certainly never felt contempt for you. My apologies.”
She nodded stiffly, knowing the polite thing would be to also apologize for any discomfort she may have caused. “I . . . apologize for bruising you—your person—in any past . . . altercations.”
“Accepted.”
Silence stretched between them, and Emme stilled her bouncing knee with effort. If there was one trait she appreciated about the detective, it was that he was skilled at holding his emotions in check. All indications as to his frame of mind she gleaned from the emotions he allowed to cross his face. On rare occasion, she’d seen his eyes blaze so hotly at her in frustration she would not have been surprised had flames shot from his eye sockets. There had been occasions when his frustration had spilled over and rushed at her, but for the most part, he kept himself pulled together. Professional.
As a child, she’d realized she felt people’s emotions as energy, occasionally seeing visual auras, and the sensations were overwhelming. When nobody seemed to understand what she was talking about, she’d figured out a solution on her own. She’d learned to turn the phenomenon off, rather like flipping a Tesla lamp switch or closing a door.
She’d practiced controlling it and usually managed to keep the emotional assaults at bay. On the odd occasion when faced with a person she found difficult to assess, someone like the detective, she cracked open the door slightly for a glimpse of intuition, but never more than a glimpse. The risk of the door swinging wide open and leaving her overwhelmed and panicked was significant enough that she avoided it as a rule.
Since her appointment as the International Shifter Rights Organization spokeswoman, the onslaught of intense emotion had begun seeping from under the closed door; the Bad Letter had only made it worse. She suspected the reason was connected to her stress levels, but there was much at stake, and she couldn’t afford the lapse.
She was tired and wanted to retreat to her
