Page 11 of Bearly Out Loud

“Your eyes are doing the gold thing.”

Dojin released the counter. Straightened. Forced his shoulders down from where they’d climbed toward his ears, which was the posture of a bear preparing to charge and not the posture of a CEO evaluating a casting decision at six in the morning.

“I’m evaluating a performance.”

Reo pushed his plate back. The security operative had replaced the breakfast companion—same posture, different quality of attention. Assessing. “Your shoulders dropped. Your head tilted. You stopped blinking for a thirty-count.” He paused. “You’re not evaluating, boss. You’reexperiencing.”

Dojin killed the playback. The kitchen went silent. His hands tightened at his sides—furious at the interruption, every nerve in him demanding he turn the voice back onright nowand play it again and again until he’d memorized every breath and pause and the exact moment her voice dropped low enough to rewrite his nervous system.

He overruled the bear. Because he was the alpha of this sleuth and the CEO of a billion-dollar company, and he did not lose control over a woman’svoice.

“She’s talented.” Controlled. Level. The voice he used in board negotiations when the other side couldn’t know how much he wanted the deal. “The performance quality supports the casting decision.”

“The casting decision you made three weeks ago.” Reo picked up his plate again. Ate with the mechanical efficiency of a man who treated meals as fuel. “Which you are now validating with a seventh listen at dawn. In the kitchen. After checking a sourdough starter that is my responsibility. Bear thing?” Reo asked.

The question wasn’t casual. When Reo askedbear thing,he was asking whether the alpha’s animal instincts had identified a situation that required operational adjustment.

Dojin could have lied. Reo would have accepted the lie, filed his own assessment, and monitored the situation independently. That was what a good second did.

But Dojin didn’t deceive Reo. Not about this.

“Level three.”

Reo processed the number. “Three, I can work with. Level seven is when I adjust the security protocols. Ten is when I start making contingency plans you won’t like.” He paused. “The scale goes to ten. In theory.” He rinsed his plate. Set it in the rack. Dried his hands with a precision that matched everything else about him. “And boss?”

“What?”

“You left dents in the counter.”

Dojin looked down. Two shallow impressions in the stainless-steel edge, right where his hands had been. His fingerprints pressed into industrial-grade metal.

That is not a three.

Reo left without commenting further, because Reo knew when to push and when to leave his alpha alone with the wreckage of his own composure.

Dojin ran his thumb over the impressions. Cold steel, warped by bare hands. The evidence of a man whose bear had tried to come through his skin.

He poured a second cup of coffee. Did not play the demo reel.

A three. This is a three. A manageable, professional, entirely containable three.

The dents in the counter disagreed.

SIX

DOJIN

Elder Henrik Vuzen arrived at quarter to nine for the quarterly review. Fifteen minutes early, because Vuzen believed punctuality was a form of dominance, and Dojin let him believe it because the illusion kept the old bear manageable.

He filled the council room doorway—six-three, barrel-chested, silver beard trimmed with the precision he applied to his opinions. Dark suit, expensive and fifteen years behind. The mahogany cane he didn’t need, carved with bear clan symbols, used exclusively to punctuate displeasure against the floor.

Dojin was already seated. Had been for twenty minutes. The quarterly projections spread across the council table, the Voidborn production budget centered where Vuzen couldn’t avoid it. He’d chosen the chair at the head of the table—not the side, not the middle. The head. Because positioning mattered, and Vuzen responded to spatial hierarchy whether he admitted it or not.

“Alpha.” Vuzen lowered himself into the opposite chair with the deliberate gravity of a man who wanted his effort noted. The cane settled against the table’s edge. Cold blue eyes swept the projections.

“Elder Vuzen.” Dojin didn’t stand. Didn’t lean forward. Held the stillness of a bear who owned the ground beneath him and every square foot in visual range. “You’re early.”

“I prefer to be prepared. A habit from a time when this sleuth valued preparation over—” He glanced at the Voidborn folder. “—entertainment.”