Chapter 13 · Occupational Hazard

"Give me the folder, Rowan."

Callum's palm hits the vault door a half second before I can swing it shut, and the steel shudders against my shoulder. He's still in his council coat, collar open, like he ran straight from the hearing room to catch me before I logged the file.

"You don't have clearance down here anymore," I say. "Check your own memo."

"I wrote the memo." His eyes go to the folder under my arm, and something in his jaw ticks. "Which means I know exactly what's in it, and I know you're not supposed to have made a second copy."

I back up a step, and the mark on my collarbone answers him before I do — that same old burn, low and mean, like a coal someone forgot to put out. It's been five years since he stood in that glass chapel and told his whole pack I was a mistake. Five years and the damn thing still lights up every time he gets within ten feet of me.

"Occupational habit," I say. "Archivists keep proof. That's the whole job description."

"Not proof that gets me disbarred from my own port deal.