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She thought of last night. Of what they’d done. Of what had been taken and given, what had changed inside her forever. And she thought, just before sleep claimed her:This is what it means to not be alone.
Wrapped in him, Claire drifted into sleep.
FOURTEEN
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN LECTURE HALL – 1400 HOURS
The whiteboard behind Claire Bowman had three words on it:Surface. Structure. Slippage.
“Language is a lie,” she leaned one hip against the desk,” or at least it wants to be.”
Twenty heads watched her. Some were skeptical; some were already smiling.
“That’s not the official line,” she added with a crooked grin. “The official line is that language is ‘a structured mode of human communication used to…’ yadda yadda. But what I just said? That’s the truth.”
She tapped her pen against the desk. “Most of you think, when someone speaks, the words are the important part. But here’s the real hierarchy: body, tone, cadence, andthen, if we’re lucky, the words.”
She paced, scanning her students the way others scanned a chessboard—angles, anomalies, tells. She noted the pen-clicker near the door, the reflection-watcher in the back, the subtle twitch at the wordtruthin the front row. Claire made themlaugh, relaxed them, but never stopped reading them. It was instinct, almost reflex for her to spot the slip, decode the pattern.
When class ended, she slung her messenger bag over her shoulder and flicked off the lights. The corridor outside hummed with the low pulse of night-mode security glass. The building had mostly emptied out.
She wasn’t alone. Four shadows peeled from the edges of the hall, blending into her stride without intruding. Tree Town One. Her shadows for the week. Spartan, Torch, Ghostwire, and Lockjaw.
Reid didn’t let her argue. He couldn’t escort her himself—he was tied up building out three different protection scenarios for tonight’s museum event—but he’d dropped her at campus and tasked the four with getting her home safe so she could dress before the evening.
Claire didn’t complain, at least not out loud. But it was strange, this awareness of a perimeter that wasn’t hers alone.
She turned the corner and nearly collided with a man stepping directly into her path. “Ms. Bowman, just one minute?”
Spartan shifted instantly, weight rolling toward the man, but Claire lifted a hand in warning for him to stand down. The man was well dressed and wore a press badge hanging from a lanyard like it was thrown on last-second. His tablet was already recording.
Claire’s spine went tight, but her voice stayed calm. “I’m off the clock.”
“One question.” He matched her stride when she didn’t stop. “Your mother voted against escalation during last month’s Security Committee session. Split the lines. As her daughter and a professor in a defense-adjacent program, do you support her position?”
Claire stopped and smiled politely. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Grant Kessler,” he said smoothly. “Global Policy Review.”
Behind her, Torch shifted her stance, casually sliding one step closer. Ghostwire lingered at the far end of the corridor, eyes on every angle, already logging escape routes if things went sideways.
Claire’s smile sharpened. “My mother is a senator. She holds her own press hours.”
“Yes, but you’re relevant now,” Kessler pressed. “Instructional role, multilingual background, former placement, NSA.”
“…which you clearly had to dig for,” she cut in.
He blinked, momentarily caught. “That’s public record.”
“So is the fact I teach pattern recognition, not macro-political alignment.”
Kessler stepped in closer, not aggressive, just pressing. “People are wondering where the Bowman family stands.”
Spartan’s hand flexed near his jacket. Lockjaw shifted half a step, angling between them.
But Claire’s voice stayed smooth. “We don’t vote as a family. We vote as individuals. And I don’t share my ballot choices with reporters.”
“So you disagree with her?”
