Unmatched Wife: Not His To Claim Anymore novel Chapter 163

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Chapter 163

Chapter 163

MATTHEW

Theo’s face did the thing it did when he was pleased but was managing the expression to avoid looking too pleased, which he’d developed as a strategy after learning that excessive enthusiasm sometimes made adults reconsider their decisions. It involved a slight pressing together of the lips and a very controlled nod.

“Okay,” he said, with studied calm. “That sounds reasonable.”

“It does,” I agreed.

The drive to school was similar to the breakfast–him talking, me listening, the specific pleasure of a conversation that required nothing from me except attention. He’d moved from Biscuit to Daniel’s books to a theory about whether the particular dinosaur on the cover of the largest book was correctly colored, which it wasn’t, he was fairly sure, based on recent research he’d been doing with Sophie, who had access to better reference materials.

“Sophie has a subscription,” he explained. “To a science magazine. For kids. It has articles about new discoveries.”

“That sounds like an excellent resource.”

“I think I’d like one too,” he said, with the careful tone of someone floating a suggestion rather than making a request. “If that was something that was possible.”

“I’ll look into it.”

He nodded, the managed–pleasure expression again.

We pulled into the school drop–off zone behind three other cars, and Theo had his seatbelt off before we were fully stopped. He was already looking toward the entrance, and I could see from the back of his head that he’d spotted something–someone- that had accelerated his desire to be out of the car,

“Have a good day,” I said.

He grabbed his bag. “You too.” He paused with his hand on the door handle and turned back briefly. “Dad. The speech tonight. You’re going to be good.”

I looked at him.

“Dr. Fisher says that saying the true thing is always the right thing even when it’s scary,” he said. “She says it to me a lot. I think it works for dads too.”

“I think you’re right,” I said.

He nodded once, with the finality of someone who had delivered the message he’d been holding and could now proceed with his day, and he got out of the car and headed for the entrance.

I watched him go.

He didn’t look back.

This sounds like a small thing, and maybe to someone else it would have been. But for three months, Theo had looked back at every drop–off, Two or three times, sometimes more. A quick check over his shoulder to confirm I was still there, still in the car, still present. It had been so consistent that I’d come to expect it, had made sure to stay in the drop–off zone an extra beat to be there when he turned

This morning he walked to the entrance and went through the door and didn’t look back once-

I sat in the car after the line had moved me forward and I was technically blocking the flow of traffic, and I let myself feel it.

ter 163

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It was small and fragile and I handled it carefully, the way you handled things that might not survive rough treatment. The way Theo had described handling the good moments in therapy–just noticing them, just letting them be what they were, not asking them to be more and not pushing them away.

He’d turned a corner. Not completely, not permanently, not without more hard days ahead. But a corner. Something had shifted, and I hadn’t fully seen it happening, and it had happened anyway, without my involvement, through the steady accumulation of therapy and friendship and mornings that were just mornings.

My son was going to be okay.

I drove to the office telling myself that, quietly, the way you told yourself things you wanted to believe long enough that they became facts.

Marcus was at his desk with the expression he wore on days when the information was manageable, which was a different expression from the one he wore when it wasn’t, and I’d learned to read the difference at a distance.

“Thorne’s movements,” he said, as I came through the door, before I’d taken my coat off.

I took my coat off and came to look at what he had.

The report was thorough in the way Marcus’s reports were always thorough, which meant it was complete enough to be useful and brief enough to be read quickly. Thorne had left the hotel at nine–fifteen. Had spent an hour at a coffee shop on the main commercial street, where he’d had breakfast alone and read what appeared to be documents on a tablet. Had walked through the central district for approximately forty minutes, the unhurried circuit of someone exploring an unfamiliar area without particular purpose. Had returned to the hotel at noon, stayed there through the early afternoon, and had been observed leaving again at three for what appeared to be a walk along the river path.

Nothing covert. Nothing that looked like preparation for anything beyond what he’d said he was doing, which was spending a few days in Silver Moon territory before attending the assembly.

“No contact with known associates?” I asked.

“None that we observed,” Marcus said. “He made two phone calls–both to the same number, which traces to the Alpha King’s administrative offices in BloodMoon City. Both calls were under three minutes.” He paused. “Could be routine check–ins. Could be reporting. I can’t tell you which without knowing what was said.”

“Assume the latter and prepare accordingly,” I said. “Where is he now?

“Hotel. Our contact at the front desk says he ordered room service at four and hasn’t left since.” Marcus set down the report. Matthew, if he’s planning something for tonight, he’s either extremely confident or extremely patient. There’s been nothing in his behavior today that suggests active preparation.”

“Or he’s done his preparation already,” I said. “And today is just waiting.”