Page 25 of Foxed Up

"It's a bit outside our jurisdiction," the captain was saying. "But they've requested our help since they haven't gotten anywhere, and they don't have anyone who can go undercover."

"Wait, undercover?" I said at the same time Wallace said, "Undercover, sir?" with a bit of a squeak in his voice. Great, the captain had alarmed him. Well, he'd alarmed me, too, and I wasn't as skittish as ol' Foxy Face.

I put a hand on Wallace's arm, and he grew still. Probably not in a good way. After an awkward moment, I removed my hand. He probably wished he could scrape me off the bottom of his shoe at this point. I regretted touching him at all.

The captain cleared his throat. "Not exactly undercover, but we need someone who is a shifter and not recognized as a police officer to go to a certain club and talk to some of the people who work there, perhaps against their will. Nothing sticks to this club, but there are a lot of shifters there, and it might involve sex trafficking. Nothing's confirmed, no raids have turned up anything, and no shifters who work there will speak with officers. But they might speak to a fox shifter who was thinking about taking a job there."

Wallace sat very straight and prim as he listened, and very still. I leaned forward slightly, tapping a hand against my knee before I caught myself and stopped it.

The idea was that Wallace would go to the club, interview for a job, and seem tentative enough about it that they'd let him talk with some of the shifters to ask what it was like working there. Obviously it would probably be groomed ones, or people happy with their positions, to tell him what a great opportunity it was, but the idea was that he'd still glean more than the officers had, and perhaps he'd even get the truth out of some of them.

It sounded like a shitty idea to me. Yes, Wallace would certainly be a commodity desired by sex traffickers. He was a gorgeous fox shifter. That carries meaning even outside the sex trade. Foxes are desirable and generally considered really good at sex. (Forsome reason.) But that was all the more reason to keep him out of their hands, especially for an undercover Q-and-A in another precinct. It's all fun and games until somebody decides he'd be a risk. Or so valuable they just throw him in the back of a van and kidnap him...and then he never comes home again.

My throat clenched tighter at the thought of Wallace, helpless and trapped, somewhere I couldn't get to him. He wore the most bewildered expression sometimes, when something hurt him. It was almost as if, even though he'd lived as long as I had (or nearly), he still couldn't believe how cruel life and the world and people could be. Wallace was soft, vulnerable, and not as tough as he thought he was. And he didn't think he was very tough to begin with.

Physically, he was strong enough. He was a shifter, after all. They're tougher physiologically than non-shifters ninety percent of the time. And he had a brain, a big brain: he was strong mentally. Emotionally...not so much. It was a struggle for him to get through a crime scene.

He hated loud noises and angry voices; the thought of a child in jeopardy caused him almost physical pain. There was no way he was tough enough to go undercover. It would no doubt insult him if I said that all as plainly as I meant it, but the fact remained: no way could he do that.

Not to mention he'd never be convincing as some kind of sex worker. My foxy Wallace was all nerd. He was cute, and he could be hot as fuck, but there was nothing of the sex worker or pole dancer about him.

Even that time in the club when I'd first approached him (and blown him in an alleyway, because how could I not), he'd been sex on legs, daring and sexy and frustratingly horny...and something about him had remained innocent and untouched. Something about him was too pure to work in a club.

People who worked in clubs...especially clubs that doubled as brothels behind the scenes...got hard fast or they didn't make it, sometimes didn't even survive. Nobody was going to believe that a sweet, cute guy like Wallace was desperate enough to work there without hitting rock bottom. He was clever, well-dressed, shy, and brainy. It just wouldn't work.

"Captain," I began, trying to think of how to phrase it so the "over my dead body" came across without pissing off Wallace.

"I'll do it," said Wallace.

Damn it. His protective white knight streak was out again! Just what I needed to deal with. He couldn't handle knowing people were being victimized without trying to jump in and save the day. Even though it would wreck him.

He'd nearly shipwrecked himself saving Elizabeth Brown, the little girl who'd been snatched a few months ago. It had been worth it, and even the toll had driven us closer, as he learned to trust and rely on me more, but he couldn't do it all the time...and he should never put himself in danger just from the hope that he'd be able to help someone else. It was a pretty slim theory anyway, if you ask me.

I was tapping my knee again, jiggling my leg a little, frowning hard. "Captain," I began again.

"I said I'll do it," said Wallace, sweeping a hand out, a note of steel in his voice that was unusual for him. He had a stubborn streak, as I well knew, but it rarely showed itself, hiding beneath his soft sweaters and brown curls and big, green eyes. His lithe frame held more steel and backbone than it showed...and when he did show them, there was really no stopping him.

He turned to look at me, a hard stare that warned me not to interfere and that told me he'd guessed a lot of what I was thinking already, and that it both offended and hurt him. Also that he wasn't surprised anymore that I would hurt and offend him. He expected it now.

All of that from one expressive green glare. For a moment, I wondered if my imagination was running away from me. But I'd never been a very imaginative guy, and the glare was pretty damned clear. I looked away first, clearing my throat.

"Ahem. A quick in and out mission, right, Captain?" I appealed, my voice a little hoarse. I couldn't stand the thought of my Wallace in danger, and me not being able to help. Even if he wasn't mine anymore.

"Yes, of course," said the captain.

Not good enough.Wallace wrecked himself on the shoals of crime and pain in this district. Why did he have to push himself even further and take on more? It would nag at him until he finished now, and if he couldn't save every last trafficking victim (if that was what this case turned out to involve), then he would probably torture himself with that knowledge forever. No one should ask this much from him.

The captain was looking at me. I couldn't understand his expression nearly as well as I could read Wallace's. He didn't have such expressive eyes. But there was something in there I wasn't used to, almost as if he'd been startled or pulled up short in some way. Like he'd seen something he hadn't expected from me.

I hadn't picked my nose or something, had I? I swallowed again, willing my voice to be normal. "And he'll have proper backup, right, Captain?"

"Of course," said the captain, still watching me like I was something unusual now or acting outside the norm. "Two officers from this precinct, and backup from our neighbors in uniform."

I nearly rolled my eyes. He didn't have to try so hard to play nice with them. They weren't even in this room — and they wanted to endanger Wallace.

"One of our officers will be you," the captain continued. "You'll need to stay and watch floor shows and blend in and be close at hand in case Avery needs you."

I only wished he did need me. But not in that way.