“The coat is Noa’s,” Anson said, reminding me he was present. “And these clothes match what she was wearing on camera.”
With the toe of her boot, Fallon nudged the discarded jeans and shirt. I wasn’t sure what she was looking for.
“Still wet,” she confirmed.
But if the clothes were wet, it meant Noa hadn’t been out of them long enough for the material to dry, although even with the warmth from the hot spring, too much moisture remained in the air. I doubted anything would dry. The next best thing to living in water, I supposed, if you were a river nymph who collected shiny human things, items that wouldn’t last if they were submerged.
I bared my teeth. Turned in a slow circle, looking around, trying to picture Noa here, nearly drowned from the river. Terrified. Surrounded by a rummage sale and vampire blood.
Anson’s rangers had lined up against the walls, waiting for whatever was about to erupt between me and their alpha. Drama whores, worse than the females.
But we were away from the curious, the ordinary wolves who expected decorum from their alphas.
Gone was the need for pretense and courtesy, while the air shimmered with competing energies.
Who knew what the hell would go down between an alpha who had failed, and another alpha who was about to exact vengeance?
Mace sensed the growing danger, or else he was all in with me, because he stood braced, while Fallon took a step, angled herself between me and Anson.
“Cut the crap,” she said to both of us.
“He has every fucking right,” Mace ground out, stepping over Noa’s wet jeans. “Anson failed—”
“Breathe in,” Fallon ordered. Mace snorted.
Anson shifted his weight and glared at Mace, eyes blazing. “You got a problem, fecking spit it out.”
“My problem—man—is that we sent Noa here to be safe.” Mace’s canines flashed. “Not hunted, half-drowned in a river trying to get away. Not holed up in this cave from packrat hell—”
Fallon snarled. “Will you fucking stop with the cock show and breathe?”
A muscle riffled in my jaw. My glance moved from Anson, over Mace, and ended up on Fallon. Her fury tightened every muscle in her face. She was rubbing at her weakened thigh, a spitting, wet cat, angry because we weren’t listening.
What was she getting at? It sure as fuck wasn’t about breathing in to calm down.
One of Anson’s rangers stepped forward, an electronic tablet in his hand. He pointed to the data blinking on the screen. “I found a reading for silver in the blood sample.”
“Which sample,” Anson snapped.
“Vampire. Mixed with some wicked magic.”
“What the hell is silver mixed with magic doing here?” Mace murmured.
My question exactly. That mixture was used to nullify a vampire’s power. I dampened the dominance raging through my veins because anger fueled it. Along with all the protective shit Noa always aroused, shit I secretly treasured, wanting to avenge her, puff out my chest with satisfaction like a stupid teenager caught in his first crush. Those feelings, while irreverent, resonated in my heart, and I cherished them. Cherished the ability to feel them, when for years, I’d been numb.
But I was missing something.
Fallon was prowling, her head tipped as if following some elusive scent.
Breathe in…
Fallon asked Anson, “Have your goons checked every inch of this cave, or did they stop after this room?”
A quick flick of Anson’s mouth and I knew the order had been sent. Two soldiers peeled off the wall and went in one direction. Another pair did the same, but took a different route.
Fallon shook her head. Wrinkled her nose. “Don’t you smell it?” She took a step toward a nest of blankets. “Here.”
I was vaguely aware of moving closer to the blankets tumbled in a pile. The blood scent was stronger because I saw dark smears on the drab wool and a discarded shirt. But when I breathed in…
