“She changed direction here,” Carlton observed, studying broken branches and disturbed leaf litter. “Sharp turn toward the highway. The rogues overshot, had to double back.”
That decision had probably saved her life. Quick thinking under pressure, using their momentum against them. She’d learned to think tactically since leaving pack protection, and the knowledge sat bitter in my throat. My mate shouldn’t need such skills. She should have been home, cared for, protected by the very wolf who’d instead cast her out.
The trail led through increasingly difficult terrain, brambles that had shredded clothing and skin, deadfall that forced detours and cost precious time. But she’d navigated it all, heavy with child and hunted by predators. Each obstacle conquered made my chest tight with emotions I couldn’t separate. Admiration andguilt twisted together until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
At the river, the story became clearer. Paw prints in muddy banks showed where she’d launched herself into black water, choosing hypothermia over capture. One set of rogue prints followed, then stopped at water’s edge. They’d let the current take her rather than risk their own lives in pursuit.
But smart rogues were also patient rogues. The fresher scent markers throughout these woods proved they’d returned, probably multiple times, hoping she’d come back. The thought of them still hunting her made my vision blur red at the edges.
We followed the river downstream, searching for where she might have emerged. The current would have carried her fast, especially with winter runoff making the water violent and unpredictable. At a bend where fallen trees created a natural trap, we found more blood on bark. She’d dragged herself out here, wounded and freezing.
“Tire tracks,” Ren announced from the highway bridge visible through bare trees. His voice carried the satisfaction of breakthrough. “Fresh when it happened, but the rain’s washed out detail.”
We climbed to the road, studying the marks ground into mud beside the guardrail. A vehicle had stopped suddenly, waited briefly, then accelerated away. The timing matched perfectly with when she’d have reached this spot, hypothermic and desperate. Her scent vanished like smoke at the asphalt edge, no trail to follow, no path to trace.
Hours passed in widening circles that revealed nothing useful. The rain had been thorough, washing away subtle markers my wolf senses needed. What remained told the story of her escape but not her destination. She was alive, that much the trail confirmed. But alive where? With whom? In what condition after such an ordeal?
My wolf demanded I shift, demanded I put nose to ground and follow instincts older than civilization. But when I tried, the rage nearly overwhelmed me. Scent markers of her terror flooded my senses, each one a reminder of my failure. I’d lasted maybe ten minutes in wolf form before the shift back became necessary to maintain sanity.
The thought of other males hunting her made my control slip dangerously. I had to clench my fists until claws pierced palms, using physical pain to anchor myself in human form. If I shifted now, I’d start tracking the rogues instead of my mate. The hunt would become about vengeance rather than recovery.
By full dark, we’d exhausted every lead these woods could provide. Back at the rented warehouse serving as our command post, Carlton spread maps across folding tables while his team reported findings.
Carlton pulled up everything they’d managed to compile. She worked at a real estate office, lived somewhere in town, kept a low profile that suggested deliberate effort to remain invisible. Smart choices for someone with reason to fear discovery.
“Employment started around four months ago,” Carlton continued, reading from his tablet.
Almost four months. Right after I’d carved her from my life and sent her into exile. She’d found work quickly, established a new life, created the kind of mundane existence that would draw no attention. All the while carrying my child and dealing with trauma I’d inflicted.
The warehouse smelled of dust and old machinery, hardly the environment for strategic planning. But it offered privacy and space for the equipment Carlton’s team required. Computers hummed against one wall, displaying satellite images of Millbrook and surrounding territory. Radio equipment crackled with periodic check-ins from perimeter scouts.
My stomach growled, reminding me I’d eaten nothing since dawn. The search had consumed the day completely, leaving basic needs ignored. Carlton suggested the diner across from the warehouse, the kind of local establishment where strangers might overhear useful information.
The local diner looked like every small-town gathering place I’d ever seen. Cracked vinyl booths, coffee that had been brewing too long, the smell of grease and cigarettes that no amount of cleaning could eliminate. We took a booth near the back, positioning ourselves to observe without being obvious about it.
That’s when I heard her voice.
The sound hit me like electricity, familiar cadence cutting through ambient noise with devastating precision. My head snapped toward the source before conscious thought engaged. There, three booths away, sat my mate. Her chestnut hair was shorter now, her face thinner than I remembered, but unmistakably her.
She was laughing at whoever was talking to her, the sound strained but genuine. An older couple sat across from her, the man’s gray hair and the woman’s maternal attention suggesting they’d claimed her as their own. The way they leaned forward, protective and caring, made it clear this wasn’t a casual acquaintance.
What the fuck was she doing here? Out in public, visible, vulnerable to anyone who might recognize her? The fury hit first, hot, almost immediate. She was supposed to be hiding, supposed to be careful, supposed to be protecting herself and my child from exactly this kind of exposure.
But then I really looked at her, and the rage transformed into pure want.
She wore a sweater that couldn’t quite hide the curve of her belly, the evidence of my child growing inside her. The sight triggered every possessive instinct I possessed. Mine. Carrying my offspring. Vulnerable and unprotected while I sat twenty feet away, close enough to touch, close enough to claim.
Her profile showed the exhaustion she tried to hide, the kind of bone-deep weariness that came from carrying life while your body slowly consumed itself to build it. But she was beautiful, more beautiful than memory had painted her. Pregnancy had given her skin a luminous quality, and had rounded curves that made my mouth water with want.
I wanted to cross those twenty feet, wanted to drag her from that booth and pin her against the nearest wall. Wanted to mark her throat again, deeper this time, permanent enough that no amount of political necessity could carve it away. My wolfpressed against my ribs, demanding I claim what was mine regardless of circumstances or consequences.
The conversation at her table was too quiet to hear, but body language told its own story. The older woman reached across to pat her hand. The man nodded seriously at whatever she was saying, the kind of paternal attention that spoke of genuine care.
They’d taken her in. Given her family when I’d stripped away everything else. The knowledge should have brought gratitude. Instead, it sparked jealousy so intense I had to grip the table edge to prevent myself from moving. She was mine to comfort, mine to protect, mine to provide for. These strangers had no right to offer what I should have been giving all along.
“Sir?” Carlton’s voice came from very far away. “You’re bleeding.”
I looked down to find my claws had extended, piercing palms hard enough to draw blood. The scent would carry if I wasn’t careful, marking this space with my presence in ways that might alert unwanted attention. I forced the claws to retract, pressing napkins against the wounds while never taking my eyes off her.
