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Damon
My private study had served as a sanctuary for three generations of Kildare alphas. Dark mahogany panels absorbed secrets, while soundproofing ensured conversations remained private. Now Carlton spread evidence across the centuries-old desk with the careful precision of a man handling explosives. Each photograph, each document, represented a piece of the nightmare I’d lived with for months.
The security chief’s usual stoicism cracked slightly as he arranged the forensic photos. He’d served our family since before I was born, had taught me to fight when my father was too busy with pack politics. Now he laid out evidence that suggested everything I believed about my brother’s death was wrong.
“I’ve been investigating, again, and whatever I could find,” Carlton began, his weathered hands steady despite the gravity ofwhat he was presenting. “Using resources typically reserved for external threats. What I found...” He paused, selecting his words carefully. “The official investigation was rushed, and you know it too. Conclusions were drawn before evidence was properly examined.”
The photos showed Laziel’s wounds in clinical detail. I’d seen them before, burned into my memory from that terrible morning. But now Carlton produced a ruler, laying it against specific injury patterns with methodical care. The measurements were precise, documented with the kind of attention that came from decades of investigative experience.
“The claw spacing measures 4.2 inches at the widest point.” Carlton’s finger traced the photographed wounds without touching them, maintaining the reverence due to evidence of death. “We have Miss Thornback’s measurements from her pack registration, required for all omegas when they come of age.”
He produced another document, official pack records with Rhea’s biometric data. The comparison was damning in its simplicity. Her hand measurements, taken years ago for identification purposes, showed a maximum span of 2.8 inches. Even accounting for the partial shift that could occur during heat rage, the mathematics didn’t work.
“Rhea’s maximum span is 2.8 inches. We have her measurements from her pack registration.” Carlton’s voice remained professionally neutral, but I caught the weight behind his words. He’d known this for weeks, had been building his case while I wallowed.
“These wounds were made by someone with significantly larger hands. A male wolf, alpha bloodline based on the depth ofpenetration.” The clinical language couldn’t disguise the horror of what he was suggesting. My brother had been killed by an alpha male, not a heat-crazed omega.
The ruler moved to another set of wounds, showing the same impossible measurements. Every strike that had ended my brother’s life came from someone physically incapable of being Rhea. The evidence was irrefutable, laid out with Carlton’s characteristic thoroughness.
“How long have you known this?” My voice came out rougher than intended, emotions threatening the control I desperately needed.
“I’ve suspected for weeks. But I needed to be certain before bringing it to you.” Carlton’s expression held a mixture of regret and determination. “You weren’t in a state to hear theories, sir. You needed facts.”
He was right. In those first weeks after the rejection, I’d been barely functional. The mate bond sickness had consumed me, leaving little room for rational thought. Carlton had investigated while I’d deteriorated, gathering evidence while I’d been lost in nightmares and pain.
“There’s more,” he continued, producing additional photographs. These showed the pattern of wounds from different angles, revealing details that made my blood run cold. “The attack pattern suggests training. Military precision in the strikes. Whoever did this knew exactly where to cut for maximum damage.”
My hands clenched on the desk’s edge as implications crashed over me. Rhea, barely trained beyond basic self-defense,couldn’t have executed such precise violence. The killer had experience, had likely killed before. They’d known how to make it look savage while maintaining deadly efficiency.
“Show me everything,” I ordered, needing to see what blindness and grief had made me miss.
Carlton produced comparison charts showing claw mark patterns from various pack members, documented from training incidents over the years. Our warriors regularly sparred with partial shifts, leaving records of their unique claw signatures. He’d been building a database without my knowledge, preparing for this moment.
“I’ve also analyzed the angle of attack,” he continued, overlaying transparent sheets on the wound photos. “The strikes came from above, consistent with someone at least six inches taller than the victim. Miss Thornback is five-four. Prince Laziel was six-one.”
The mathematics of murder laid out in stark clarity. For Rhea to have inflicted these wounds, she would have had to attack from an elevated position. But the blood patterns showed Laziel standing when struck, no evidence of him being lower than his attacker.
“She would have had to levitate,” I said, the absurdity of it hitting home.
“Or someone else killed him.” Carlton let the words hang between us, their weight undeniable.
My mind raced through possibilities, each more terrible than the last. Who had access? Who had motive? Who possessed the skill to execute such precise brutality while making it appear savage?
“You’ve built a strong case for her innocence,” I acknowledged, fighting the urge to howl at my own stupidity. “But it doesn’t tell us who actually killed him.”
“No, sir. But there’s more evidence to examine.” Carlton’s expression grew even more grave, if possible. “The security footage from that night.”
Carlton connected his tablet to the wall-mounted screen, technology meeting tradition in this ancient room. The footage began playing, timestamp showing 11:00 PM on that fateful night. But instead of the clear images our system should have provided, static filled large portions of the recording.
“The security system experienced selective failures between 11:47 PM and 3:23 AM.” Carlton manipulated the playback, showing the precise moments when cameras failed. The pattern was too specific for equipment malfunction.
The compound’s security system was state-of-the-art, with redundancies built upon redundancies. My father had insisted on it after a breach attempt in my youth. For multiple cameras to fail simultaneously required either catastrophic system failure or deliberate sabotage.
“Every camera covering the route from your quarters to the Thornback wing went offline.” Carlton pulled up a schematic of the compound, red marks indicating failed cameras. The pattern drew a clear path, too precise for coincidence.
I studied the map, seeing the corridor of blindness someone had created. From my quarters through the main hall, down the east passage, directly to the Thornback residence. Whoever designedthis knew our security layout intimately, understood exactly which cameras to disable.
