"It fits the evidence."
Whiskey approaches the doors to the old shower room, pushing one open carefully. The interior is dark and cold. No steam. But he inhales deeply, then looks back at me.
"Honeysuckle," he says, voice tight. "Faint, but it's here."
I tug the mask down despite the damp, mildew-tinged air and take in a deep breath. The scent is faded but unmistakable.
Whiskey turns to face me, and there's something raw in his expression. "Plague. We're both dreaming about her. The same omega. Same scent, same hair. That doesn't just happen."
I know what he's suggesting. The word sits heavy between us, unspoken.
Scent match.
"It's possible," I admit. "It would explain the dreams. The pull."
"And Wraith is hiding her from us." His hands clench at his sides. "If she's ours?—"
“We don't know that yet,” I cut him off, even though my chest aches with the same suspicion. “We need to confirm it before we do something stupid.”
But even as I say it, I know we're both thinking the same thing.
We have to meet her. We can’t go off her vague scent clinging to things, however much it sings to us.
I follow the scent into the stalls. A collection of long dark hair with auburn roots clings to the drain. Did she dye it? Did our bizarre shared dreams show us the truth?
"They must have interrupted her shower," I say, reconstructing the scene mentally. “Perhaps Valek followed her scent, Wraith intervened, they fought, and during the struggle?—”
“She brained Valek with the fire extinguisher,” Whiskey finishes. “Nice work, Sherlock. Then what?”
“I’m not sure about the rest,” I admit. “He must have taken her somewhere after dropping Valek off with us. He was in such a hurry, he didn’t even take another shirt with him.”
"The pack house," Whiskey says immediately. "She's at the pack house."
The certainty in his voice gives me pause. "That’s… asignificantleap of logic."
"It's the only place that makes sense," he insists. "Wraith wouldn't leave her here after she was discovered. He wouldn't take her to a hotel where she'd be alone, not if she’s our scent match. And?—”
“We don’t know that for certain?—”
Whiskey holds up a meaty hand to cut me off. “Andhe specifically said he needed a new shirt,” he finishes. “She's wearing his old one to cover her scent.”
As much as I hate to admit it, his reasoning is surprisingly sound. “If she's at the pack house, she's hiding in Wraith's loft,” I mutter. “You realize if this is really what’s happening, he’s going to go fully feral and tear us limb from limb if we go up there, right?”
“Maybe you,” Whiskey says. “Not me. We’d be evenly matched.”
I blow a puff of air through my nose and secure my mask back over my lower face. “I sincerely doubt that.”
Whiskey turns abruptly, pacing the length of the shower room. His movements are agitated, erratic. The controlled energy I observed earlier has devolved into something more volatile.
"What doesn't make sense," I say carefully, watching his reaction, "is why Wraith would feel the need to protect her from us in the first place."
“You think he'sprotectingher from us?” Whiskey looks up, frowning. “We'd never hurt an omega. He knows that.”
“He might if she wants him to hide her.”
“Orhe met someone and he’s keeping her for himself.”
“Wraith?” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Wraith is far too withdrawn to have gotten to know an omega the usual way. Something else is happening here. He deliberately avoid omegas. Acts like he’s repulsive to them. Consider his history. His scars. His isolation. Wraith’s relationships with people have always been... complicated.”
