Which meant two weeks of avoiding him. Two weeks of pretending she didn't notice when he walked past the tavern windows. Two weeks of ignoring the hum in her blood that said her lioness recognized something stronger even more than 10 years ago.
Two weeks until Christmas.
She caught herself wondering if he'd stay through the holiday. If he celebrated anymore, or if the pride had beaten that softness out of him. If he'd be alone in Miriam's inn on Christmas morning, drinking coffee and staring out at the snow.
Maeve shook her head, shoving the thought away.
She didn't care where Dante spent Christmas.
She didn't care about Dante at all.
But her lioness purred anyway, and the Veil kept humming, and Maeve knew with absolute certainty that the next two weeks were going to be hell.
6
DANTE
The storage shed behind the Silver Fang smelled like old wood and spilled wine.
Dante crouched beside a broken crate, running his fingers over the gouges carved into the pine. Deep marks. Deliberate. Four parallel lines that could've been claws if you didn't look too close.
But Dante looked close.
The spacing was wrong. Too even. Too measured. Real claws left ragged tears, pressure points where the shifter's strength concentrated. These marks were calculated, made to look like an accident while destroying everything inside.
Professional sabotage dressed up as carelessness.
His lion snarled, wanting to hunt whoever had done this. Wanting to track their scent and tear out their throat for daring to target what was Maeve's.
Except Maeve wasn't his and had made that very clear last night.
It didn't stop his lion from claiming her anyway.
"Finding anything interesting?"
Dante stood, turning to find a wolf leaning against the shed's doorway. Mid-thirties, dark hair, gray-blue eyes that assessed him with the kind of calm that came from years of military training. He wore work clothes, a tool belt slung low on his hips, and the easy confidence of someone who knew his place in the pack.
Emmett Hollowell. Had to be.
"Depends on your definition of interesting," Dante said. "You the Council member Varric mentioned?"
"Emmett." The wolf stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. "And you're Dante Deleuve. Heard you had an eventful first night."
"News travels fast."
"Small town. Nosy neighbors." Emmett moved to the damaged crate, studying the claw marks with a practiced eye. "Maeve know you're poking around her storage?"
"Does it matter?"
"Probably should." Emmett straightened, crossing his arms. "She will not like finding out you've been investigating without her knowledge."
"She's not going to like much of anything I do." Dante pulled out the list Varric had given him, comparing dates. "This crate matches the shipment from three weeks ago. Wine from a vineyard in Virginia. All of it destroyed."
"I remember." Emmett's jaw tightened. "Maeve was furious. Blamed the supplier for poor packaging."
"It wasn't the packaging." Dante pointed to the marks. "Look at the spacing. The depth. This was done by hand, not claws. Someone used a tool to make it seem like shifter damage."
Emmett leaned closer, studying the gouges. "Hell. You're right."
