That they can get close to her whenever they want.
She's vulnerable even when we think she's protected in what should be a secure location. That our vigilance isn't enough.
It's taking absolutely everything in me not to squeeze the paper to pulp. Not to crumple it into nothing and throw it into the snow and pretend it doesn't exist and this threat isn't real.
But I can't destroy evidence.
Can't let emotion compromise the investigation. Already ran comprehensive fingerprint analysis on it using some of my essential security equipment that I always pack—portablefingerprint scanner about the size of a phone, analysis software on my laptop, secure database access through encrypted channels. I never travel without the basics even on what's supposed to be a vacation or quick trip. Old habits from military intelligence work that saved lives more than once.
Got clear, usable prints. Two different distinct sets, actually. One presumably belongs to whoever physically wrote the message. The other might be from whoever folded it into the origami shape, or it could be the same person using different fingers. Won't know until I run comparison analysis.
Now I just need to get back to my laptop and run the prints through the comprehensive pack registry database. It's legally mandatory for all pack members to submit fingerprints when officially registering with regional authorities—safety measure, identification purposes, legal documentation, emergency services access. Which means if this person is part of any registered pack anywhere in North America, I'll get a match within minutes.
And if they're part of Reverie's old pack—which my gut and every instinct I possess is screaming they absolutely are—then we'll know exactly who's following her. Who's watching. Who's threatening. And we can neutralize the threat permanently.
I watch Reverie giggle as she manages to wiggle one arm free from Grayson's hold and immediately packs another snowball with her gloved hand. She throws it directly at Nash's face from point-blank range.
"Victory!" she shouts, pumping her fist in the air while still being held. "I win! I'm the champion!"
She starts hopping up and down in excitement—or trying to, since Grayson is still holding her.
He adjusts his grip to accommodate her enthusiasm.
Then her boot catches on something—a patch of ice hidden under fresh snow, probably—and she slips.
Grayson's reflexes are excellent. He catches her smoothly, adjusting his hold so she doesn't fall, pulling her more securely against his chest.
She giggles like some kind of evil mastermind, completely unbothered by the near-fall.
"Did you see that? Almost wiped out but I have a personal safety net! This is what peak performance looks like!"
Grayson rolls his eyes affectionately, his breath visible in white puffs in the cold air.
"You're being ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. You almost gave me a heart attack."
"Ridiculously amazing," she corrects with a grin.
Nash is holding her phone—the new pink iPhone 18 Pro Max we bought her yesterday at TechSavvy. He's been filming the entire snowball fight apparently without telling her initially, capturing organic authentic moments that content creators usually struggle to manufacture.
Now he's looking at the screen with obvious amusement, scrolling through what must be rapidly accumulating comments.
"You're live, by the way," he announces casually, like it's no big deal. "Have been for the past ten minutes straight. Currently 3,000 viewers watching you declare yourself undisputed snowball champion of Millbrook."
Reverie's eyes widen comically, her mouth forming a perfect 'O' of shock.
"What?! You put me on live and didn't tell me?! I've been acting completely ridiculous!"
"You were having too much genuine fun," Nash says with an unapologetic shrug. "Didn't want to make you self-conscious and ruin the authentic energy. Your followers love the real you."
She immediately shifts into content creator mode with impressive speed. Straightens her posture even while being held. Puts both hands up in an enthusiastic double wavewhile Grayson continues holding her securely like she weighs absolutely nothing.
"Hi everyone! Hi!" she calls toward the phone with infectious enthusiasm. "We're having an epic snowball fight in the middle of a developing blizzard! Well, not the middle-middle because that would be dangerous and stupid, but like the beginning stages of what might become a full blizzard later! We're at Winter Pine Lodge in Millbrook and isn't it gorgeous here?!"
Nash angles the phone strategically to showcase the snowy landscape in all its winter wonderland glory—the pristine white grounds, the elegant lodge building with its rustic architecture and warm glowing windows, the pine trees heavy with fresh powder creating that picture-perfect Christmas card aesthetic.
"I'll read some comments out loud," he offers, scrolling with his thumb while keeping the camera steady. "Let's see what your adoring fans are saying... 'This is literally the cutest thing I've ever seen.' 'Where is this place I desperately need to go.' 'The way he's holding you is couple goals.' 'Relationship goals everything.' 'You're absolutely glowing.' 'Can we please see the hot shirtless cowboy from yesterday's live?'"
Grayson groans dramatically from behind her.
