His expression shifts immediately and drastically. The playful warmth and easygoing charm disappear completely, replaced by cold tactical calculation and barely restrained violence. His blue eyes are hard as ice, sharp as blades. This isNash in operative mode—the version of him that very few people ever see.
"You got the fingerprints analyzed?" he asks quietly, voice pitched low enough that it won't carry even in the open air.
I nod curtly.
"Two clear sets. High quality impressions. Running them through the comprehensive pack registry database as soon as I get back to my laptop and establish secure connection. Should have results within fifteen minutes of starting the query."
"Good." His jaw clenches visibly, muscles ticking. "Once the blizzard lets up enough for safe travel—the second roads are passable and visibility is acceptable—we're leaving. Immediately. No delays, no excuses, no 'let's wait another hour to be sure.' We get her back to Oakridge Hollow where we have established security measures, familiar territory, and definite home advantage."
I agree completely without hesitation.
"Already mapped multiple route options depending on which roads clear first. Highway 7 is most direct but exposed. County roads offer more cover but take longer. Highway conditions permitting, we can be back in Oakridge in under forty-five minutes once weather clears enough. I'll be monitoring road reports continuously."
Nash stares out at the falling snow with the intensity of someone planning military operations. His hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides.
"Someone was close enough to watch her during her entire Pilates session. Close enough to see specific details about her positions and movements. Close enough to observe without us noticing their presence. Close enough to leave that note in a location we'd definitely find it without being seen entering or exiting."
"They wanted us to know," I say grimly, stating what we're both thinking. "This wasn't a covert surveillance operation. Wanted us to understand they can access her whenever they want. Can get close despite our vigilance. It's a deliberate power play. Classic intimidation tactic designed to make us feel helpless and her feel unsafe even with pack protection."
"Fuck that." Nash's voice is deadly quiet—the kind of quiet that precedes extreme violence. "Nobody gets to her. Nobody touches her. Nobody even fucking looks at her wrong without us knowing about it and dealing with it permanently."
I pull the note from my pocket one more time, looking at the careful handwriting with analytical detachment now instead of rage. Studying the letter formation, the pressure points, the slight variations that might indicate stress or deliberate disguise.
Whoever left this made several critical mistakes.
They revealed themselves and their presence.
Showed their hand too early.
Left physical evidence with biological markers.
And now we're going to systematically hunt them down using every resource and skill we possess and make absolutely certain they understand exactly what happens to people who threaten our Omega.
Nash and I lock eyes. Hold the gaze. No words needed at this point.
We've dealt with situations like this in the past—been through enough dangerous situations together—to communicate entire tactical strategies and contingency plans through sustained eye contact alone.
And I vow—silently but absolutely, with complete commitment—that no one is hurting our Sugarplum.
CHAPTER 32
Permanent
~REVERIE~
I'm mid-baking, flour absolutely everywhere—dusted across the pristine granite countertops like fresh snow, smudged on my left cheek where I absentmindedly pushed hair out of my face with floury fingers, probably tangled in my hair despite the messy bun I hastily tied it in this morning, definitely coating my favorite holly-print apron that Patricia from the lodge lent me when I enthusiastically asked if I could use the professional kitchen facilities.
The kitchen is gorgeous—all stainless steel appliances and butcher block counters and excellent lighting. Way better than any kitchen I've ever had access to. Patricia had been thrilled when I asked, saying guests rarely use the space and she loves when people actually cook instead of just ordering room service.
I carefully slide the final baking sheet of gingerbread sugar cookies into the preheated commercial-grade oven, using the lodge's professional oven mitts—thick quilted ones that actually protect against serious heat—to avoid burning myself like I didthat one time in my old apartment when I used a thin dish towel and ended up with a blister.
The concentrated heat hits my face in a pleasant wave as I position the tray carefully on the middle rack for perfectly even baking. The cookies are already starting to puff slightly, edges just beginning to set.
I close the heavy oven door with my hip and let out a deep sigh of relief and genuine pride that swells warmly in my chest like a balloon inflating.
I can actually bake.
Like, properly, successfully bake.
