"Have him analyze the traces those seven wolves left tonight," I said. "I want to know where they came from, what training they received, who organized them."
"And." I paused. "Those two suicide corpses, send them for detailed examination. I want to know if they took any drugs before biting their tongues, whether they were under some mental control, or just loyal."
Evan rapidly took notes on the tablet, fingers tapping the screen faster and faster.
"Understood, Alpha. Any other orders?"
"I won't be returning to the territory for the next week."
Evan's hand froze.
"A week?" He lowered his voice. "Alpha, if there's an emergency..."
"That's why I need you as my proxy." I clapped his shoulder. "Report all tactical decisions to me through encrypted communications. I'll give instructions within thirty minutes."
Evan was silent for a few seconds, then bowed deeply. "Yes, Alpha."
He was too smart to ask why I was staying in Baltimore this long.
Or rather, he'd already guessed the reason.
"Is that all for the border report?" I asked.
"Yes, Alpha. The border situation is stable, warrior morale is high." Evan hesitated. "Everyone's saying this was the most brilliant ambush under your command."
I didn't respond to the flattery. Just waved my hand, signaling him to continue. Evan understood, opening the manila folder.
"This is what you asked me to investigate."
My heartbeat suddenly accelerated, fingers trembling slightly beyond my control.
The coldness I'd had while analyzing battle conditions, that sense of strategic mastery—it all vanished. In its place came an almost adolescent nervousness.
As if I weren't an Alpha controlling a business empire and a wolf pack.
But an ordinary man waiting for news of the woman he loved.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm, and reached for the file.
"Ella Ross, 32, appeared suddenly in Victoria seven years ago. Funded by jewelry magnate Robert Ross, now a renowned jewelry designer. Single, no criminal record, clean social circle, main contacts include assistant Anna Green and some business partners..."
My gaze fell on her work photo.
Layla wore a white blouse, hair pinned in an elegant bun, head bowed, examining a jewelry design, profile gentle and focused.
Blue eyes. For the first time, I found blue so glaring, representing how ruthlessly she'd severed our past.
My finger stopped on that photo, slowly tracing her face again and again. The photo paper felt cold and smooth, nothing like her real skin—warm and soft.
"Too clean," I said quietly.
"What?" Evan didn't catch it.
"This resume." I looked up at him. "Too clean to be real."
A woman who'd survived drowning, seven years to build a new identity, become a renowned designer, gain industry recognition...
Every step flawless. Like those fake blue eyes.
