Worn.
Handled enough times that the edges had smoothed out.
The second I saw the faint carved symbol on the back—a thin vertical line intersected by a hooked curve—my stomach turned to ice.
Nora looked up at me sharply. “Wolf…?”
I lifted the bag to the hallway light.
Trigger leaned in. “He left another one?”
Sheriff Tate nodded. “Found it wedged into the back staircase door. Like he wanted to make sure someone found it.”
Havoc growled. “A signature.”
Saint quietly added, “A message.”
Nora’s voice trembled. “What kind of message?”
I held her gaze, steady. “That symbol isn’t random. I’ve seen it before. It marks fixation. Tracking. Sometimes… ownership.”
Her breath hitched. But instead of shrinking, she straightened.
“He’s marking me,” she said softly. “Isn’t he?”
The guys went silent.
And that silence was the answer.
I stepped closer, letting my presence settle around her. “He’s marking proximity. Encroachment. That doesn’t mean he’s getting inside. Not while we’re here.”
Sheriff Tate crossed his arms. “My gut says this isn’t his first game. Men like this don’t escalate out of nowhere—they escalate because they think they’re winning.”
Trigger’s jaw clenched. “He’s not winning.”
Saint adjusted his glasses. “We need more info. Sheriff, what else do you have?”
Tate hesitated. Just a beat. Then he pulled another item from his coat.
A printed photograph.
Black and white. Grainy. From a security camera.
He held it out.
Nora sucked in a breath.
A silhouette.
Tall.
The same build from the alley.
Standing across the street from the tavern.
Head tilted up—
looking directly toward her apartment windows.
