Hastings pulled out his phone, his fingers already moving across the screen. "I'll find her."
"How?"
"I just will." He looked up at me, his gray eyes sharp and determined. "In the meantime, let's get that cat."
Footsteps on the stairs announced Presley's return. She'd changed into jeans and a thick jumper,her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She'd washed her face, but her eyes were still red-rimmed. She looked young and vulnerable and beautiful.
"Ready?" I asked.
She nodded.
Hastings stepped forward, pulling her into his arms. She went willingly, burying her face in his chest. His hand came up to cup the back of her head, holding her close.
"We're going to fix this, Presley," he said quietly. "The cat. Maeve. All of it."
She looked up at him, fresh tears streaming down her face. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, gentle and reverent. "Let's go get your grumpy orange menace."
"And then we find Maeve," she said.
"And then we find Maeve," he agreed.
As we headed for the helicopter, Hastings hung back, his phone already at his ear.
"Yes, I need a full search of bed and breakfasts in Bridlington. Cross-reference with recent bookings. Single female, Irish accent, paying cash. I want an address within the hour."
His eyes met Presley’s who gave him a weak smile.
31
Presley
I didn't wait forthe alphas to catch up. The moment the helicopter touched down in the car park, I was running.
My boots slipped on an icy patch just outside the entrance. I windmilled my arms, grabbing the door handle to stop myself from face-planting on the concrete.
"I'm here for the ginger tom," I gasped, bursting through the door.
The council animal shelter was a depressing sprawl of concrete and chain-link fencing that smelled of industrial bleach and something else I didn't want to think about. Despair, maybe. Or hopelessness baked into cinder blocks.
It was certainly a world away from the cedar-scented hallways of Kensington.
“Which one?” the woman replied, bored.
I slammed my palms onto the laminate counter. My breath came in ragged bursts, fogging in the overheated air. "The one from the caravan park that you brought in yesterday. His name is Mr. Cheddar."
The woman behind the desk didn't even look up from her crossword. She was older, gray-haired, with the kind of tired eyes that said she'd seen too many animals come through these doors and not enough leave.
"You sure you got the right cat, love?" She circled a word with her biro. "That cat's a menace. He's scheduled to go to sleep at noon. He's too aggressive for rehoming."
"He's not aggressive!" I shouted, my voice cracking. Tears were already streaming down my face, hot and angry. "You'd be angry too if you were kidnapped by a council van!"
"Miss—"
"He's scared! He just lost his owner! He doesn't understand what's happening!" My hands slapped the counter again, the sound sharp in the quiet office. "You can't kill him for being traumatized!"
A shadow fell over the desk.
