Not forgotten—he could never forget the sheer joy of realizing Bryce was his mate, and then finding out his mate didn’t want him. But it would be over.
BRYCE
“A politician with principles,” Matt said, once Tom had left the room. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“He’s not really a politician,” Bryce demurred.
“But he’s got an insider’s knowledge,” Matt said. He got to his feet and pushed the door closed. He stood for a moment, looking at both Bryce and Jesse, before hitching a hip against his desk. “If we told him what happened to Jesse’s pack and to Cale, he’d know who to report it to.”
Bryce licked his suddenly dry lips. “You can’t do that, Matt. If the wrong people find out he knows anything, he’ll be a target.”
“Then it’s up to him to tell the right people,” Matt said.
Bryce shook his head. Everything inside him clenched tight at the prospect. This felt wrong. So very, very wrong. “It’s too risky. I thought we agreed we’d be safer pretending we knew nothing about it.”
“We did,” Matt said. “But that was when we didn’t know who we could safely tell. If Tom can get this to the right ears, these people need to be held to account for what they’ve done. They also need to be stopped.”
He looked at Bryce, his gaze steady and compelling. “You know that saying about power corrupting? I think this is what we’re dealing with here. Someone thinks they’re untouchable. They’ve ordered the massacre of two packs that we know of—what the hell else might they have done? Or be planning to do, thinking they’ll get away with it?”
Bryce swallowed, because Matt was right. But…. “There has to be another way, one that doesn’t put Tom at risk.”
Matt sat back down, his fingers briefly rubbing his temples. “I wish there was,” he said. “Believe me, Bryce, I don’t like it either, but I can’t see what else we can do. If we tell law enforcement, they’re subject to political pressure. There’s only two ways I can see to stop whoever this is—one is to tell the Council members who aren’t involved, and the other is to go to a journalist, who’ll dig away till they’ve got the full story. But you know the risk of going to a journalist.”
“It means the whole thing will likely end up twisted until it’s a tale about how vicious and untrustworthy shifters are, and the whole issue will become a rallying point for anti-shifters,” Bryce concluded.
Matt was right. The safest way was to let shifters take care of their own business.
“Damn it,” he said, weariness swamping him.
“Tom’s smart,” Jesse said, his low, raspy voice filled with reassurance. “He can look after himself.”
Tom was more than smart, but he’d be on his own in Washington, and whoever this was had a small army at their disposal.
“Riley’s still digging away like a pup who lost its first-ever bone,” Matt said with a glimmer of a smile. “It seems he’s locked out of nearly everywhere from hisSentineldays, but he’s trawling the murkier parts of the internet, trying to trade what he still has for access to places that might help us find out more about Jax. Maybe we’ll have more info to give Tom by the time he gets back to Washington, and that’ll keep him safer.”
“Who do you think’s behind it?” Bryce asked.
“Bennett’s still my top suspect,” Matt said. “The security detail answers to him. He’s been angling to get Jesse at his side since day one.”
“But?” Bryce asked.
“We don’t have proof. Just motive.” He raked his hand through his hair. “I guess it’s possible this is Jax freelancing.”
Bryce snorted. “Why the hell would he do that?”
Matt shrugged. “Thrill kill? Some past grudge?” He shook his head. “No. I agree with you. He’s taking orders, and we need to find out whose. That’s where Tom comes in.”
“Should I go get him?” Jesse asked.
Matt nodded, and Jesse slipped out the door.
Bryce said nothing, staring at the floor like it might offer a way out. He didn’t want to see the look on Tom’s face when he found out what they were asking of him. Because he knew that even now, after everything, Tom would still say yes.
Chapter Twenty-three
TOM
The kitchen was too quiet. Tom leaned against the counter, a mug cooling in his hand. Voices drifted down the hallway—Matt’s low and level, Bryce’s tighter, frayed at the edges.
