I convince myself she should check the data stick for strategic reasons. That she’s the expert on magical distortions. That I need her skills, not her proximity.
The lie tastes bitter.
I knock twice, sharp raps against the metal door. No answer. I push it open anyway.
Nova sits cross-legged on the floor, wearing—Jesus—short shorts; short enough that they ride up her smooth inner thighs to—Christ, Dane! Stop it! But then I see her tank top hanging low as she leans over to grab a paper. She’s not wearing a bra, and her breasts tremble as she reaches for it. When she pulls back, I see her hard nipples pushing against the fabric confining them. I want to free them, to find out what they taste like.
The morning light streaming through the window catches details I’ve avoided noticing until now. Her skin has that fae luminescence, pale but somehow lit from within, making her look otherworldly even in mundane morning light.
When she finally looks up from her laptop, her eyes stop my breath. Deep violet with gold flecks that seem to move on their own, like stars shifting in a night sky.
Those eyes narrow as they catch me staring, and I see the faint glow that edges them when her magic stirs.
Forcing myself to breathe and willing my cock into submission, I focus on what she’s doing instead.
She’s surrounded by paper covered in symbols I don’t recognize. Her hair falls across her face as she bends over a battered laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard.
“Ever heard of waiting?” She doesn’t look up.
“No.” I step inside and close the door. The space shrinks immediately—twelve by fifteen at most, filled with her scent, her presence. The bruise on her lip is darker today, purple-black evidence of last night’s fight. My fight.
I pull out the data stick, tossing it onto the papers beside her. “Trail cam footage. Two hikers went missing three days ago.”
Now she looks up. Her eyes narrow, taking in my stance, my expression. Whatever she sees makes her straighten, unfold her legs in one fluid motion.
“Grant Callahan dropped this off?”
“You know him?”
“I know of him.” She takes the data stick, turns it over in her hands. “County Sheriff’s deputy. Wolf family. His brother’s Beta of your old pack.”
I don’t ask how she knows. Don’t want to think about what else she might know about me, about Shadow Peak. About Lachlan, the handsome Fae prince.
“The footage is corrupted,” I say. “Something fried the deputy’s laptop when they tried to recover it.”
Nova’s eyes flash to mine. “Same signature that’s been triggering the boundary wards?”
I don’t answer. Don’t need to.
She pulls a small copper disc from her pocket—etched with symbols I don’t recognize—and sets it between the data stick and her laptop. “Grounding charm. Should absorb any residual energy before it hits my equipment.”
She connects the stick, fingers dancing across the trackpad. The copper disc glows faintly, then dims. Safe. The air hums with electronics and tension as she pulls up the footage.
“Here,” she murmurs, more to herself than me. “Three days ago, 2:17 AM.”
The screen shows a dark forest. Nothing moves except shadows cast by wind-stirred branches. Then a flicker—static that crawls across the image like insects.
“Wait.” Nova rewinds, slows the playback. She stands up, holding the laptop so I can see what she sees. “There.”
I step closer, peering over her shoulder. Her scent hits me—pine and flowers, making my wolf strain toward her. I lock him down, focus on the screen, trying not to focus on looking down her shirt, which is hard not to do at this angle. Does she know what she’s doing to me? Is my presence affecting her as well?
The distortion starts at the center. Not random. A pattern, rippling outward like a stone dropped in water. The light flares white-hot for a fraction of a second.
Nova freezes the frame, zooms in on that moment before the corruption. Her finger brushes the screen, tracing the pattern.
“I’ve seen this before.” Her voice drops, all business now despite the tension crackling between us. “The signature is distinct. The way it burns—“ She taps a key, advancing frame by frame through the corruption.
I see it now. The ripple. The flare pattern. Something I’ve never encountered before—but somehow I know that it’s dangerous.
