“Stop!” I shouted.
The handler startled, instinctively pulling back on the leash even though the dog was already mid-run. Officials reacted a beat later, waving arms, blowing whistles.
The malinois skidded, confused but unharmed, as the run was halted.
My heart slammed against my ribs as I vaulted the low barrier and reached the jump. I grabbed the pole, testing it. It wobbled slightly under my grip and it was far too loose.
Jaime was beside me in seconds, his hand steadying my elbow as if grounding me.
“You felt it,” he said.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “I just… knew.”
The officials swarmed again, expressions grim now. This was no longer an accident. Two compromised obstacles in one day was a pattern no one could ignore.
As they secured the area and escorted the handler away to calm her dog, adrenaline still roared through me. My hands shook faintly.
I hadn’t even realized I’d stepped in front of the jump until Jaime’s grip tightened, firm but gentle.
“You did good,” he said quietly, close enough that only I could hear.
I nodded, pulse slowly settling. The announcement came over the ballroom speakers less than ten minutes later.
“Attention handlers and participants. Due to confirmed interference with multiple obstacles, today’s remaining events are suspended pending a full safety review.”
A hush rippled through the space, followed by an eruption of overlapping reactions. There were groans, confused murmurs, sharp, angry voices. A few relieved exhales.
Dogs sensed the shift immediately, some whining, some barking, some pressing closer to their handlers as if bracing for fallout.
I stood there, heart still hammering, adrenaline refusing to drain. Jaime was beside me, solid and steady, his presence an anchor even as chaos bloomed around us.
Suspended. That word carried weight. This wasn’t being brushed off as bad luck or handler error. It meant someone had crossed a line too big to ignore.
Jaime’s hand rested briefly between my shoulder blades, grounding. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, though my pulse still raced. “Just processing.”
His fingers gave a light press, then withdrew. “Let’s get Pampi. They’ll want everyone out of the ballroom soon.”
We moved through the dispersing crowd, collecting our things, navigating the heightened tension that clung to the air like static. Officials spoke in low, urgent tones near the rings.
Security lingered by the exits. A few handlers argued with staff, frustration sharp and raw, but most just looked shaken. As we passed the refreshment tables, someone caught my interest.
Marion stood near the far wall, posture loose, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket. He was mid-conversation with another handler, nodding along, expression mild.
When his eyes flicked to us, his mouth curved. Not a smile, but a smirk. It was gone in a blink, replaced by polite neutrality, but my wolf snarled low in my chest.
I studied him carefully now. He was human, male, and in his late thirties or maybe early forties. He was well-groomed, had an average build.
Marion was also forgettable in the way people who didn’t want to be remembered often were.
Jaime didn’t see it. He was focused on Pampi, thoroughly checking her over even though she was perfectly fine. I didn’t interrupt him.
But I memorized Marion’s face. We cleared out with the rest of the handlers, the hotel staff herding everyone away from the ballroom while officials secured the space.
Outside the competition area, the air felt heavy, disappointment and unease hanging thick. By the time we made it back to the room, the day felt like it had stretched twice its length.
Pampi ate, drank, and promptly curled into a satisfied nap, utterly unconcerned with sabotage, investigations, or the sudden halt of her favorite game.
