He rose and began pacing, slow and measured. “You two aren’t who you claimed to be. That much is obvious.” He smiled faintly. “That alone will raise questions.”
He gestured toward the wall of clippings. “Now imagine this. Authorities receive a tip about two suspicious men staying at a local hotel. False identities. Strange materials found in their room.”
His smile sharpened. “Propaganda. Illegal substances. Weapons. It won’t matter what, exactly—just enough to frame the narrative.”
He stopped pacing and looked at me. “You come here. There’s an altercation. Perhaps you get aggressive. Perhaps shots are fired.” His gaze drifted briefly toward the camera mounted nearby. “Self-defense is a compelling argument, especially when there’s footage.”
Understanding settled over me. He didn’t just want information. He wanted a story: two dangerous, unstable shifters exposed in a quiet town. Authorities tipped off. Media stirred. Fear spreading fast enough to drown out years of trust.
Trust between the pack and the town would fracture overnight.
He was going to use us to undo everything Pecan Pines had built.
Marion kept talking, but his voice began to blur at the edges. The silver was spreading faster now. My thoughts felt thick, as if they had to push through fog before forming. My fingers tingled. My leg barely felt like part of me anymore.
If I was honest with myself, I was scared. Not of dying, but of failing, of Chris walking straight into this because I hadn’t been strong enough to stop it.
I pressed my lips together and closed my eyes, just for a moment. Holding them open felt like lifting something far too heavy.
When I forced them open again, the room tilted slightly out of place.
Marion was moving quickly now, sweeping items into a bag. The camcorder came down from its mount and disappeared inside. He left the clippings behind, taking only what mattered.
How long was I out?
He zipped the bag and glanced at me, a grin spreading across his face. “He’s here.”
Every sluggish part of me jolted awake.
Marion slung the bag over his shoulder and headed for the door. I heard the distinct, deliberate click of a gun being cocked.
Cold dread flooded my system. I yanked against the cuffs with everything I had left.
“Come on,” I muttered under my breath, forcing my wolf up one last time.
The silver fought back, dragging me down, but I strained anyway. My vision flashed gold as I tried to tear myself free.
Chris was walking into a trap.
16
CHRIS
Jaime’s words burned through my head like a brand, searing and relentless.
Come alone. He still has the gun.
The gun. Every time the word surfaced, my thoughts fractured all over again. I could still smell the blood from the relief tent, coppery and wrong, tangled with Jaime’s scent. My Jaime was injured and hurt.
Even worse, Jaime was somewhere I couldn’t reach. The image kept mutating in my mind, each version worse than the last, my imagination doing what it did best when fear got a foothold.
“Chris?”
The voice barely registered.
“Chris. Hey. Are you listening to what Tony’s saying?”
Levi’s hand closed around my arm, firm and grounding. I blinked hard, twice, the room snapping back into focus in jagged pieces.
