"Day four, seven-twelve," I say into the recorder, voice steadier than I feel. "Encountered property owner. Male, approximately six-three, late twenties to early thirties. Attempted to intimidate the subject off trail using vague predator warnings and territorial language. Subject declined to comply and continued investigation."
I lower the phone and stare at the spot where he vanished.
Property owner. That's what he must be. Blackmoore land, Blackmoore family. The sheriff mentioned them—old family, keep to themselves, don't cause trouble.
Except he just threatened me.
Sort of.
I replay the encounter in my head. His voice. The way he moved. The intensity in his eyes when he looked at me, like he was seeing something I couldn't.
And the way he stepped closer, nostrils flaring, like he was?—
Scenting me.
I shake my head and turn back to the tracks.
Professional. Stay professional.
4
ALDEN
The mansion rises through the trees like something out of a gothic fever dream.
Three stories of weathered stone and Victorian architecture, all sharp gables and arched windows that catch the fading light. Ivy crawls up the eastern wall, and the wraparound porch sags slightly in the middle, worn down by generations of boots. It's been Blackmoore territory for over a century—built when the pack first claimed this land and maintained through sheer stubbornness ever since.
I take the front steps two at a time, pushing through the heavy oak doors without slowing.
The foyer smells like woodsmoke and old leather. Portraits line the walls—Alpha after Alpha, dating back to the founding. My father's hangs near the staircase, his expression stern, uncompromising. I don't look at it.
"Alden."
Ciaran steps out of the study, arms crossed. He's leaning against the doorframe like he's been waiting, which he probably has. My Beta has a sixth sense for when something's wrong.
He's built leaner than me—wiry muscle and sharp angles, with ice-blue eyes that miss nothing. His ash-blond hair is cropped short, practical, and there's a scar cutting through his left eyebrow from a border skirmish three years back. He's been at my side since we were teenagers, and right now he's looking at me like I've lost my mind.
"Not now," I say, heading for the stairs.
"Yes, now." He pushes off the doorframe and falls into step beside me. "You dismissed council mid-session. Sprinted into the woods like your tail was on fire. Came back smelling like—" He stops, nostrils flaring. "What is that?"
I don't answer. Just keep climbing.
Ciaran grabs my arm, pulls me to a stop on the landing. "Alden. Talk to me."
"Let go."
"Not until you tell me what's going on." His grip tightens. "You've been off since the carcass this morning. Now you're walking in here looking like you've seen a ghost, and you smell like..." He trails off, eyes narrowing. "Human. Female. Why do you smell like a human female?"
I pull my arm free and push into my office, leaving the door open behind me. Ciaran follows, closing it with a soft click.
The room is sparse—desk, chairs, a wall of maps marking territory boundaries. I move to the window and stare out at the tree line, hands braced against the sill.
"Alden."
"She's my mate."
The words drop into the silence like stones into still water.
