I save the file and close the laptop.
The cabin is brighter now, morning light pushing through the thin curtains. My shoulder throbs beneath the gauze, a steady reminder of how close the rogue came.
I pull the curtain aside from the window just enough to see the clearing. No movement.
“You told me to leave,” I say quietly, recalling his voice. Low, controlled, certain.
You saw nothing. Speak of this to no one.
The phrasing wasn’t a request.
I don’t respond well to orders issued without explanation.
If the corridor maps back to his land and the wolves map back to him, then the next variable to test is direct confrontation.
I grab my jacket from the chair and shrug into it carefully, adjusting the fabric around the stitches.
“You want me gone,” I say under my breath. “That’s not happening.”
I slide the laptop into my pack and zip it closed.
It’s time to walk back up that mountain and force answers out of Alden Blackmoore.
The Blackmoore estate looks less mysterious in daylight and more strategic.
Stone walls rise high and deliberate, windows narrow and evenly spaced. The front doors stand open, and voices carry from somewhere deeper inside. I walk straight through without knocking, maps tucked under one arm and my tablet balanced against my hip.
Conversation falters as I enter.
A dozen sets of eyes turn toward me at once. The people inside are dressed in dark, fitted clothes that look practical rather than decorative, and they stand with the kind of posture that suggests training rather than hospitality. I register the scrutiny but keep moving.
“Where is Alden Blackmoore?” I ask, directing the question at the nearest man by the staircase.
His gaze shifts past me toward the rear hall.
“Alpha—” someone begins, then cuts himself off.
I follow the line of sight without waiting for clarification. The rear doors stand open to the stone clearing, and I spot Alden immediately among a small cluster of men. He stands within the cluster, broad-shouldered and steady, expression unreadable even in full daylight.
He notices me before I reach him.
“You should not be here,” he says evenly.
“I found something,” I reply, dropping my maps onto the nearest flat surface. “And you are going to listen.”
The men around him shift subtly, as if adjusting for impact. Alden’s gaze flicks once toward them, then back to me with sharper focus.
“You crossed onto my land again,” he says.
“I followed the evidence,” I answer.
I unroll the largest map and press it flat with my palm. The paper crackles softly in the morning air, lines and coordinates already marked in red ink.
“These are the confirmed attack sites,” I say, pointing in sequence. “Eastern trail. Southern ranch line. Northern access road. All within six weeks.”
Alden watches without interruption, but his jaw tightens slightly.
“I overlaid the GPS coordinates with terrain elevation and property lines,” I continue, pulling up the digital overlay on my tablet. “The pattern repeats.”
