"Who put those maps there?" I ask.
He blinks. The subject change catches him off balance, which is what I wanted. "What?"
"The patrol maps." I nod toward the wall above the ammunition crates, pulling his attention to them. "Those are internal Blackmoore patrol routes which means they came from the archive. And those—" I shift my gaze to the crates against the wall, two of them, olive tarp half-pulled back to show the stenciled military surplus markings— "are the same ammunition caches that Ciaran and I found buried in the eastern hollow two days ago." I bring my eyes back to Kieran's face. "The same corridors that were on those maps. The same corridors where someone set steel-jaw traps on paths your pack runs in wolf form at night."
Something moves through his expression. It's not guilt exactly—it's more like a wall being reinforced while something tries to push through.
"Human hunters used those routes to set those traps," I say, keeping my voice even. "If any pack member, in human or wolf form, hit one of those traps—your pack members, Kieran, they would have been badly injured, potentially killed.” I don’t look away and neither does he. "Did you know about the traps?"
"That's not—" He stops.
"That's a yes or no question," I say.
"The hunters were supposed to be a distraction," he says, the words coming out tight and clipped, like he's decided giving me the partial answer is preferable to letting me keep circling it. "Keep the town occupied. Keep attention on the mountain while the council dealt with the internal problem."
"The internal problem being Alden."
"The internal problem being weak leadership." He squares his shoulders, finding his footing in the script again. "The pack needs direction. It needs an Alpha who puts wolves first—not a human woman who doesn’t understand our world."
"Gideon put those traps on your patrol routes," I say. "Or he told someone to. Those maps on the wall have his seal. That ammunition is from the same cache positioned using your patrol timing data." I lean forward in the chair as far as the restraints allow. "Your father set traps on paths your packmates run, without caring if pack members got hurt. Does that fit into the vision of a strong pack you've been sold?"
He doesn't answer immediately, eyes glancing out the nearest window, a silent answer that doesn’t say much.
I feel the crack in the conviction and I don't push it further, because pushing it further right now isn't what I need. What I need is my field vest.
It's hanging on a peg near the door, and I recognized it the moment I finished cataloguing the room—forest green, eight pockets, built for extended fieldwork. Kieran must have pulled it off me when he brought me here, probably looking for a radio or a weapon. What he didn't know to look for, because he's never watched a wildlife biologist prep for a field day involving an aggressive unknown predator, is the two tranquilizer darts loaded in the inner right chest pocket.
I've been carrying them since the second week of this investigation. Standard protocol for potential rogueencounters with an animal large enough to require chemical immobilization.
I let Kieran finish his silence without filling it. Then I clear my throat.
"All that talking,"I say, "I've been sitting here, parched. Is there any chance I can grab my water bottle? It's in the side pocket of my vest."
Kieran turns from the window, a deep scowl on his face. He tilts his head, eyes never leaving me, then looks at the vest and the cabin door.
"You're tied to a chair," he says.
"I know that. You know that. The water bottle is about eight feet away, and I can barely feel my hands. I'm not asking to stretch my legs." I hold his gaze. "I am genuinely thirsty."
He looks at the vest again, grabs it off the peg, and holds it toward me, the water bottle dangling in front of my face rather than untying me.
"I can't really drink it like this," I say, nodding down to my restraints.
His scowl deepens and he groans.
"I'll loosen them enough for you to stand," he says finally, moving behind the chair. "You try anything and I'll have you back down before you take a step."
"I believe you," I say, because I do, and because it's not a step I'm planning to take.
The knots loosen. Feeling rushes back into my wrists with the familiar unpleasant burn of returning circulation, and I stand slowly, working the stiffness from my shoulders.
Kieran stays two feet behind me, between me and the door. I cross to the vest, unclip the water bottle, and make a production of struggling with the lid one-handed—because the other handis already at the inner right chest pocket, fingers sliding past the zipper tab with the practiced ease of someone who has opened that pocket in the dark, in rain, in the kind of conditions that don't allow for fumbling.
The dart is narrow, the needle capped, the plunger loaded. I palm it and don't break my water bottle routine.
Kieran resumes talking.
"—what Gideon understands that Alden never has," he's saying, pacing again behind me, back to his speech, "is the pack's strength comes from purity of purpose. A wolf who rules from instinct and tradition is a wolf who can hold what he's built. Alden spends more time managing your presence in the pack than he does managing the pack itself, and that imbalance?—"
