The humidor on the desk still smelled like Cohibas, and the scotch in the crystal decanter was a sixteen-year Islay that should have gone for double the price I paid.
In theory, it was the kind of office that intimidated anyone who entered it. In practice, I just liked the way the furniture made other men’s confidence shrink two sizes.
The baby was heavy for her age. Newborns usually came with a certain sickly, uncertain feel—fragile, unfused, all cartilage and panic. This one, once she stopped screaming, had a presence.
She went inert the second I wrapped a hand around her, like my pulse was the only lullaby worth listening to. The scent off her hair was weird: not new baby, but a high note of cherry blossom, subtle and persistent, the clear residue of Jai’s body pressed against hers for a long, desperate sprint. If I closed my eyes, I could smell his skin through her. It made concentration an exercise in pain.
I catalogued what I knew about my mate so far:
- Hazel eyes that mapped exits before they mapped faces
- Shoulders sloped and relaxed, but the hands never stopped moving
- A gait that said “military” even before he said “Ranger”
- The way he’d cradled her, hating every second, but refusing to do it wrong
- The way he’d left—fast, but not out of fear. Out of calculation.
- The sarcasm, which was a shell, and the anger, which was not
I could have put together a case study for a graduate seminar on the subject of Jai Flynn, but none of it added up to the thing I needed: a reason. Why this human, why this child, why now?
The scotch glass on the desk was half empty and sweating in my hand. The room’s only light came from the city outside, orange and blue and slivered with the rain’s refractions.
The baby’s breathing was steady—too steady. I kept waiting for her to crack, to shatter into the crying fit that had called Jai back from the curb. She didn’t. She was either in shock or, more likely, just bored with the world’s ability to surprise her.
I set the glass down and let my palm drift up and down her back, cataloguing the bone structure, the pattern of her tiny breaths. I felt her heart hammering in triple-time, and I remembered, for a split second, what it felt like to hold something that could die from a mistake.
My own heartbeat slowed. I’d had to learn that as a teenager: keep it under seventy, even when the wolf wants to punch through your chest.
The mate bond was not supposed to hit like this. I’d seen it in other wolves, usually with a long fuse—attraction, then denial, then the slow realization that biology had outsmarted you.
Mine was instant. I’d known it the second Flynn locked eyes on me in the office, and I’d seen the same recognition (rage, disgust, curiosity) surface in him. The rest of the world didn’t matter when you were in a room with your mate. That was the theory. The practice was a lot uglier. He’d walked out to prove he could.
I had to respect it.
Ashe returned with no ceremony. He entered with a legal pad in one hand, a thin folder in the other, and the same grim focus as always. He set the folder on the desk, careful not to disturb the glass or the baby, and stood at attention.
He started without invitation. “The parents are dead. The father, Cormac Daly, was beta in the Ridgeline Pack. The mother, Lena, was also Ridgeline. They swore loyalty three years ago, no history of dissent or infraction.”
I nodded, hand still moving down the baby’s back. She didn’t even twitch.
“Three days ago,” Ashe continued, “they left their home for Portland. Stated reason: urgent business with Prime. There was a record of the request in pack admin—marked urgent, no subject given. They never arrived. They were intercepted at the city edge, just after passing the weigh station on I-5. No bodies recovered, but evidence of violence: blood spatter consistent with gunshot and blade, plus canine marks from at least two assailants.”
“Wolves?”
Ashe didn’t hesitate. “Unlikely. Scent traces overlapped, but one was heavily masked—old blood, possibly pig, smeared deliberately. The rest points to human contractors, but at least one wolf involved for certain.”
The air in the office sharpened.
“Continue.”
“The mother ran, carrying the infant. Made it as far as the city center. There is footage of a woman matching her build on two security feeds; both times, she’s carrying a blanket-wrapped bundle. Last sighting puts her three blocks from the alley where the pup was found. After that, no trace.”
“She hid the child,” I said, just to hear it out loud.
“Yes. Then she doubled back, likely to assist her mate. Neither survived. No further sign.”
