He spots a piece of red fabric lying on the ground. It’s the exact shade of the T-shirt Nix had been wearing this morning. When he picks it up, he gets a familiar whiff of mocha, overlaid with iron and the slightest tinge of himself.
The scrap is covered in dark brown stains that are unmistakably blood. Luca’s blood.
The idea that someone had made his sweet mate bleed enough that Nix had had to tear his clothing to stop the flow has Rowan’s wolf scratching and clawing at the inside of his skull.
Rowan wants to give him free rein to run through the city and bring death and destruction to anyone who stands in his way, to find the person who’d hurt his mates and tear them limb from limb. But he can’t. He has to keep a clear head so he can track his mates.
Then he can let his wolf out.
He crouches down so he can get the scent of the vehicle in his nose. Yes, it’s weird. He knows it, but he’s been doing it for so long that it’s second nature. There’s gasoline and exhaust and metal, but also that rotting-flesh scent. It’s infected the air around wherever the vehicle had been sitting.
It’s that scent that sets him off out of the end of the alley at a run.
It’s easy to avoid pedestrians or cars crossing the street, even at full speed, as the wolf is close to the surface. Its instincts are unmatched when it comes to self-preservation and the pursuit of that scent.
He can tell that the abductor’s truck has passed through a heavily congested area—perhaps because of an accident or construction delays—and his wolf redirects him down a side street and into an alley so they can reroute around the intersection.
Losing the scent of the truck for a moment, Rowan stops to catch his breath. He pulls out his phone and sees a text from Finn that Grayson’s visit to the Guild has gone well and that they are staying for refreshments.
No, Rowan won’t be texting him back either.
If a disappointed Jay is distressing, a disappointed Leo is worse. He’ll keep this to himself until he can at least find his mates’ location, and then he’ll confess to having left them and take his medicine.
There isn’t a message from Gideon, though, which is odd—but maybe they’re too busy with the kids and the crowds.
Gideon may talk about not being a “kid” person, but Rowan thinks it’s a front. After all, Gideon is the most parental of them all. Like Rowan told him at the safe house, Gideon is going to be the best Dad to ever Dad.
He might spare a minute to check the app to be sure his alphas are still well; and with that thought, it strikes him suddenly that he’s running all over the Goddess’s green planet tracking Nix and Luc like an animal, when he could have just tracked them on the fucking app.
You’re an idiot, Rowan Foster.
With that idea in mind, he turns toward the other end of the alley—phone in hand—intent on hailing a cab and following their microchip signatures. He’s thinking about where best to find said cab when there’s a sharp pain in his belly that sends him to the ground.
His wolf howls at the pain, and Rowan can’t help but howl with him.
The part of his enigma he kept subdued out of respect for Jay explodes in a fury.
Layered with loss and grief, the feeling is almost more than he can bear. With his wolf so close to the surface for tracking, the pain grows tenfold, and his wolf knows immediately what it is.
That kind of pain only means one thing: his alpha’s gone, and the mantle’s looking for a new home.
As the biological next in line to lead, his enigma is catapulted into dominance in the blink of an eye. He’s not expecting it—not the agony of loss nor the drive to lead—even though Gideon had long ago guessed that was why Rowan struggled to keep his wolf under control.
His wolf howls in victory while Rowan lets his tears flow.
He is his wolf, and his wolf is him.
All at once, there is a tsunami of emotion, and there is no one to help him handle it.
No one to lead the way and point out the joys and the pitfalls of life in that firm and gentle way.
No one who has the same perfect dimples and bright, shining eyes.
No one to show him what it means to be the best leader.
No one to hold him tightly in strong arms.
No one who smells like wood smoke on a cold, crisp morning.
