CHAPTER ELEVEN
Levi
The dart hits justoutside the bullseye, quivering in the cork. Simon exhales through his nose, squinting at it like he can will it inward.
“Who was that?” he asks, not looking at me as he lines up another shot.
“Wren,” I say, already watching Beau out of the corner of my eye. He’s been moody all damn evening, nursing a beer like it’s done him personal harm.
Simon glances over at him, too. “That so?”
Beau doesn’t answer, just takes another long pull from the bottle. His jaw’s tight. He’s been like this since I walked into the tavern.
“What the hell’s going on?” I ask finally, setting my own dart down.
Simon’s throw lands just under the bull. “Beau saw her earlier,” he says casually—too casually. “Called me about it. I sent her someInvisira.”
The words land heavily. My head snaps toward him. “You think this is her reacting to it?”
Simon just lifts a shoulder, but I can see it in his eyes. He’s running the possibilities.
“I don’t care what it is,” I say, already pushing away from the bar.
Simon sighs. “Let me clear the bill with Mick, and we’ll all go. I’ll meet you outside.”
I don’t need telling twice. Neither does Beau, apparently, because he’s right there behind me, moving quickly.
Once we’re in the car, the heater kicking on against the cold, Beau speaks for the first time all night.
“There’s something I never told you,” he says, eyes fixed on the windshield like it’s safer than looking at either of us.
Simon’s buckling his seatbelt. “Now’s the time, then.”
Beau’s jaw works. “When I was over there earlier… I scented her. And made her come.”
The air in the car changes.
“You what?” I say, leaning forward so I can see his face.
“It wasn’t planned,” he says quickly. “It just—she was in bad shape, and it took me by surprise. All of it did.”
Simon’s frowning now, deep enough to put lines in his forehead. “And you didn’t think to mention this until now?”
Beau’s hand tightens on his knee. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing you drop over a beer.”
I bite back a curse. “Simon, any medical insight on why this is happening?”
He exhales. “A change in suppressants can sometimes mess with the heat cycle instead of suppressing it—ramps up symptoms, prolongs them. Can spike a fever. But we need to see her before we guess.”
“How was she sounding when she called?” Beau asks me.
“Not great,” I admit. “Barely coherent. Breathless. Like she was… yeah. Not good.”
“Fuck,” Beau mutters.
The rest of the drive is silent except for the hum of the tires on wet pavement. My mind’s moving too fast—medicalpossibilities, worst-case scenarios, and the way my gut’s knotted with something that’s not purely professional.
We pull up outside the café. No lights in the downstairs windows, but Beau’s out of the truck before Simon’s even in park. I follow.
