Page 103 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

“Excellent,” I said. “Now my shoulder is sentimental.”

Ronan held out his hand. “Fabric.”

Ian gave it to him.

“Brenner’s uniform,” Ian said. “Caught on the inner thorns. His trail goes toward the old service dock. He was afraid.”

“Running?” Ronan asked.

“Yes.”

“Chased?”

Ian’s jaw tightened. “Maybe.”

Lucien’s face was no longer smooth. “The dock security went offline for twelve minutes after midnight.”

Ronan turned slowly toward him, one brow raised.

Lucien continued. “I didn’t have that report when we left the suite.”

“Why not?”

“Because it was buried under maintenance flags.”

“By whom?”

“I am finding that out now.”

The garden felt suddenly colder. A gate opened. A guard missing. A dock camera down after midnight. Someone had moved through the wolf side before and after the rite, and my accidental survival had turned their quiet plan into something with witnesses.

Well. One witness. Currently in a wheelchair with supernatural dental trauma.

A shout came from the west side of the grounds, familiar enough that my stomach dropped before my brain attached a name.

Grant.

Ronan turned toward the sound with murderously controlled patience.

Lucien checked his phone, then looked up. “Mr. Carrington left the west terrace.”

Ian’s face went blank.

I grabbed the arm of the chair, not him this time. “Why?”

Lucien’s mouth tightened. “He told staff he had a private letter for Ms. Morgan and didn’t trust it to not be withheld.”

Of course Grant had a letter.

Of-fucking-course.

A normal person would wait. A decent person would send concern through my father or Tessa. Grant would write something private, slippery, intimate enough to make me feel dirty and vague enough to deny.

Ian’s voice dropped. “Where is he?”

“On the west garden path with two staff trying to redirect him,” Lucien said.

Ian moved but Ronan blocked him with one step.