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Walsh comes to my cell at ten on day fourteen.

“Bonded visit. Your wife’s here.” He pauses. “Early. And in a mood.”

“What kind of mood?”

“The kind where she told the desk sergeant to hurry the hell up.”

That’s my fucking girl.

He walks me down. Doesn’t do the cuffs too tight. Doesn’t whistle. He’s not Pruitt. He unlocks the bonded room, steps back, and I go in.

Empty.

I stand in the middle of the floor and breathe. Her scent’s already in the room, faint, off the hallway. She’s close. My wolf’s up on his hind legs and my hands are already shaking, and then the door bangs open so hard it hits the wall.

“I got him!”

Zahra’s wearing a navy suit. Her hair coming loose from her bun. Her bag half off her shoulder, a stack of papers crushed to her chest. Big brown eyes, sparkling. Breathing like she fucking ran from the parking lot.

“Baby! We got him…”

I got her off the floor, against my chest before the door shuts. Face in her neck. Breathing her in so deep it hurts.

Fuck. Fuck.

Vanilla. Brown sugar. Warm skin. And under it, thick and sweet, my omega. Fourteen goddamn days and she’s in my arms, soft and warm and wriggling, and the purr’s going before I know it started.

“Hi,” she gasps into my shoulder. “Hi, hi, okay, I missed you too, put me down, I have to show you…”

“No.”

“Declan!”

“Two minutes.” I scent her jaw. Her throat. Behind her ear. Her hairline. Both wrists. “Two minutes. Let me have that.”

She goes soft. Her hand comes up into my hair. “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay, handsome.”

Then she pushes back and shoves the papers at my chest.

“Read it!”

It’s a sworn statement. Thirty-one pages. Notarized. Thomas J. Brennan at the bottom of every one, in handwriting so shaky it looks like a kid did it.

I read.

Tommy Brennan never saw me that night. Wasn’t even on that fucking street. A detective named Mallory sat him down and handed him a statement to sign, with the time, the place, the corner I was standing on, all typed up nice and neat. Coached him for weeks. Told him the debt would go away if he was a good boy on the stand.

And who came with Mallory? Niall fucking Keane.

My wife’s still talking. She cross-checked. Mallory’s other files. Tells me about the motion she’s already drafted. How this isn’t a crack anymore, it’s a fucking gate. But I’m not hearing her.

I’m looking at that name.

Keane. Eamon’s dog. The piece of shit who sat in a car outside my wife’s window. The one who handed Tommy Brennan a typed lie and a promise. The one who had a dirty cop and a debt, and bought four years of my fucking life.

Now I’m walking out of here because of his shit tactics. Eamon got sloppy, sent his own guy, and his guy left his goddamn fingerprints all over my case.

Everything in me goes cold.