Salvation (Wild Heat)

Chapter 1 – D E N V E R

“I’mwilling to do whatever it takes to find her.”

Roger Castle is the perfect picture of a distraught father—the red eyes, the fidgeting hands, the shoulders hunched under his tailored Brioni suit.

The man seated next to Castle in the gleaming study of the expansive waterfront mansion is Grayson Castle, Roger’s son. No tears from junior. Just a cold, set, somewhat disdainful expression on his long face. They’re both Alphas, and clearly both used to being in command.

I take them in with calculating eyes. Reviewing every word, every blinked back tear in my head.

I know what a cold-hearted bastard I am, analyzing a father afraid for his missing daughter. Questioning everyone’s true intentions. But it’s my job. Nobody hires a mercenary for his bedside manner. Especially not a real estate tycoon like Roger Castle.

He recruited me personally through the agent who connects me to most of my jobs. I don’t know what made Castle pick me—I’ve got military experience, sure, but there are plenty of vets out there. The agent made it seem like a big deal that Castle asked for me personally.

Weird as it was, I didn’t ask too many questions. As a missing persons case, it wasn’t my usual gig, but pretty straightforward. I’d already reviewed the file, memorized the photo of Brooklyn Castle tucked inside. I didn’t need a meeting with the client before I got to work. But Castle insisted we speak in person before we set out. I supposed since this was ground zero, it did make logical sense for us to start at her last known location.

Usbeing me and the two other guys who got recruited. The three of us sit at the conference table in Castle’s study, listening to him prattle on. I wonder if they’re as impatient as I am to get moving. Daylight’s wasting away while this guy waxes poetic about a girl who’s very likely nothing more than a corpse now. And everything he’s saying is information that was already contained in the damn file.

“My daughter went missing over a year ago,” Castle goes on. “It’s been awful. Like a piece of us is missing. I don’t know how my son and I have managed to keep ourselves together. If her mother were still alive, she’d be?—”

Roger Castle clears his throat of the emotion caught there and coughs, muttering an apology. He takes his son’s hand and squeezes it. The son lets go quickly. Apparently, he’s not big on parental comfort.

“It’s okay, Dad,” the son offers, his cool blue eyes sliding to meet mine with an intensity I didn’t think him capable of. “They’re going to find her.”

And the way he says it—like just because he commanded it we have to follow through—makes me bite my tongue.

“The security footage from this house showed her leaving the perimeter on foot,” Castle explains after nodding gratefully to his son. “She was headed in the direction of Olympic National Park. It’s a short walk from the estate, and she hikes sometimes as a hobby. We believe she got lost, somewhere in the park there.”

It’s not a bad theory. Getting lost in Olympic National Park would be easy. It’s massive, over 900,000 acres of mountains, rivers, and winding trails. One wrong turn or stumble off the marked trail, and suddenly you’ve completely lost your sense of direction.

And if Brooklyn didn’t go for the main entrance, wandering in from the side instead, it would be even easier for her to lose track of her path. “The authorities say they’ve done everything they can, but I’m not willing to sit back and accept that anymore. So I put together a team of the best men I could find. I need you to go in there and bring my daughter home.”

Myteam, if you could call us that. Across the table from me sit two other Alphas. I turn the same calculating gaze on them. Castle told me their names, but frankly, I’m shit with names. So until I get a chance to jog my memory, they’re just the Tracker and the Survivor.

The Tracker is one quiet motherfucker. He hasn’t said one word since we sat down. A big game tracker-hunter, apparently, and an expert in following his nose to his prey. Castle says he’s hunted everything from moose to mountain lions. When we all left our packs at the door, I saw a massive crossbow strapped to the top of his, and I’m sure he saw the sniper rifle strapped to mine. I don’t plan on using it for this mission, but I don’t like being caught unprepared.

The Survivor’s more relaxed, quick to smile, looking at me and the Tracker like he thinks we’re going to be best friends. It took me a minute to recognize him; last time I saw him, his five o’clock shadow had grown to a full, bushy beard. Of course, that was after he’d spent six weeks in the Alaskan wilderness, surviving off rabbits and birch bark. The Survivor won one of those reality shows where they drop you in the middle of nowhere with a pocketknife and a roll of duct tape. I’m not ashamed to say I binge watched three seasons in a row a couple months back. It’s entertaining shit.

I don’t know how the three of us will work together. But frankly, I don’t care. I’ve worked with people I don’t like before. In my military days, I didn’t get to choose my bunkmates. As long as they don’t get in the way of me getting the job done, we’ll be fine.

“Any sign of foul play?” I ask. “No ransom?”

Castle shakes his head. “None. I almost wish it were that. I’d pay anything for her safe return. But I’ve exhausted all the other avenues. You three are our last hope.”

“Does she have any experience hiking?” the Survivor pipes up. Obviously he didn’t read every letter of the case file three times.

“Nothing extensive,” I answer before Castle can. “Her mother would take her into the park to hike a lot in her youth. But no backpacking, no lengthy trips in any sort of wilderness alone.”

I looked to Castle, giving him an opening to interject or correct me. He only nods, adding, “I don’t even think we have a tent in the house.”

No surprise there. The Castles don’t exactly seem like the type of family that considers roasting marshmallows over a campfire a great vacation. They’re more the type that jet off to the Maldives, then enjoy their separate activities and save the quality time for the flight back home.

Castle slides a photograph onto the table. The same picture I was sent when I accepted the job.

A girl with dark hair, glancing away from the camera. Elusive, even while sitting still. A full pouty mouth set against a sharp jaw. Thin, too thin even here, her collarbone a distinct line under her black sweater.

Something about that photo stuck with me. Even seeing it again, here, in the bright light of Castle’s study, something inside me tenses in alertness. Like this girl might slip right through my fingers if I don’t keep my focus. She looks lost already, and supposedly this photo was taken months before she vanished.

“This is the last photo I have of my daughter,” Castle explains. “On her seventeenth birthday. It’s been a little over a year since she went missing.”

My eyes go back to the photo. What girl looks so unhappy on her birthday?

Across from me, the Tracker’s frowning, too. I can tell that he sees what I see.

A lost, dispirited, possibly desperate girl. Maybe she got lost, but I’m not ruling out the possibility that she’s running from something. Houses like this, with all their finery and watchful eyes, can feel just as suffocating as a tomb. There are different ways to drown, and everything is the end of the world to a seventeen year old girl.

“Can we see the security footage of her leaving?” the Survivor asks.

I grunt my approval. It’s a good question. And that footage wasn’t in the package. It would show us what Brooklyn was carrying, what she wore. That would tell us how long she expected to be out there. Plus, if she was distressed or coerced, we might spot something the police missed.

Castle shifts in his chair. “I’m not sure where it’s being stored at the moment, unfortunately. I’ll ask my assistant to track it down for you.”

The Tracker cocks his head at Castle but remains as silent as the grave. I want to say more. Push him. Surely they would have shared the footage with the police. If they did, it should be easy to find the digital trail and forward it to us.

Instead, I say, “That would be helpful.”

“My team prepared dossiers for you on Brooklyn, and on the park,” Castle continues, gesturing to the folders in the center of the table. I assume these must contain more detailed information than what was sent in the mission packet, and feel a rush of annoyed heat lick up my back that we’re being presented with new information the day we’re intended to depart. I could have studied them more thoroughly if they were sent in advance with the rest of the packet.

“And there’s one more thing.”

Castle pushes forward a small black box. It looks weatherproofed and hardy. Like I could kick it over a waterfall and know it’d harmlessly bounce off the ragged rocks below.

“You’ll need these,” he says.

Across from me, the Tracker grabs the box and opens it. His brow furrows as he sees what’s inside.

“Rut suppressants?” He glances at me and the Survivor, his voice low and rough.

“There are also heat suppressants in there for Brooklyn to take once you find her. My daughter is an Omega, and she probably hasn’t been near another person in months, let alone an Alpha,” Castle explains. “Which means she’ll be especially… vulnerable.”

We can all hear what Castle really means to say, and I want to throttle him for omitting this information in the original case file. Instead I clench my teeth and attempt to maintain my composure and the mask of professionalism that’s expected of me as team leader.

Think through the problem.

Without heat suppressants, if this Omega is alive, she’s probably a light alpha-scented breeze away from going into heat. Which makes her vulnerable to whatever Alpha stumbles on her first. Her scent alone could push any of us into a rut.

In any other circumstance, I’d resent the insult to my self-control. It takes more than some simpering Omega to make me go wild. Hell, I’ve sunk my cock into a few Omegas in my day, but I never knotted them.

None of them were in heat, though…

But hell, if I can keep my head while I’m buried in a hot, wet pussy, with a willing Omega keening underneath me, then I’ve got the discipline to resist anything.

I hold my tongue.

And I resist the urge to throw Castle’s mission and exorbitant amount of money back in his damn face for keeping this from me.

“The rut suppressants should help you keep your instincts under control and your focus on the purpose of this mission,” Castle explains.

“We wouldn’t want some selfish piece of trash to force himself on my sister,” Grayson says with a sneer. His eyes flick over me, taking in my close-trimmed beard and tight t-shirt.

I can read between the lines. He wants me to know that a brute like me isn’t good enough for his precious sister. Know your place.

My fist clenches. He’s missing the fucking point. It wouldn’t matter if I was a billionaire prince—no Alpha should be claiming his sister without her consent.

Fuck, I’m ready to growl at him, ready to show him exactly what he should be afraid of.

But I don’t.

I meet his eyes, keeping my expression imposing and stony. Let him see that he can’t lure me into a pissing contest. An expensive suit and a Rolex aren’t enough to make me feel intimidated. Anything he bought with his Daddy’s credit card doesn’t prove shit to me.

Show me your scars, little man, then we’ll talk.

Castle stands, ending the meeting. He’s apparently oblivious to the staring contest between me and his shithead son. “I’ll show you to the library, if you’d like some time to discuss your approach. Any supplies you need, my staff will be happy to provide them.”

“Don’t worry about supplies,” the Survivor says cheerfully. “If these guys are as picky about their gear as I am, I assume we already have everything we need.”

He’s right. I packed my backpack the minute I saw the specs of the assignment. I’ve personally picked every item I’m carrying. When you’re trekking over mountains for miles a day, you don’t waste space on anything you haven’t personally justified to yourself.

The Survivor and the Tracker leave the office, but Castle stops me with a hand on my arm.

“A moment, Briggs,” he says.

We pause until the rest of Castle’s staff file out of the room. The son stops at the door, staring back at us. It’s clear he doesn’t want to miss our conversation. But with a nod from his father, he leaves, too.

When we’re alone, Castle lets out a breath, like he’s finally relaxed around me.

Except my instincts tell me that he’s still wearing a mask. He’s still trying to sell me some image of himself. I just can’t figure out what it is yet.

“I was relieved you took the assignment,” Castle says. “With your experience, I’m confident that you can find my Brooklyn and bring her back safe and sound.”

“I was happy to take the job,” I tell him.

The truth is, I was fucking desperate for an assignment. A hired gun with my skills will always be in high demand. Problem is, I’ve always been picky about my assignments. I don’t work with the same client more than once. It breeds familiarity, and familiarity clouds your judgment. Keeps you from noticing the details.

Other jobs I won’t take because, frankly, unlike what Grayson implied, I’m not a fucking piece of trash… It’s not like I’m some angel, performing good deeds, saving the helpless or some bullshit. But a man’s got to have a code. I’ve seen enough innocent people killed in my lifetime, and I have more blood on my hands than I should. Now, I don’t take jobs that would see me gunning down civilians or playing executioner.

Frankly, it’s been a while since a job came up that I’d ever accept. Bringing a missing girl home fit the bill. Either I save her, or I bring her family some peace. Give them a body to bury. A gravestone to lay flowers on.

And the money didn’t suck, either.

“Good, good,” Castle says. “You’re military, so I know you’ve got the discipline to do what needs to be done. I trust that if the other two can’t control themselves around my daughter, you’ll handle it?”

“Should I be worried about them?” I ask, raising a brow. The Tracker and the Survivor seem like good guys, but I just met them. Maybe there’s something I missed.

“I hope not,” Castle says. “But you understand, I’m sending three Alphas after her. After a young Omega. If there were Betas with the same level of experience we need to find her, I would’ve hired them. But I wanted the best. I believe that’s you.”

My instincts prickle, and I wonder again why Castle chose me. Does he really think I’m the best man to find his daughter? Or does he think my military discipline means he can command me to do whatever he wants?

As we rejoin the others in the hall, I suspect I know the answer. And it’s not one I like.

——

The Library that Castle leaves us in should belong on a college campus, not in a private home. The square footage would be enough to accommodate an Olympic swimming pool and the ceilings are at least 16 feet high. The shelves are crammed with leatherbound volumes; I can’t imagine Castle cracking one open and settling into an armchair to read.

We settle around a table near the empty fireplace. The gray, unwarmed stones add to the general feeling of coldness about the mansion.

“So, uh, what were your names again?” the Survivor asks. “Sorry, I really suck with names.”

“Same,” I agree. “You can call me Denver.”

“Like the city?”

I nod. “On ops, I like my team to use their city names if no one’s averse to it. Easier to remember.”

And easier to keep my team from getting close to me. Camaraderie messes with your judgment. And if I’m tasked with making sure the other Alphas keep their cool around Brooklyn, I’ll need my head clear.

“I like that,” the Survivor says. “You can call me Camden, then. Nice to meet you both.”

Camden turns to the Tracker, his hand outstretched. The Tracker stares right back at him. Long seconds go by before he finally accepts the handshake.

“Memphis,” he mutters.

“Well, that explains the Southern charm,” Camden cracks. “Not much of a talker, are you?”

Memphis doesn’t say anything to that, just crosses his arms across his chest.

Camden lets it go, pulling a folded map out of his jacket pocket and spreading it on the table in front of us. “I hope it’s okay, but I made some notes on the paths we might want to start with. We know that she’ll need a water source. And since nobody’s reported spotting her, she’s probably far from the major trails and campsites.”

The map is marked up with red pen, dividing the park into zones, sorted into the most likely places to find her. I take my time examining the work, and find that it’s thorough.

“Nice work,” I admit. “We could start down here, by the lake. Then start moving north.”

We work together to get the search order in place. Well, Camden and I do, anyway. Memphis mostly watches quietly, grunting when he agrees with us.

Nobody wants to stay the night here and start in the morning. We’re impatient to get going. And at least for me, this house gives me the creeps. I’d sleep better under an open sky than with Grayson Castle snoring down the hall.

“Who wants to carry these?” I say, holding up the little black box.

“Fuck, I hate rut suppressants,” Camden says with a shudder.

Memphis and I nod our agreement. My lip curls in disgust just thinking about how I’ll feel after choking them down. Rut suppressants have their uses, but the side effects are hell. I’ve only had to take them once for a single op out east that I’d rather not have staining my memory. The meds are designed to rein in an Alpha’s instincts, to stop us from our relentless pursuit of an Omega. To effectively neuter the animal inside of us.

It’s fucking inconvenient, considering that those very instincts are the things that make me best at my job.

They make my muscles feel heavy and useless, compromising my strength. Plus, my senses feel muted. Like the volume’s been turned down on everything. The world feels slower and more distant.

The worst part is how they mess with my sense of smell. Normally, my scenting ability is invaluable in the field. It helps me identify predators, to guess who’s after me and how far away they are. More than once, back in the Marines, scenting an enemy soldier was the difference between life and death.

So yeah, I’d rather swallow a bucket of rancid goat milk than take those rut suppressants when I’m on an op. And judging by the sneers on Memphis and Camden’s faces, they feel the same.

“What if we didn’t take them?” Memphis offers.

I raise an eyebrow. “We’re disobeying orders already?”

The soldier in me stiffens in response. Ignoring orders can get you killed. It’s not something I take lightly.

“Let’s be honest,” Camden says. “Obviously, we hope the Omega’s managed to keep herself alive out there. I hope we find her in some makeshift shelter living off huckleberries and pinesap, but Olympic can be brutal, even for an experienced hiker. And according to Castle, our target’s not exactly Bear Grylls. So I hate to say it, but the odds are good that there’s nothing to find out there.”

There it is. The thing we’ve been dancing around. No way a pampered billionaire’s daughter like Brooklyn Castle has managed to keep herself alive in the wilderness.

The only thing waiting for us out there are her remains.

Remains that will be much easier to find if we can scent any faint whiffs of pheromones she’s left behind.

Which means that ditching the rut suppressants isn’t just for our comfort. It’s a damn good strategy.

“We don’t know for sure that she’s dead,” Camden pipes up. “You said she liked hiking, right? That her mom took her out there a lot? And she might have gotten lucky finding shelter.”

Memphis and I exchange a glance, and I can see in his grim expression that he’s thinking the same thing I am.

Maybe a casual hiker could survive the summer in Olympic. But it’s June, and Brooklyn disappeared a year ago. Winters in Washington can be frigid as hell.

“We could wait,” I offer. “If we pick up on a trail that’s not dead cold, we’ll take them. But until then, we need all the advantages we can get.”

Camden nods. “Good by me. Memphis?”

Of course, he doesn’t answer. He just grabs the box and shoves it in his pack.

Even though I hate the feeling, I hope we end up having to take the suppressants. Because that means the Omega stayed alive long enough for us to need them.

Otherwise, our mission isn’t ending with any happy reunions. But I know better than most that sometimes all you can hope for is closure.