Chapter 8
CHRIS
Ishould have nailed the first heat.
The mistake was small. Embarrassingly small. Pampi had looked back at me, ears flicking, ready and willing. I had urged Pampi on instead of letting her take her own time.
She recovered beautifully because she was brilliant and because Jaime had trained her well, but the judges still marked it. Not a disqualification, but just enough of a fault to sting.
I stood at the edge of the ring afterward, hands shoved into my pockets, trying not to replay it on a loop.
Jaime had been calm and steady. The way he always sounded when he was fully in his element. Relief curled through me, unwanted and undeniable.
Good thing he was here. Pampi would be safe. That relief curdled almost immediately into something sharper. I didn’t want to rely on him this much.
Not after what he’d told me.
Especially not after hearing how his former pack had leaned on him until he cracked. How leadership had kept stacking responsibility on his shoulders because he was capable and didn’t complain.
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t be another weight. I wouldn’t be another ambitious idiot who took and took because Jaime could handle it. Yet here I was, stepping back while he stepped in.
“You good?” he asked quietly afterwards.
“Yeah,” I said. Then, because honesty felt important even when it burned, “I messed up.”
“You corrected,” he said. “That’s part of learning.”
I swallowed. “Still.”
Jaime studied me for a beat, then nodded once. “We’ll talk later.”
Not now, not here. Later. That should have reassured me. Instead, it left a thread of tension humming between us as we moved back to our observer positions.
We resumed watching. That was the real reason we were here anyway.
The ballroom buzzed with contained energy. Dogs and handlers rotated through the rings, officials reset obstacles with practiced efficiency.
Spectators filled the temporary bleachers lining the space. Everything looked normal. Too normal. After yesterday’s discovery, vigilance sat just under the surface of every movement.
I let my senses stretch, wolf half-awake beneath my skin. I wasn’t scanning wildly, not anymore. I knew better. Sabotage like this thrived on subtlety.
So I watched patterns instead. Who lingered too long near the equipment. Who volunteered help they weren’t assigned. Who seemed more interested in the obstacles than the dogs.
Jaime stood close, close enough that our shoulders almost brushed.
He hadn’t said it, but I knew he was doing the same thing. Our awareness overlapped, a quiet synchronization that still startled me when I noticed it.
The next incident happened fast. A medium-sized border collie launched onto the A-frame with confident speed. The ascent was clean, the descent controlled until the final contact zone.
The dog’s back paw slipped. It wasn’t dramatic, but enough for a yelp to tear free as she landed awkwardly and stumbled. The handler froze.
Officials rushed in immediately, hands raised, voices calm. The dog was favoring her paw, nothing severe, but enough to stop the run.
A tech guided them off the course while murmurs rippled through the crowd. My heart pounded. Jaime was already moving, eyes narrowed on the obstacle.
I followed, crouching near the base of the A-frame as officials inspected it. At first glance, everything looked fine. No broken slats. No obvious instability, but something felt wrong.
I leaned closer, letting my fingers hover just above the surface. The rubberized contact zone was smooth, perhaps a little too smooth.
“Jaime,” I murmured. “This wasn’t like this earlier.”
He knelt beside me, hand brushing mine briefly as he tested the same section. His jaw tightened.
“The traction strip,” he said softly. “It’s been shifted.”
Not removed or damaged. It was shifted just enough that the edge no longer aligned with the grip underneath. Under speed and weight, it would slide.
A controlled failure. Plausible deniability. My stomach twisted.
An official asked what we saw. Jaime explained calmly, professionally. They marked the obstacle for a full reset, voices low but urgent. The course paused.
As they worked, another dog entered a different ring, a sleek malinois with sharp eyes and sharper movements. They flew through the first few obstacles without issue.
Then came a tight turn into a jump sequence near the perimeter. My wolf surged forward without warning. The upright pole on the left side of the jump wasn’t straight.
It wasn’t obvious, especially not to a casual observer. It leaned inward by a hair, altering the angle of approach. At speed, that hair would matter.
“Stop!” I shouted.
The handler startled, instinctively pulling back on the leash even though the dog was already mid-run. Officials reacted a beat later, waving arms, blowing whistles.
The malinois skidded, confused but unharmed, as the run was halted.
My heart slammed against my ribs as I vaulted the low barrier and reached the jump. I grabbed the pole, testing it. It wobbled slightly under my grip and it was far too loose.
Jaime was beside me in seconds, his hand steadying my elbow as if grounding me.
“You felt it,” he said.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “I just… knew.”
The officials swarmed again, expressions grim now. This was no longer an accident. Two compromised obstacles in one day was a pattern no one could ignore.
As they secured the area and escorted the handler away to calm her dog, adrenaline still roared through me. My hands shook faintly.
I hadn’t even realized I’d stepped in front of the jump until Jaime’s grip tightened, firm but gentle.
“You did good,” he said quietly, close enough that only I could hear.
I nodded, pulse slowly settling. The announcement came over the ballroom speakers less than ten minutes later.
“Attention handlers and participants. Due to confirmed interference with multiple obstacles, today’s remaining events are suspended pending a full safety review.”
A hush rippled through the space, followed by an eruption of overlapping reactions. There were groans, confused murmurs, sharp, angry voices. A few relieved exhales.
Dogs sensed the shift immediately, some whining, some barking, some pressing closer to their handlers as if bracing for fallout.
I stood there, heart still hammering, adrenaline refusing to drain. Jaime was beside me, solid and steady, his presence an anchor even as chaos bloomed around us.
Suspended. That word carried weight. This wasn’t being brushed off as bad luck or handler error. It meant someone had crossed a line too big to ignore.
Jaime’s hand rested briefly between my shoulder blades, grounding. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, though my pulse still raced. “Just processing.”
His fingers gave a light press, then withdrew. “Let’s get Pampi. They’ll want everyone out of the ballroom soon.”
We moved through the dispersing crowd, collecting our things, navigating the heightened tension that clung to the air like static. Officials spoke in low, urgent tones near the rings.
Security lingered by the exits. A few handlers argued with staff, frustration sharp and raw, but most just looked shaken. As we passed the refreshment tables, someone caught my interest.
Marion stood near the far wall, posture loose, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket. He was mid-conversation with another handler, nodding along, expression mild.
When his eyes flicked to us, his mouth curved. Not a smile, but a smirk. It was gone in a blink, replaced by polite neutrality, but my wolf snarled low in my chest.
I studied him carefully now. He was human, male, and in his late thirties or maybe early forties. He was well-groomed, had an average build.
Marion was also forgettable in the way people who didn’t want to be remembered often were.
Jaime didn’t see it. He was focused on Pampi, thoroughly checking her over even though she was perfectly fine. I didn’t interrupt him.
But I memorized Marion’s face. We cleared out with the rest of the handlers, the hotel staff herding everyone away from the ballroom while officials secured the space.
Outside the competition area, the air felt heavy, disappointment and unease hanging thick. By the time we made it back to the room, the day felt like it had stretched twice its length.
Pampi ate, drank, and promptly curled into a satisfied nap, utterly unconcerned with sabotage, investigations, or the sudden halt of her favorite game.
Jaime watched her for a moment longer than necessary, then straightened, rolling his shoulders.
“I don’t feel like staying in,” he said after a beat.
Relief loosened something in my chest. “Yeah. Same.”
We changed quickly and left the hotel, stepping into the cooler evening air. The sky was bruised purple and blue, the sun already gone, streetlights flickering on one by one.
The quiet felt strange after the constant noise of the ballroom.
We walked without speaking for a block or two, letting the rhythm of our steps settle us. Finally, Jaime broke the silence.
“You reacted fast in there,” he said. “Both times.”
“I didn’t think,” I admitted. “I just felt it, like before.”
He nodded. “You stepped in front of that jump without hesitation.”
I shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “Didn’t really feel heroic. More like my body moved before my brain caught up.”
“That’s usually how instinct works,” he said. “Especially when it matters.”
The diner came into view, a low building with glowing windows and a flickering neon sign that promised coffee and comfort food.
We slid into a booth near the back, vinyl squeaking under us. The smell of grease and sugar and something nostalgic wrapped around me.
Menus appeared. Coffee followed. The mundane ritual helped steady my nerves. Jaime watched me over the rim of his mug.
“You said earlier you saw something. Someone?” Jaime asked.
I exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”
I told him about Marion. About the smirk and the way my wolf had reacted. How wrong it felt. Jaime listened without interrupting, expression thoughtful. When I finished, he nodded once.
“You’re not wrong to pay attention to that,” he said. “But remember. I had Michael check the treats he gave me.”
“I know,” I said quickly. “And they were clean.”
“Which means if Marion is involved, he’s careful,” Jaime said. “Or he’s a red herring.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I just, well I don’t know. There’s something about him. My wolf doesn’t like him,” I muttered.
Jaime studied me for a long moment. “Your instincts have been solid so far.”
That validation warmed me more than the coffee. “Still doesn’t mean he’s guilty,” I pointed out.
“No,” Jaime agreed. “But it means we keep watching.”
The conversation tapered off after that, settling into something quieter. We ate. We talked about neutral things. The food helped, grounding us back in our bodies, back in the present.
Halfway through my burger, the words slipped out before I could stop them.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Jaime looked up. “For what?”
“For earlier,” I said. “For messing up. For making you take over during the heats.” I swallowed. “I promise it won’t happen again. I’ll do better. I’ll try not to lean on you so much.”
The silence stretched, taut as a wire. Then Jaime leaned back, studying me with an intensity that made my pulse spike, like he was weighing something more than just my words.
“It did unsettle me,” he said honestly. “At first.”
My chest tightened.
“Not because you messed up,” he continued. “But because it reminded me of before. Of stepping in because someone else was overwhelmed. Of being expected to carry things quietly.”
I nodded, heart heavy. “I never wanted to put you back there.”
“I know,” he said.
He leaned forward again, forearms resting on the table, close enough now that I could feel the warmth of him.
Jaime continued, “And here’s the difference. You didn’t disappear. You didn’t pretend it didn’t happen. You stayed engaged. You noticed things I didn’t.”
I blinked. “I did?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “That second obstacle. You’re attentive in a way that’s different from me. Complementary.”
Something eased in my chest, slow and warm, like a knot finally loosening.
“Partners lean on each other,” Jaime went on. “That’s not a failure. It’s balance.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Then you can lean on me too. If I screw up. Or if something’s bothering you. I want you to tell me,” I said.
His gaze softened, the intensity shifting into something quieter. Something real.
“Alright,” he said.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The hum of the diner filled the space between us, silverware clinking, voices low and distant.
I don’t know which of us leaned in first. I just knew that suddenly his hand was warm against my wrist, grounding, and I was close enough to see the faint crease between his brows smooth out.
The kiss was brief, gentle, almost tentative, but it carried more weight than anything reckless ever could have. A promise rather than a demand.
When we pulled back, Jaime’s forehead rested lightly against mine for half a second.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re learning faster than you think.”
“Guess I had a good teacher,” I said lightly, my voice a little rougher than I’d intended.
He snorted, shaking his head. “Careful.”
We finished our meal in a quieter, easier mood after that. Outside, the night had deepened, the town calmer than it had been hours earlier.
As we walked back toward the hotel, our shoulders brushed. This time, neither of us moved away.
The mystery wasn’t solved. If anything, it had deepened. Someone was still out there, patient and deliberate. But Jaime and I had this. I was sure of it.