Chapter 13 Jaime
JAIME
After the night we’d shared, I’d pictured tonight going differently.
Dinner somewhere quiet. A walk around the hotel grounds. Maybe running Pampi through a few light practice rounds to burn off the last of the nerves.
We could’ve gone over the case properly, compared notes without snapping at each other. Even packing up and heading back home in companionable silence would’ve been fine.
What I hadn’t expected was Chris knocking back drinks and tearing into me. Everything I said seemed to set him off.
At least he’d had enough sense to walk away before it got worse. I watched him leave, jaw tight and shoulders rigid, knowing that chasing after him would have done nothing good.
That didn’t make it sting any less.
When he finally came back to the room hours later, the faint scent of alcohol still clung to him. I was still wide awake.
If he’d wanted to talk, I would’ve talked. If he’d wanted to argue, I would’ve let him. Instead, he moved around quietly, stripped down without looking at me, and slid into bed without a word.
In the dark, I replayed everything he’d said. Why had it sounded so familiar?
My eyes opened slowly as the answer settled into place. The clinic. He’d been outside the clinic when I left.
I’d been too angry at Marion’s smug expression and the way he’d spoken about Chris to think about anything else at the time. But Chris had been there. Waiting.
He must’ve heard. Maybe not all of it, but enough.
I let out a low groan and dropped my head back into the pillow, dragging a hand through my hair. I shouldn’t have let what Marion said get to me.
I hated this. The fighting. The crossed wires. The quiet resentment that built from things left unsaid or half-heard.
It was the exact reason I’d gravitated toward dogs instead of people. Dogs didn’t twist your words or project their insecurities onto what you hadn’t meant.
If they were upset, you knew why. If you made a mistake, you corrected it and moved on.
With people, everything layered on itself until it became something else entirely.
There was an easy solution here. We only had a few days left.
We could keep things professional. Minimal conversation. Do the job, do it well, close the case, return to Pecan Pines.
Go our separate ways and never have to deal with this again.
The thought settled in my chest and lingered there. It felt wrong.
I stared at the faint outline of Chris’s shoulders beneath the sheet, the steady rise and fall of his back in the dim light. He looked different like this. Quiet. Still.
Earlier, he’d looked so hurt, and the realization settled low under my ribs, heavy and unwelcome. This wasn’t just a mission partner, not just another pack
mate trying too hard to prove himself. It was something else.
I didn’t have a word for it yet. But my wolf did.
Mate.
I huffed softly under my breath, half exasperated with myself. Was that what this was supposed to feel like? The constant awareness of him even in silence, the way irritation burned hotter because it mattered, the tightness in my chest at the thought of walking away for good.
I turned my head to study the line of his spine again. Yeah. Maybe I didn’t mind that nearly as much as I should.
My wolf stretched lazily inside me, pleased at the thought.
Chris shifted, exhaling slowly. His breathing was deep and even, the sharp scent of alcohol long since gone.
I let the rhythm settle me, grounding me more than I cared to admit. He must have taken it harder than I realized.
For him to react like that, it had struck somewhere raw. I didn’t want him carrying that alone, didn’t want him thinking I doubted him.
I closed my eyes and focused on his breathing. Not now, I decided. I’d let him sleep. We’d talk in the morning.
Minutes passed with me staring at the faint line of early dawn bleeding through the curtains. The room feeling smaller, quieter. My thoughts kept circling back to the same point again and again.
Finally, I gave up. Carefully, I slipped out of bed, pulling on jeans and a sweater, moving slowly so I barely made a sound. I grabbed my coat from the chair by the door, each motion deliberate.
I hesitated beside the bed. Chris hadn’t moved much. One arm was flung out now, palm open like he’d been reaching for something in his sleep and missed.
His hair fell across his forehead. Without the sharpness in his eyes or the defensive edge in his voice, he looked younger. Softer. My chest tightened.
“I’ll be back,” I murmured under my breath, even though he couldn’t hear me.
I considered bringing Pampi but decided against it. I didn’t want him to think I wouldn’t be back soon, so I slipped out quietly, letting the door click behind me.
The hotel grounds were still and gray, dew dampening the hedges and grass. Hands shoved into my coat pockets, I started walking, letting the chill wake me up as my thoughts drifted back to the clinic.
I’d really thought I had something yesterday. Harold’s dog was sick, Marion’s supposedly showing symptoms.
It had felt like the thread was finally coming together. Except when I went back to the clinic later that afternoon to double-check, the vet had looked at me like I was imagining things.
“Marion’s dog?” Dr. Mitchell had said. “He’s fine. No fever. No gastrointestinal distress. Nothing like what he described.”
Either the dog had bounced back in record time, or someone had lied. Harold’s case could still have been a one-off. But my instincts didn’t like it.
Rounding the corner near the garden, I nearly ran into Donnie. He grabbed my arm just in time. “Whoa. Morning.”
“Oh, morning,” I said.
His collie walked calmly at his side. Beside him was another handler, someone I recognized from dinner the other night. His retriever stayed politely at heel, tail thumping once.
“Where’s Pampi?” Donnie asked, glancing around.
“Still asleep. Figured she could use the rest.”
Donnie snorted. “Must be nice. Mine’s been restless since four.” His collie shifted, licking its lips.
“Everything okay?” I asked, looking down at the dog.
“Yeah… probably,” Donnie said, though his tone betrayed a bit of worry. “He had a rough night, threw up once, but he seems better this morning. We’re just heading to the store to grab something bland, just in case.”
The other handler added, “Relief area’s open early. A few of us are doing light warm-ups later.”
Donnie nodded. “Oh yeah! You and Chris should join us.”
“Maybe,” I said. “We’ll see.”
“All right. Hope you can stop by later.”
We split at the fork in the path. I should have turned back toward the hotel. Instead, my steps slowed.
Donnie’s dog shouldn’t have mattered. One upset stomach wasn’t suspicious. He even said his dog was feeling better already.
But my legs carried me toward the relief area anyway. I’d only checked this place once, the first day after we’d registered. Between the chaos of the competition and everything else, I hadn’t circled back.
Halfway down the path, I paused. Chris might wake soon and wonder where I’d gone. It was only a few minutes more. I’ll only take a quick look.
Before I could second-guess myself, I pulled out my phone. I typed:
Went to check out the dog relief area. Will be back soon. But we need to talk about last night.
I stared at the screen. That last sentence weighed heavy. I deleted it and hit send. Then, almost immediately, I added another message:
When you’re up, let’s get breakfast together.
My thumb hovered for a moment before I sent it. There.
The makeshift outdoor relief area came into view as I rounded the last bend. Set beneath a large temporary event tent at the far end of the parking lot, it was partitioned off with waist-high fencing.
A few overhead work lights flickered on, but the space was built for daylight use. At this hour, shadows pooled between the support poles, and the dim light left everything muted and grainy.
The folding check-in table near the entrance was empty. There were no staff with clipboards or wristbands tracking traffic yet. It was still too early for that.
I stepped inside. Movement caught my eye near the back wall.
Someone stood by one of the water dispensers, one of those five-gallon refillable jugs set upside-down in a gravity-fed stand. Handlers usually used them to top off bowls between rounds.
My wolf lifted its head, senses alert, insisting I pay attention. I slowed my steps.
At first glance, it looked like the person was just swapping an empty jug for a full one. But the jug he lifted wasn’t full. Fresh jugs were normally sealed with plastic caps. This one had none.
I took another step, boots crunching quietly on the gravel. A faint, sweet, nutty scent reached me before my eyes fully registered it.
My wolf bristled subtly, claws pressing at the edges of my consciousness. Something was very, very wrong.
My vision sharpened automatically. Residue clung to the inside of the jug’s neck, a cloudy smear that hadn’t dissolved properly, catching the faint light.
The man finished seating the jug into the dispenser. I didn’t wait. My hand shot out, fingers locking around his wrist.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demanded, voice low and hard.
He jerked in surprise, turning to face me. Marion.
For a brief, impossible instant, his face was unguarded. Then the mask snapped back into place, that same insufferable smile curling his lips.
“Jaime,” he said lightly, as if we’d run into each other at breakfast instead of in a shadowed tent. “What are you doing here so early?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” I jerked my chin toward the dispenser. “What were you doing to the water?”
His gaze followed mine, settling on the jug as though he were only just noticing it. “Oh. I tried changing it out. Thought I’d be helpful. Couldn’t lift the damn thing properly, so I put the old one back.”
He gestured vaguely toward another jug lying on its side. I glanced down. The seal was also broken.
I tightened my grip on his wrist. He shifted, twisting subtly, testing my hold.
“Hey, relax,” he said, his tone smooth but lacking its usual confidence.
Keeping my hold on him, I bent slightly to get a better look at the jug on the ground. The closer I got, the stronger the faint, sweet scent became. My stomach dropped.
Then I caught movement in my peripheral vision. His free hand had slipped into his coat pocket, fingers closing around something.
Still gripping his wrist, I lunged with my other hand and shoved it into the same pocket.
“Hey!” he snapped, driving a shoulder into me. “What the hell, man?”
My fingers brushed against something small and hard. He pushed harder, trying to wrench himself free, but I held firm and dragged the object out.
A tiny glass vial sat in my palm, no bigger than my thumb, a dusting of white clinging stubbornly to the inside. My grip on Marion loosened for half a second as I brought it closer, inhaling carefully.
There was a soft, metallic click behind me, barely audible over the generator’s faint hum.
I didn’t have time to turn before the crack split the air. For a fraction of a second, I didn’t feel anything.
Then my leg gave out beneath me and I hit the gravel hard, a strangled grunt tearing from my throat as the vial slipped from my fingers.
Pain followed a heartbeat later. It burned fast and deep, searing outward from my thigh in a way that felt fundamentally wrong.
Marion crouched with unhurried ease and plucked the vial from the gravel. “Lucky I brought this with me,” he said, waving the gun lazily near my head.
The metallic scent hit me then. Silver. My wolf recoiled violently inside me.
I flinched back instinctively, shoulders digging into the gravel as I tried to put distance between myself and the weapon.
Marion’s brow arched, amusement in his eyes. “Oh,” he said softly, “so your kind really doesn’t like this, huh?”
I forced air into my lungs through clenched teeth, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Who are you?”
He ignored the question. Crouching, he grabbed my injured leg and lifted it. A hiss escaped me before I could stop it.
He studied the wound without expression. “Bullet’s still in there,” he said flatly.
The pain didn’t dull. It spread toward my spine, crawling beneath my skin like molten metal, and my vision began to flicker at the edges.
Marion reached into his coat, pulled out a rag, and wrapped it around my thigh. He twisted it tight enough that my jaw locked against a groan.
“Still,” he said almost pleasantly, “wouldn’t want you bleeding everywhere.”
On the last word, he gave the knot a sharp yank. Stars burst behind my eyes. The fabric darkened almost immediately, crimson seeping through.
I glared up at him, fury the only thing keeping me conscious while dizziness and white-hot pain clawed through me.
He studied me briefly. “Can you stand?”
I tried. The moment I shifted, my leg buckled uselessly. I shook my head.
His gaze swept the area and landed on a small flatbed cart stacked with supplies near the far side.
Before I could protest, he slid his hands under my arms and hauled me up, half dragging, half lifting me onto it.
“Stay still,” he said mildly, as if I were nothing more than an unruly dog.
He threw a thick blanket over me. My wolf flickered inside my mind, panic rising but smothered beneath the burning haze.
Chris.
For some reason, all I could think of was that he would wake to an empty room.
The cart jolted as Marion started pushing, gravel crunching under the wheels. Each bump sent another spike of pain through my leg. I tried to keep track of where we were going, counting turns and listening for anything familiar.
But my vision blurred. I caught a faint whiff of exhaust before everything went black.