Chapter 2 Theodore #2
In the pristine hallway, the scent of fresh paint and money surrounded us. I cleared my throat. “So, Ezra Houston. Twenty-five. He’s not a shifter, correct?”
Rory shook his head, jaw tight. “No.”
I waited for the inevitable snarky comment about wolves dating humans, or some bitter observation about Ezra’s wealth. But Rory remained uncharacteristically silent, his shoulders rigid as we walked.
I kept my tone neutral to comment, “And he hasn’t filed a missing persons report for his own missing boyfriend.”
Rory responded with a grunt that could have meant anything.
“Did you try reaching out to him?”
“Umm…” Rory suddenly found the expensive carpet fascinating. “I think Ezra blocked me on social media.”
Something flashed across his face—guilt, maybe shame. What exactly had Rory done to make Dev’s new boyfriend block him?
I resisted the urge to find out. That way lay madness, and probably a migraine.
As we approached the door, I had a sudden compulsion to suggest Rory wait outside, but it was too late, because he was already knocking.
It swung open to reveal a man in a pink silk dressing gown that probably cost more than my monthly salary. His honey-blond hair was not dissimilar to Rory’s colouring; however, Ezra’s swept back from his forehead in artful waves—the kind of style that took an hour to look effortlessly tousled.
…of course he looks like he stepped out of a fucking magazine…
Beside me, Rory’s face was a picture, and I almost elbowed him.
“Hello?” A perfect smile flashed, teeth gleaming like a toothpaste commercial.
“DI Maxwell.” Displaying my badge, I stepped forward, using my body language to prompt him backward—an old technique that rarely failed. “Can you spare us a second?”
Ezra retreated into his flat, clutching his dressing gown closer. “What’s this about?” His accent dripped with private school privilege, each syllable precisely enunciated.
I gestured toward a cream leather sofa that dominated the living space. Through my peripheral vision, I caught Rory’s head swivelling like an owl’s, taking in every detail of the flat—a crystal decanter caught the morning light, and abstract art pieces dotted the walls.
Ezra did not move. His gaze slid over Rory without a flicker of recognition before returning to me.
“I have a few questions about the whereabouts of Dev Bassi,” I said, sliding my notepad out. “You’re his boyfriend, correct?”
The transformation was instant. Ezra’s carefully cultivated charm vanished, replaced by a scowl that twisted his features into something ugly.
“No,” he seethed. “I am not.”
I couldn’t help but glance at Rory, whose eyes were as wide as saucers.
“I broke up with him just over a week ago. The prick didn’t even have the decency to reply to my text.”
“You broke up with him over text?” Rory blurted.
Whilst Ezra narrowed his eyes, I tried probing gently at his surface thoughts—always useful to gauge if someone was lying—but only caught fragments.
Strong emotions came through clearest. Fear, hatred, desire…
those crashed through like alarm bells. But specific facts?
Memories? Those required the kind of focus and physical contact that would be completely inappropriate during a police interview.
…oh god, it’s the psycho ex…
Now that came through sharp and clear, coloured with disgust and a spike of anxiety.
“I… I know you. You’re that ex of his. The one who kept leaving laughing face emojis on every single photo we posted of us together.”
I swallowed my groan. Of course. Ignoring that thread of conversation, I prompted, “Ezra, what happened with you and Dev, precisely?”
“He was cheating on me, the bastard.”
“What? Dev wouldn’t cheat!” Rory snapped.
I rolled my eyes to the back of my head. What sort of voodoo magic had this guy worked to make Rory worship the ground he walked on?
“He was always secretive.” Ezra’s lips pursed into a moue of distaste. “Disappearing for days at a time with no explanation. Always had these mysterious ‘work emergencies’ that he couldn’t explain.”
My detective instincts perked up. Dev hadn’t told Ezra what he was. The full moon absences, the sudden emergencies when wolf business called. I tried pressing deeper into Ezra’s thoughts, searching for more details, but came up with nothing.
“And then”—Ezra’s hand slashed through the air—“the final straw. I had my friend follow him one night. Dev met these two men I’d never seen before.
I’ve got a photo of it. All three of them went into some seedy hotel together.
” His lips curved into a cruel smile, staring directly at Rory.
“You know, if he’d just asked me, I’d have happily had a third join us. ”
The noise that came from Rory’s throat was somewhere between a growl and a choke.
“Not you, though,” he said to Rory. “Obviously.”
“Alright,” I interjected, before Rory could claw his eyes out. “So, what did Dev say?”
“Well, that’s the end of it.” Ezra’s fingers drummed against his thigh. “I sent him the photo with a few choice words about what I thought of his behaviour. Told him we were done. And he didn’t even have the decency to respond.”
“And you haven’t heard from him since?” I pressed.
“Why would I want to?” Ezra’s lip curled. “Dev is trash. I should never have lowered myself.”
“Can we see the photo?” Rory’s voice crackled with tension.
Ezra’s glare could have stripped paint.
“The photo, please.” My tone brooked no argument. This photo could well be the last time Dev was seen before he disappeared.
With an exaggerated sigh, Ezra snatched his phone from the glass coffee table. His fingers flew across the screen before he thrust it at me.
Rory immediately pressed against my side, leaning in to see. The contact shocked through me—we hadn’t been this close since that night when I’d snapped those handcuffs around his wrists. His shoulder dug into my arm, warm even through my suit jacket.
Rory’s breath hitched.
The photo showed Dev outside on the street, standing very close to two other men.
Rory’s eyes flicked to me meaningfully, then he stared at the photo with theatrical intensity, practically boring holes into it with his gaze.
…WOLVES…I KNOW THEM… he thought so aggressively that I winced, practically feeling the capital letters.
He was so close that his excited exhalation tickled up my neck, and I suppressed a shiver, shuffling away from him.
…SHIT SHIT SHIT, I KNOW THOSE WOLVES…
“Can I send this photo to myself?”
“I don’t see why not.”
After sending it over, I offered Ezra his phone back. “You’ve got my number now. Ring me if you hear from him.”
“But Dev’s not missing!” Ezra snapped. “Is… is he?” He looked between the pair of us. “He’s not actually missing… right?”
“Keep in touch,” I said, heading for the door.
Ezra stared after us, expression glazy, hand frozen halfway through his hair.
I clicked the door shut behind us. Rory’s usual vibrant energy had been replaced by something taut and brittle, and he started pacing the hallway like a caged animal.
“Come on, let’s go.” I set off down the corridor, and to my relief, he followed. “And laughing emojis?” I said. “Come on, really?”
Rory whirled on me, eyes flashing. “I’m sorry, but did you see how Dev replaced me with my fucking twin, but taller and hotter?” he spat.
“What?”
“That guy is a model, you know. A literal model. For underwear. A literal underwear model. I never had a chance. Guess that’s how they met—Dev does modelling on the side.”
I blinked, trying to process this information.
The idea that Rory thought Ezra was somehow an upgrade was…
ridiculous. Sure, the man was polished, but in that artificial way that reminded me of mannequins in shop windows.
All surface, no substance. Nothing like Rory’s natural energy.
Ezra’s cheekbones were no match for the way Rory’s whole face lit up when he smiled, or that sparkle in his eye that always spelt trouble.
“Calm down. He’s not even hotter than you,” I said before my brain could catch up with my mouth.
Rory froze mid-stride, staring at me for a long moment.
His eyes caught the hallway light, shifting between blue and green like the uncertain edge where shallow waters meet the deep.
I could never quite decide what colour they truly were—sometimes as clear as a winter sky, other times harbouring the verdant depths of a Highland forest.
Not that I spent a copious amount of time thinking about Rory Thorne’s eye colour, of course.
Those eyes narrowed. “Well, you’re hardly qualified to judge, being a straight man.”
I snorted. Was this guy for real? “I certainly fucking am. Just because I’m straight doesn’t mean I don’t have eyes. Let me reassure you, that man is a posh prat. He’s got nothing on you.” I cleared my throat. “Objectively. So shut up about it, alright?”
Rory’s eyes widened slightly, and a hint of pink crept across his cheeks. But then his expression flickered—confusion chasing across his features like clouds across the sun. He opened his mouth as if to say something cutting, then closed it again.
…why is he being nice…what’s his angle…don’t fall for it…
He stared at me for a long moment, shuffling his weight between feet.
Eventually he said, “Thanks, Teddy,” using the Killigrew code name he’d assigned me just to wind me up.
Yet the ghost of that smile played at the corners of his mouth, already transforming his whole face.
Something twisted in my chest at the sight—probably indigestion from the coffee.
But still, I forced myself to look away from the curve of his jaw, the light catching on his ridiculous number of silver ear piercings.
All of sudden, I couldn’t bear our proximity, so I set off at a brisk pace, not talking again until we were back in my car.
“So, who were these wolves you recognised?”
Rory yanked his phone from his pocket, thumbs flying across the screen. “Give me a sec.”
His knee bounced up and down, making the whole car vibrate.
“I don’t know them well,” he said, still scrolling. “Well, I sort of know one of them. But anyway, they’re both lone wolves. Packless.”
“Huh. Like you?” I knew Rory had left his family pack, who were based up in Scotland, for reasons that had only been hinted at.
A deep crease appeared between his eyebrows. Ah, fuck. Clearly this was a sore spot.
“I have Kit,” he said finally, voice soft.
…not alone…not like them…
“I’m tethered to him. Sort of. And I have Killigrew Street. They’re my pack.”
“Right. Sorry. Of course.” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Foot, meet mouth.
“Found it!” He thrust the phone at me, nearly smacking me in the face. “That was one of the guys, right?”
The photo on Rory’s phone showed a pale man, around six feet tall, with close-cropped hair. The background was a blur of neon streaks.
“Looks like it. Where was that picture taken?”
Rory’s eyes met mine. “Undertone. You know it, right?”
Ah, Undertone. The “vintage vinyl shop” that fronted one of London’s most exclusive supernatural haunts.
All sorts of questionable activities went down there, though I made a point of staying clear unless Killigrew work demanded otherwise.
The less I knew about what happened behind those hidden doors, the better.
“Yes.”
“These two wolves are regulars there.” Rory practically vibrated in his seat. “We need to go tonight.”
Need? I bit back a groan. It was supposed to be my day off. I’d planned to catch up on sleep this evening, maybe actually cook something instead of living off takeaway.
But Rory’s eyes were bright with purpose. Plus, the sooner we tracked down these wolves, the sooner this would all be over.
“I’ll pick you up at eight,” Rory announced. “It’s my turn to drive.”
My survival instincts kicked in. I’d seen Rory’s car—a rusted death trap held together with hope and duct tape. And his driving… Christ. The one other time I’d been in a car with him, he’d treated London traffic like a Formula One circuit.
“Absolutely not.”
He grinned at me. “I absolutely insist.”
Resting my head back in the chair, I groaned. “I have to be in bed by eleven.”
“Oh my god, you’re actually eighty years old, aren’t you?” A wicked grin spread across Rory’s face. “Do you wear those old man pyjamas with the stripes? And fuzzy slippers?”
“My slippers are perfectly normal.”
“Boxers or briefs?”
“What?” My head snapped toward him.
“Just gathering intel. For science.”
I started the car, hoping the engine noise would drown him out. No such luck.
“You didn’t answer. Boxers or briefs, Detective Inspector Maxwell?”
My head throbbed as unbidden images flashed through my mind—Rory’s thoughts hitting me like a sledgehammer.
First, me in crisp briefs, so white that they practically glowed against my dark skin, standing on display, quads taut.
Then the scene shifted, and suddenly I was lounging in loose navy boxers, casual and relaxed.
…bet he’s a briefs man…so uptight…but maybe boxers when he’s off duty…wonder if…
Heat creeping up my neck, I jerked the car into the next lane, earning an angry honk from a taxi. “Stop that!”
“Stop what?” Rory’s voice dripped innocence, but his thoughts betrayed him:
…definitely briefs…
“You know exactly what.” I gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles whitening. “You’re doing that deliberately!”
“Oops.” He didn’t sound sorry at all. “And your temple’s doing that twitchy thing again. Dead giveaway, you know.”
I forced my hand away from where it had indeed been rubbing my left temple. Damn it.
“Besides,” he continued, “it’s your fault for not answering the question.”
“Neither,” I snapped. “I sleep naked.”
The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them. Rory’s thoughts exploded into technicolor, and I slammed my shields up so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.
“Really?” His voice squeaked.
“No.” I kept my eyes firmly on the road. “And stop imagining it.”
I tugged at my collar, suddenly feeling the car’s temperature rise several degrees.
“Are you blushing, Detective?” he sang, leaning closer with a wolfish grin. “Did I finally crack your Mr. Professional facade?”
“I’m not—” I cranked up the air conditioning. “I’m dropping you at this bus stop. I need a long break from you before tonight.”
Rory chuckled, unbuckling his seatbelt as I pulled in. “Eight o’clock!” he called through the window. “Don’t be late!”
“I’m driving!” I shouted back, but he was already weaving through the crowd, that messy blond hair bouncing as he practically skipped away.
I slumped back in my seat. Fucking hell. A night at Undertone with Rory Thorne. I’d rather face a pack of feral wolves.
…can’t wait to see you in your clubbing clothes, Detective Dickface…
His final thought drifted back to me, clear as a bell despite the distance. I groaned, reaching for the emergency cigarettes in my glove compartment.
Clearly, this was going to be a cigarette kind of day.