Chapter 4 Theodore
Theodore
Won’t be boring.
I should be so lucky.
Rory was now four drinks deep, with no sign of the supposed shifters we were here to question. The night was slipping away, and instead of conducting an investigation, I was babysitting an increasingly inebriated wolf with boundary issues.
One drink ago, he’d launched into a sad spiral about Dev Bassi, showing me picture after picture of his face on his phone.
“This was us at Pride,” Rory slurred, swiping to yet another image of the missing journalist. “And this one’s from his birthday. He hated this photo, but I think he looks perfect.”
Honestly, I really didn’t get the Dev obsession. Though Rory made his career sound interesting, his curated social media photos screamed pretentious self-absorption. Every image featured the same calculated smile, the same careful angles.
The server approached with another round neither of us had ordered. Rory’s eyes lit up as the glasses landed on our table. He reached for one with the enthusiasm of a man who’d forgotten we were here on official business.
I grabbed drink number five, and pushed it out of Rory’s reach. My fingers brushed against his as I intercepted the glass, sending a sudden jolt through me.
…warm hands….
Rory pouted, his lower lip jutting out in a way that made him look absurdly young. “That’s mine.”
“You’ve had enough,” I said firmly. “We’re supposed to be working.”
…no fun…
“You’re no fun,” he mumbled, slouching back in his seat.
The neon lights caught in his hair, turning the blond strands into something almost celestial.
His subtle eyeliner made his eyes larger, more intense somehow.
As he tilted his head to stare longingly at the confiscated drink, the club’s lights glinted off the collection of silver studs and hoops that lined his ear, dancing in the light with each slight movement.
I found myself counting them, wondering absurdly if they’d feel warm or cool to the touch.
Irritated at my own distraction, I forced my gaze away, only for Rory’s thoughts to assault my mind.
…I bet he could be fun, though…was Dev fun?…I think Dev was fun…we had fun…didn’t we?…until he broke up with me…maybe I wasn’t fun enough…
I rubbed my temple, feeling the pressure of too many thoughts threatening to spill into me. Not just Rory’s—the nightclub was now full to bursting, and I was suffering from it.
“What was so great about Dev, anyway?” I found myself snapping. “You talk about him like he hung the moon.”
Where had that bitterness come from? I normally possessed endless patience for listening to people’s ramblings. Came with the territory. Yet something about this was pushing my buttons…
Rory’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again like a fish gasping for air. No words came out. For the first time since I’d met the excitable wolf, Rory Thorne was speechless.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “See!”
The silence stretched between us, unusual and almost unsettling. Rory’s constant chatter was as much a part of him as his snark and bounciness. Seeing him without words felt wrong, like witnessing something private.
His face crumpled, every inch of cockiness draining away, leaving something horribly raw and vulnerable behind. “I thought he loved me,” he said, voice cracking on the last word. His eyes glistened in the club’s pulsing lights, threatening tears.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I wasn’t equipped for this. Angry Rory, annoying Rory, even fake-flirtatious Rory—those versions I could handle. But this broken, hurt version? I had no protocol for that.
“It’s all my fault that he broke up with me,” Rory continued, staring down at his now empty glass. “I was too much. Too needy. Too keen. Desperate, in fact.” He laughed, a horrible hollow sound. “Dev was so far out of my league it was ridiculous. Everyone thought so.”
I frowned. “Who’s ‘everyone?’”
Rory waved his hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. I knew it. He knew it.” He traced the rim of an empty glass with his finger. “I just thought maybe… I don’t know. That it wouldn’t matter. That he could still love me.”
His gaze lifted to meet mine, the light catching in his eyes. Blue? Green? Both and neither at once, like sunlight filtering through shallow water. Poetry in colour that shifted with each blink, each change in his mercurial mood. The only constant was their intensity.
“What happened? In the end, I mean, with you and Dev?”
“I suggested we move in together.” Rory’s shoulders hunched forward.
“After that, he started pulling away. Cancelling plans. Working late. Three weeks later, he told me he ‘needed space.’” His fingers made air quotes around the words.
“Classic, right? Couldn’t even come up with an original breakup line. ”
…never good enough…of course it would end…so stupid…
The melancholy Rory felt leaked into me, seeping through me like poison.
My fingers itched to reach out to comfort him. I clenched my fist into a tight ball, because knowing Rory, he’d bloody well bite me. “Look, Rory, honestly? Dev sounds like a fucking twat. I’m surprised you even want to spend so much time and energy trying to find—”
Rory’s eyes suddenly widened, his attention shooting past me toward the bottom of the stairs. “That’s them!” he hissed, practically vibrating with excitement.
I turned to look. Two men had entered the club—both muscular, exuding that distinctive predator energy that marked them as shifters.
The taller one had a shaved head and a tattoo crawling up his neck, while his companion sported a man bun and a carefully groomed beard.
Both wore expensive-looking shirts that strained against their chests.
They matched the photos Rory had shown me earlier.
Thank god. Finally we could get down to actual police work and away from whatever emotional minefield I’d stumbled into.
“Right, you said you know them, yes?” I asked, straightening my posture.
Rory’s face contorted into something between a grimace and a smirk. “Um… Did I say that? Well, I sort of do. I met them here once, ages ago, before Seb banned us. But I don’t know them, know them. Well, you see that one on the right, with the hair? I sort of know his mouth. And… his dick too.”
I gasped so hard I choked. “Bloody hell, Rory!”
…wasn’t a bad dick either…
Brilliant. Just brilliant. Rory had shagged our primary suspect. This case kept getting better and better. I fought desperately to block out both Rory’s wandering thoughts and my own inexplicable irritation at the mental images they conjured.
“And hey, I know his first name, at least! Bradley. I think…” He frowned, swaying slightly in his seat. “Yes, that was it. And his friend, Brody. Or was it Brady…? Anyway, I’ll go flirt with Bradley for a bit. Then I’ll lead into Dev somehow and hopefully get something.”
“Absolutely not,” I said firmly. “How would you even do that? Plus, you’re not selling your body for information. Not to mention that you’re now rather drunk, and this is a sensitive investigation. I’ll approach them—”
But Rory was already standing, shuffling out of his overshirt, then straightening his black mesh garment that kept drawing various eyes with its glimpses of his bare skin.
I shot to my feet, blocking Rory’s path.
“I’m not drunk, Teddy,” he said. “Honest. Look, I’ll walk one foot in front of the other, all the way.”
Before I could physically stop him, he blew me a kiss and staggered away in a ridiculous zigzag, heading straight for the man possibly called Bradley.
I watched, horrified, as Rory intercepted the man, immediately placing a familiar hand on his chest. Bradley’s face lit up with recognition, and he leaned down to speak directly into Rory’s ear.
The noise of the club seemed to fade around me, leaving only the sound of my own breathing and the distant thump of bass.
I just stood there, hovering at our table.
My eyes refused to stop following Rory’s animated gestures, the way he tilted his head back to laugh at something Bradley said, how his fingers lingered on the man’s chest.
Bradley’s shaved-headed friend seemed less than impressed. He laughed, shook his head at the pair, and walked past the bar towards the corridor.
I made a decision. We needed information, so splitting up momentarily made tactical sense.
Rory was “handling” Bradley—and despite his inebriated state, he was clearly in his element.
He might be too drunk for my liking, but he wasn’t helpless.
We were in the middle of a crowded supernatural club.
If Bradley tried anything Rory didn’t want, Rory would happily make a scene.
I’d follow the friend—Brody slash Brady—get what information I could, and circle back in five minutes.
I caught Rory’s eye across the room and tapped my watch, then pointed toward him. Rory gave me a surprisingly subtle nod before refocusing on Bradley.
Still, as I moved toward the corridor, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t want to leave him.
The corridor housed private rooms styled as additional “listening booths.” From the sounds emanating through the doors—moans, gasps, and occasional growls—it was clear these spaces served purposes far beyond music appreciation.
The shifter I was following wanted a smoke, not a hookup. I continued to the end of the corridor, where it opened into a brick-walled room, styled as a courtyard, with ventilation that whisked smoke upward. Despite the efficient air circulation, the unmistakable scent of cigarettes hung in the air.
The man stood alone, back against the wall, drawing deeply on his cigarette. Called it.
My fingers twitched toward my pocket. I’d been trying to quit for months, but kept an emergency pack for extreme stress. Apparently, clubbing with Rory qualified.
We were alone. I meandered over and pulled out my own cigarette.
“Got a light?” I asked, voice neutral.