Chapter 8 Theodore
Theodore
The journey was taking ages. What should have been a straightforward drive had devolved into a nightmare of congestion and road closures. I’d spent most of the afternoon gripping the steering wheel, inching forward at a snail’s pace.
Though the endless crawl of traffic became almost bearable as surprisingly pleasant conversation flowed between us. At one point, Rory launched into a passionate defence of Priya’s tea leaf readings, leaning forward in his seat with those expressive hands of his punctuating every point.
“She predicted Kit would break his arm last winter, three weeks before it happened,” he insisted.
“Coincidence,” I countered, though I found myself fighting a smile at his indignation.
“You’re just like Kit,” Rory groaned, slumping back. “I heard you comparing your ridiculous morning runs the other day. Who actually enjoys getting up at dawn on weekends?”
“People who appreciate quiet,” I said, which earned me an eye roll.
As miles of tarmac disappeared beneath us, I discovered Rory had an encyclopedic knowledge of pastries served in London cafés, a surprising passion for true crime podcasts, and absolutely no filter between his brain and mouth. Somehow, I minded less than I should have.
Eventually, we circled back around to Dev.
“Do you think he’s alive?”
The intense way Rory asked the question—as if I truly knew the answer—startled me. I almost found myself promising that Dev would be fine before catching myself. Promises were dangerous things. I’d certainly learned that after a decade on the job.
“The fact that his phone came back on is a good sign,” I offered instead, keeping my eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Most missing persons cases where technology reactivates—”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Rory cut in, shaking his head.
“Remember that episode of Vanished Without a Trace I was telling you about? The killer kept his victim’s phone charged for weeks, posting on their social media, texting family members.
What if someone’s just using his phone as bait?
Or what if they’ve got him locked up somewhere near the signal tower?
Or maybe they’ve got his finger to use for the fingerprint ID and—”
“Rory,” I interrupted, “we don’t know anything yet. That’s why we’re going.”
He nodded, fiddling with his sleeve. “It’s just… mad, isn’t it? That it’s somehow linked back to my old pack land? Of all the places…”
“You said Dev’s alpha has no idea what he’d be doing up here?”
“Yeah. Christina says she’d send up shifters herself to look for him, but doesn’t want them torn to pieces. She’s super grateful that we’re doing this.”
I glanced at him, noting the tightness around his eyes. The loyalty this man showed toward the ex who broke his heart was remarkable—Dev was a lucky bastard to have someone like Rory still in his corner, even after walking away from such unwavering devotion.
“Dev must be quite something,” I said carefully, “to inspire this kind of dedication.”
“He is,” Rory said, then fell silent. “You think it’s strange, don’t you?”
“Just a little,” I admitted.
Rory sighed. “Dev was… he was one of the first people who chose me, you know? After I left Scotland. I mean, I could have tried joining one of the London packs, but…” He shrugged, looking uncomfortable.
“When you’ve been rejected once, it’s hard to believe it could work out the next time.
Plus, most wolves, they hear about someone cutting themselves off from their birth pack and they assume there’s a good reason for it. That you’re defective somehow.”
He shook his head as if clearing it. “Anyway, I dated loads of people after moving down. One-night stands, casual things that lasted a short while. But with Dev, it was different. It was the first time I thought, ‘Oh, this could actually be something.’ You know? Like maybe I could have what other people had—someone who’d stick around, who’d want to build something proper with me. ”
Oh, Rory. My throat felt oddly tight.
“Don’t get me wrong, Dev was a dick to me. But you don’t just… abandon someone who was there when you had nothing, you know? Even if they broke your heart. Even if they’re now fucking someone who looks like a better version of you.”
The bitterness in that last sentence was sharp enough to cut, but underneath everything he said, I heard something else entirely—a fierce, protective loyalty that had little to do with romantic love and everything to do with refusing to let go of the people who’d chosen him when he’d been convinced no one would.
We stopped for food at a roadside service station, where we lost an extra twenty minutes for Rory’s second burger to arrive after the first one apparently hadn’t filled him up.
Another “wolf thing.” Then Priya sent five messages in a row demanding to see Rory’s tea leaves.
Rory rolled his eyes, but dutifully photographed his mug from multiple angles.
Finally settling back in the car, I glanced at the clock and suppressed a groan. It had hit rush hour, and we still hadn’t reached the Scottish border, let alone begun the long drive to the Highlands.
A dull throb started behind my left eye. I touched my temple, feeling the migraine threatening to take hold. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I fished out a small bottle and tapped two tablets into my palm.
“Are you okay?”
I swallowed the pills dry. “I’m getting a headache.”
“From me? Are my thoughts too loud again?” His brow furrowed with what looked like genuine concern—a trick of the light?
“No, it’s not you. It’s just from driving all day.
” And the amount of people in the restaurant with their noisy thoughts hadn’t helped.
I rubbed my eyes. We were supposed to do the entire journey today—what was a ten-hour drive without any stops or traffic.
But we still somehow had over half of it yet to go.
Rory squirmed in his seat. He was finding it difficult being trapped in the car all day, even if he hadn’t moaned—aloud—once.
“I wonder…” I said.
“What?”
“I wonder if it’ll be too late now by the time we get there? To your family’s estate, I mean. Maybe we should break up the drive by staying somewhere, then arriving tomorrow morning?”
Rory sighed with palpable relief. “Oh, thank god. I’m desperate to go for a run.”
A flash of imagery crossed my mind—Rory racing through woodland, fur gleaming gold in moonlight. I wasn’t sure if I’d picked it up from his thoughts or if it was my own imagination.
Though beneath the immediate relief, I sensed something else—gratitude for the extra preparation time before facing his family. The tension that had been building in him all day seemed to ease slightly.
I shifted the car back into drive. “We’re not stupidly far from the border. Should be loads of options there.”
“Yeah,” Rory agreed, leaning back into his seat.
As I pulled back onto the motorway, Rory promptly leaned against the window, his eyes drifting shut.
Within minutes, Freddy had climbed onto his head, making a nest in his messy blond hair before curling into a small, grey ball.
The ferret’s matted fur blended with Rory’s chaotic hairstyle in a way that would have been comical if it weren’t so… oddly endearing.
A few minutes later, Rory was fast asleep, his breathing deep and even. The constant energy that typically radiated from him had settled into something peaceful.
I found my eyes drifting towards him every few minutes as I drove, still processing everything he’d told me earlier.
The pain in his voice when he’d spoken about leaving his pack, the stark vulnerability when mentioning Issac.
The levels of emotion that had radiated from him had been intense—waves of grief, loneliness, and a desperate need for acceptance that I hadn’t expected.
Strangely, I hadn’t minded dealing with it. There was something about seeing beneath Rory’s chaotic exterior that made me want to…
I shook my head. Understand him. Yes, that was it.
As we approached the border, the traffic worsened. Rory started to stir, stretching in the confined space like a cat waking from a nap. Freddy tumbled from his perch, landing in Rory’s lap with an indignant squeak.
“Where are we?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
“Not far now.”
His leg immediately started bouncing, a nervous, restless energy returning to his body.
“Let’s find somewhere, then,” I suggested, noting his discomfort. “You’ve been trapped in this car long enough.”
“I’ll ring Felix to book somewhere,” Rory offered, reaching for his phone.
“He’s not your bloody PA, Rory. Look it up on your phone.”
Rory tapped at his screen, then frowned. “It’s dead.”
“Why is your phone always dead?”
“I’ll use yours,” he said, reaching to yank my phone down from its navigation holder.
“No!” I snapped.
Rory’s hand froze mid-air. “Why don’t you want me on your phone?”
“Because I don’t.”
I didn’t trust him not to snoop. My phone was like a crime scene—revealing far too much about me.
Not because there was much to find, but because of what wasn’t there: no group chats, or social media.
A couple of messages from my work buddy George planning our occasional hiking trips.
The camera reel housed photos of landscapes only.
And then there were the notes. Dozens of them, fragments of poetry I’d written late at night when sleep wouldn’t come.
Words I’d never show anyone, certainly not Rory Thorne, who’d have a field day if he discovered “Detective Dickface” wrote sonnets about moonlight and longing. Christ, I’d never hear the end of it.
“If you’ve got porn in a locked folder, Felix can totally hack into that, by the way. Trust me, I have experience. I think I scarred him for life.”
I threw my charging wire at his face.
Then, as if a miracle had decided to bless me, I spotted a sign by the roadside. “Oh look, a B&B.”
“Especially when he saw the one of—”
“Please don’t.”