Chapter 15 – CAMILLE
CAMILLE
The packhouse is silent as I enter through the back door at five-thirty in the morning. Only the catering staff, in early to start preparing breakfast, are up and about.
I should be using my early start to prepare for my dawn meeting with Dean, but my mind keeps circling back to last night. To the wolf sitting guard outside my cabin with my scarf around his neck.
I need to see him.
His scent trail is easy to follow, even with the myriad of other wolves traipsing through here every day. It calls to me, already under my skin in a way that’s addictive and exciting. My nose leads me through hallways and into a boot room at the rear of the house that I hadn’t noticed before.
The door it brings me to is small and concealed, looking more like a panic room with a keypad lock than someone’s living quarters.
This can’t be right. Yet somehow, I know that it is.
Jax doesn’t sleep upstairs with the others.
I stare at the worn buttons and skim over them with my fingertips, then my nose, noting which numbers show the most use and carry the strongest scent. My wolf stirs, pushing combinations at me with strange certainty, until on the third try, the lock clicks open.
I push the door open and hesitate briefly, wondering whether it’s safe to enter his den unannounced, until the overwhelming scent of him and the steady beating of his heart draws me inside.
The stairs descend into darkness. No windows down here, just bare concrete and the lingering scent of pain and burnt flesh. A single lamp on a solitary bedside locker provides soft light, but it’s still not enough to make the space feel more like a bedroom than a prison, which is what it really is.
The large bed hasn’t been slept in. Instead of being nestled under the soft navy covers, Jax is slumped against the far wall.
Silver-lined chains bind his wrists, the metal leaving angry red marks on his skin.
And my scarf is still tied around his neck, a splash of cheerful colour juxtaposing the bleak room and horrifying scene.
“Jax…” I cover my mouth with my hands, my heart breaking at the sight of him. This is what he does when he feels like he can’t trust himself? Is this what he thinks he deserves?
Forcing back the sob that’s threatening to burst from me, I move closer, careful not to wake him.
In sleep, his face has lost some of its usual tension, though pain lines still mark his handsome features. He’s beautiful, even here. Even like this.
His strong shoulders, bare chest, and ripped torso are criss-crossed with pale scars that stand out against his tanned skin. His chest rises and falls steadily, messy dark hair falling across his forehead, where another nasty scar disappears into his hairline.
I sink down beside him, onto my knees, unable to stay away.
This is no way for anyone to live. You wouldn’t leave an animal chained like this, let alone a man.
A good man.
My mate.
My fingers ghost over his cheek, unable to resist touching him. He doesn’t stir.
Growing bolder, I kneel down and press my palm to his chest, feeling his heart beating strong and steady beneath my touch. My wolf whines inside my head, wanting to comfort our mate, wanting to release him from his chains, but as I scan the surfaces close by, I can’t see any keys.
I try not to become even more distressed when I spot a cage and more shackles in the far corner. This is wrong. All of it. A wolf this powerful shouldn’t be caged, even by his own choice. Nothing I’ve seen of Jax so far would lead me to believe this is necessary.
But maybe… maybe there’s a reason he has to do this. I don’t want to get him into trouble by freeing him and letting his wolf loose.
As I hold my hand over his heart though, feeling the heat against my palm, she takes immense pride in how his muscles relax, his pulse slows, and how his breathing evens out, becoming more peaceful with our presence.
This is what I can do for him.
I edge closer, turning so that I’m sitting right beside him, but he moves in his sleep and curls one muscular arm around me, pulling me down and tucking me tight against him with a possessive growl.
What the hell happened that he, or anyone else, thinks this is necessary? I can’t bear to think of his wolf being in so much pain that this was the best solution they could come up with.
The mate bond would help stabilize him, giving his wolf the anchor it needs, if he’d just let it.
Deep down in my gut, I know it. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.
Knowing this is probably crossing so many lines, both professionally and personally, I don’t extract myself from his grip. Instead, I curl against his side carefully and enjoy how he scoots me closer, wanting me near.
He’s warm despite the cold basement, and it’s nice to be held by my big strong mate, even if it is in his sleep. So, I let myself have this moment.
Just this, I tell myself.
He moves, his head turning toward mine, and murmurs something too quiet to understand. Not my name, just a deep rumble of contentment as he buries his nose in my hair, and his hand moves slowly, rhythmically, stroking my stomach.
My eyes burn with unshed tears. He’s so convinced he’s dangerous, but even chained and sleeping, he treats me with care.
I stay there longer than I should, memorizing the feeling of being so close to him. My annoyance from yesterday melts away.
Yes, he acted like a possessive jerk. But seeing him here, understanding the daily battle he fights with himself, and how he punishes himself, I can’t hold on to that anger.
He needs help.
Eventually, I force myself to pull away, slowly easing myself out from under his heavy arm. He makes a small sound of protest but doesn’t wake as I stand. One last look at him chained up like a prisoner cements my determination.
“I’m going to fix this,” I whisper, not sure if I’m promising him or myself.
I slip out quietly, making sure the door locks behind me, but knowing that when he wakes, he’ll be able to tell I was there.
“Camille?”
I turn to find Dean watching me from the shadows of the hallway. He lounges against the wall in black jeans and a black henley, arms folded loosely in front of his impressive chest, but there’s nothing casual about his aura.
His eyes track from my face to the basement door and back, nostrils flaring slightly as he catches his brother’s scent all over me.
“Morning, Dean. I… eh… didn’t want to wake him. He seems exhausted.”
There’s no point in pretending I’m not sneaking out of his brother’s quarters. He’s going to find out what we are sooner or later—that is, if Jax hasn’t told him already.
“He doesn’t sleep.” His tone stays neutral, but his posture shifts, shoulders squaring as he pushes himself off the wall. “Most of the time, he only comes out at night. Like a vampire.”
He’s not laughing because he knows it’s no joke.
“I couldn’t sleep either. The investigation’s been on my mind.”
He studies me for a long moment, eyes sharp with intelligence. Eventually, he nods. “My office. Let’s discuss where we go next with the case.”
I follow him through the packhouse, noting how even this early, pack members are beginning to stir. The smell of coffee and breakfast drifts from the kitchen when more security personnel from Dean’s pack than I’ve seen before are gathered around a large table, discussing their plans for the day.
Dean’s office is next door, but as we step inside, it’s clear he’s rarely here. It’s dark, old-fashioned and luxurious, with wood panelling, sumptuous leather chairs, heavy ornate picture frames and a massive desk. But it’s impersonal, and smells more of Callum and Lynn than of the alpha himself.
He gestures to one of the seats facing his desk while he perches on the edge. The morning sun through the window casts half his face in shadow, making his expression indecipherable as he stares at his hands for a long moment.
“So. A stolen artifact.” Dean frowns and leans back, waiting for me to give him a debrief. “At first, just being used to weaken competitors, but now, being used in a manner that’s potentially life-threatening.”
I nod. “I suspect the water in that bottle was tampered with, replaced with water that had come into contact with the stone.”
Dean shakes his head, disgusted at the cowardly act.
“Only competitors, VIPs, and their families had access to the water bottles.” I pull the list of names from my pocket. “Which means it’s someone close to the finalists, if not one of the competitors themselves. Or…”
“Or someone high up in another pack that doesn’t want a new alpha coming on board, or at least, not in this way,” he finishes for me, fingers drumming once against the desk, having come to the conclusion.
With a weary sigh, he rubs his forehead hard. “The finals are tomorrow. I can’t have a winner get a pack under false pretences.” He tips his head toward the front door, where loud voices fill the entryway. “I’ve asked Zane to send some more officers. We need all the help we can get.”
With more and more people arriving, and the final so close, this has the potential to get out of hand. I don’t blame him for requesting more assistance.
“I think that’s prudent given the circumstances.”
Dean scans the list of names that I’ve narrowed down by closely cross-referencing their movements over the past week. “Do you have any prime suspects?”
I shrug, unwilling to narrow it down any further just based on a hunch. I need proof.
“I want to set a trap. Use myself as bait.”
This idea had me tossing and turning all night and is what finally roused me from sleep in the early hours.
Dean looks up, and the drumming stops entirely. His whole body goes motionless in that predator way alphas have. “Explain.”
My heartbeat accelerates, relieved he’s not saying no immediately.