5. Chapter 5
She’d been awake for hours. Long enough to hear Declan restless on the other side of the wall sometime before dawn. Long enough to catch the rough sound of his voice through the wood, thick with sleep as he shaped a word she almost missed.
Her name.
She pressed her hand against the wall and hated the warmth that spread through her chest.
Quiet had followed. Then the creak of bed springs as he shifted and the cabin settled again.
Later the compound stirred back to life.
A door opened. Boots crossed the porch. She tracked his footsteps as he checked the perimeter.
Then he returned, and she listened to him move through his morning routine on the other side of the wall.
Water running. Dishes clinking. The slow creak of floorboards under deliberate weight.
The morning light turned the snow outside into fields of broken glass. Sage sat at the small table with her laptop open, three notebooks spread around her, and a growing pile of evidence that refused to make sense.
Her brother’s case file stared back at her from the screen. She’d committed every detail to memory years back, but she forced herself to look again. The timeline. The location. The specific injuries that had made even seasoned detectives go pale.
September fifteenth. Full moon.
Mason had been found two miles from the Blackridge border. The official report called it a bear attack.
Either they were innocent. Or they were very good at covering their tracks.
She didn’t know which answer scared her more.
The door between the cabins opened without warning.
Sage didn’t look up. “Knock much?”
“You’re in my territory.” Declan moved into her peripheral vision, carrying two mugs. He set one beside her laptop without asking. Coffee. Black. Still steaming. “You don’t get privacy.”
“Charming.”
“I’m not here to be charming.”
She wrapped her hands around the mug and let the warmth sink into her fingers. Outside, the temperature dropped again overnight. Inside, the fire he’d built last night kept the worst of the cold at bay.
He’d done that. Built her a fire. Made her coffee. Small gestures that didn’t match the careful distance he maintained.
“What are you looking for?” He stood close enough that she could feel his presence like heat against her back.
“Patterns.”
“Find any?”
“Nothing that makes sense.” She pulled up another file. “Your pack stays home during full moons. Every month. No exceptions.”
“We’re careful.”
“Or you’re hiding something.”
“Both can be true.” He leaned over her shoulder, studying the screen. His heat reached her. Smoke and earth and something that made her hindbrain pay attention. “What’s the timeline on your brother’s death?”
“You know the timeline.”
“Tell me anyway.”
She pulled up the coroner’s report. “Time of death estimated between ten PM and midnight. Body discovered at dawn by hikers. Last seen alive at eight-thirty PM passing by a ranger station.”
“Two miles from our border.”
“Yes.”
“During a full moon.”
“Yes.” He was closer than she’d thought, close enough that she could see the faint scar along his jaw, the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. “Which means someone from your pack had the opportunity?”
“Or someone wanted it to look that way.” He straightened, stepping back. “Rogues exist. Lone wolves who don’t follow pack law. They’re harder to track because they don’t have patterns.”
“Convenient.”
“True.” He stepped to the window, scanning the tree line out of habit. “A rogue could cross our territory without permission. Could kill on the border and disappear before we even knew they were there?”
“But you’d investigate.”
“We’d hunt them down.” No hesitation. No remorse. “Rogues who kill humans don’t survive.”
He stood there, backlit by snow-reflected light, every line of his body speaking of gathered force and absolute conviction. He believed what he was saying. She could hear it, see it in the set of his shoulders.
“Tell me about the wolves who were here when Mason died.” She held it level. Investigative. “Who was in your pack during September of that year?”
“Why?”
“Because I need to know who had access. Who was where? Who might have—”
“Who might have torn your brother apart?” He turned to face her, and something dangerous moved in his eyes. “Say it. Stop dancing around what you’re really asking.”
“Fine.” She stood, meeting his gaze. “Who in your pack is capable of that kind of violence?”
“All of us.”
The words hung in the air.
“We’re predators, Sage. Every single one of us. We have teeth and claws and instincts that tell us to hunt.” He crossed his arms. “The question isn’t capability. It’s control. And choice.”
“So who lacks control?”
“No one in Blackridge.” His voice went hard.
“Then explain the pattern.”
Frustration crossed his face. His jaw worked once. Twice. “I can’t give you answers I don’t have.”
She wanted to push. Wanted to demand more, to break through his guard and find what lay underneath. But his face stopped her.
He looked worn. Not physically. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from not sleeping.
“You really don’t know.” She had not meant to say it so quietly.
“No.” He held her gaze. “But I’ll help you find out.”
“Why?”
“Because if someone in my pack killed an innocent human, I need to know.” A muscle ticked in his cheek. “And because you’re not going to stop until you have answers. Which means you’re going to keep putting yourself in danger until someone decides you’re a problem worth solving permanently?”
“I lasted long enough to get into your territory.”
“Because I let you.” The words came rough. “I scented you the moment you crossed the border. Tracked you to my cabin. Watched you break in and set up your equipment. I could have taken you down before you even knew I was there.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.” The wariness behind his eyes quieted. “I didn’t.”
The unasked question hung in the air.
Sage went back to her laptop, needing the distance. Her fingers moved across the keyboard, pulling up files, cross-referencing data.
And there, buried in her surveillance notes, something caught her attention.
A face. One she’d marked peripheral months ago. Dark hair, lean build, standing slightly apart from the others near the lodge. Possibly someone. Possibly nobody.
She zoomed in and felt her breath go still.
She knew that face. Not from here. From a traffic camera image taken two miles from where Mason died. September fifteenth. Nine-fifteen PM. A lone figure walking toward the border.
Her hands shook as she pulled up both images side by side.
Same build. Same forward tilt of his head.
It wasn’t proof. The traffic camera was grainy, the angle wrong. Any lawyer would tear it apart.
But the face was real.
She’d flagged the face weeks ago during a late-night cross-reference. She hadn’t been sure then.
She was closer to sure now.
“Find something?” Declan’s voice came from right behind her.
She closed the laptop before he could see. “No.”
“Liar.”
She turned to face him. He stood close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, close enough that she could see the way his eyes on her face, reading her.
“What did you find?” His voice went soft. Dangerous.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Everything you find concerns me.” He didn’t move, didn’t touch her, but she couldn’t move anyway. “You’re investigating my pack. My family. My responsibility. So whatever you just saw on that screen, I need to know.”
“Why? So you can cover it up?”
“So I can help you.” Frustration bled through his control. “I told you I’d help you find the answers. That means all of it. Even the parts that hurt.”
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that the conviction in his voice was real, that his offer came from genuine desire for justice rather than calculated maneuvering.
But trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Not yet.
“I need to work.” A clear dismissal.
“I’ll be outside. Checking the perimeter.” His footsteps moved toward the door. “Don’t leave the cabin.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
The door shut behind him without a sound.
Sage waited until she heard his footsteps fade. The sound of snow crunching under his boots grew softer until it ceased. Then she opened her laptop again and stared at the two images side by side.
The wolf from the photograph. The figure from the traffic camera.
She should tell Declan. Should show him what she’d found and let him help her track down what she needed.
But something held her back.
Maybe it was caution. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe telling Declan meant trusting him, and trust meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant risk.
She had two images now. One of them had a name. She wasn’t going to wait for the other one to come to her.