Chapter 31 #2
I pull it out partially, just enough to read the message again even though I've already memorized every word, every loop and curve of the handwriting, every minute detail about the paper quality and ink type.
"Must be nice to relax and stretch."
Seven simple words.
Innocuous on the surface.
Could easily be interpreted as a friendly observation from another wellness enthusiast staying at the lodge. Just someone commenting on seeing another guest doing morning exercise.
But I know better. My training, my instincts, my years of experience in military intelligence all scream threat.
The placement was too deliberate—left on a bench in the Sunrise Wellness Studio exactly where we'd find it after Reverie finished her workout.
The timing too precise—had to have been placed either during her session while I was filming or immediately after we left.
The origami folding too intentional and specific—a calling card, a signature, a way of saying 'I was here and I'm skilled enough to leave this without being noticed. '
Someone was watching her do Pilates this morning.
Saw her in those tights, in those vulnerable positions, stretching and bending and completely unaware of being observed by hostile eyes.
Close enough—dangerously, threateningly close—to observe specific details about her workout and then leave this note where we'd definitely find it.
A multilayered threat.
A territorial claim.
A warning that they're watching and we can't stop them.
That they can get close to her whenever they want.
She's vulnerable even when we think she's protected in what should be a secure location. That our vigilance isn't enough.
It's taking absolutely everything in me not to squeeze the paper to pulp. Not to crumple it into nothing and throw it into the snow and pretend it doesn't exist and this threat isn't real.
But I can't destroy evidence.
Can't let emotion compromise the investigation.
Already ran comprehensive fingerprint analysis on it using some of my essential security equipment that I always pack—portable fingerprint scanner about the size of a phone, analysis software on my laptop, secure database access through encrypted channels.
I never travel without the basics even on what's supposed to be a vacation or quick trip.
Old habits from military intelligence work that saved lives more than once.
Got clear, usable prints. Two different distinct sets, actually. One presumably belongs to whoever physically wrote the message. The other might be from whoever folded it into the origami shape, or it could be the same person using different fingers. Won't know until I run comparison analysis.
Now I just need to get back to my laptop and run the prints through the comprehensive pack registry database.
It's legally mandatory for all pack members to submit fingerprints when officially registering with regional authorities—safety measure, identification purposes, legal documentation, emergency services access.
Which means if this person is part of any registered pack anywhere in North America, I'll get a match within minutes.
And if they're part of Reverie's old pack—which my gut and every instinct I possess is screaming they absolutely are—then we'll know exactly who's following her. Who's watching. Who's threatening. And we can neutralize the threat permanently.
I watch Reverie giggle as she manages to wiggle one arm free from Grayson's hold and immediately packs another snowball with her gloved hand. She throws it directly at Nash's face from point-blank range.
"Victory!" she shouts, pumping her fist in the air while still being held. "I win! I'm the champion!"
She starts hopping up and down in excitement—or trying to, since Grayson is still holding her.
He adjusts his grip to accommodate her enthusiasm.
Then her boot catches on something—a patch of ice hidden under fresh snow, probably—and she slips.
Grayson's reflexes are excellent. He catches her smoothly, adjusting his hold so she doesn't fall, pulling her more securely against his chest.
She giggles like some kind of evil mastermind, completely unbothered by the near-fall.
"Did you see that? Almost wiped out but I have a personal safety net! This is what peak performance looks like!"
Grayson rolls his eyes affectionately, his breath visible in white puffs in the cold air.
"You're being ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. You almost gave me a heart attack."
"Ridiculously amazing," she corrects with a grin.
Nash is holding her phone—the new pink iPhone 18 Pro Max we bought her yesterday at TechSavvy. He's been filming the entire snowball fight apparently without telling her initially, capturing organic authentic moments that content creators usually struggle to manufacture.
Now he's looking at the screen with obvious amusement, scrolling through what must be rapidly accumulating comments.
"You're live, by the way," he announces casually, like it's no big deal. "Have been for the past ten minutes straight. Currently 3,000 viewers watching you declare yourself undisputed snowball champion of Millbrook."
Reverie's eyes widen comically, her mouth forming a perfect 'O' of shock.
"What?! You put me on live and didn't tell me?! I've been acting completely ridiculous!"
"You were having too much genuine fun," Nash says with an unapologetic shrug. "Didn't want to make you self-conscious and ruin the authentic energy. Your followers love the real you."
She immediately shifts into content creator mode with impressive speed. Straightens her posture even while being held. Puts both hands up in an enthusiastic double wave while Grayson continues holding her securely like she weighs absolutely nothing.
"Hi everyone! Hi!" she calls toward the phone with infectious enthusiasm.
"We're having an epic snowball fight in the middle of a developing blizzard!
Well, not the middle-middle because that would be dangerous and stupid, but like the beginning stages of what might become a full blizzard later!
We're at Winter Pine Lodge in Millbrook and isn't it gorgeous here? !"
Nash angles the phone strategically to showcase the snowy landscape in all its winter wonderland glory—the pristine white grounds, the elegant lodge building with its rustic architecture and warm glowing windows, the pine trees heavy with fresh powder creating that picture-perfect Christmas card aesthetic.
"I'll read some comments out loud," he offers, scrolling with his thumb while keeping the camera steady.
"Let's see what your adoring fans are saying.
.. 'This is literally the cutest thing I've ever seen.
' 'Where is this place I desperately need to go.
' 'The way he's holding you is couple goals.
' 'Relationship goals everything.' 'You're absolutely glowing.
' 'Can we please see the hot shirtless cowboy from yesterday's live? '"
Grayson groans dramatically from behind her.
"I'm never living down the shirtless horseback riding thing, am I? That's going to follow me forever."
"Never ever," Reverie confirms with absolute certainty and barely suppressed glee. "You're internet famous now. Viral cowboy content. You need to accept your fate with grace and dignity."
"My fate is being objectified on social media," he mutters.
"Could be worse fates," Nash points out pragmatically.
Grayson adjusts his secure hold on Reverie, then starts walking purposefully toward where Nash is standing with the phone, carrying her with the ease of someone carrying something precious and lightweight. He positions them both properly in frame so the camera can capture their faces clearly.
Reverie starts talking animatedly to her followers, using her hands expressively to gesture around despite being held in Grayson's arms. She talks enthusiastically about the beautiful lodge, the perfect snowfall, the spontaneous snowball fight that turned competitive, how they're staying cozy and safe during the storm while still enjoying winter activities.
"And that's Theo over there!" She points in my direction suddenly.
Nash swings the phone to capture me standing on the covered porch.
I simply lift my mug in acknowledgment. The steam rises from the liquid inside, visible in the cold air.
They think it's hot chocolate. It's not. It's hot alcoholic Bailey's Irish Cream that I specifically tipped the waiter twenty dollars to make for me. Needed something stronger than coffee after this morning's events and the discovery of that note.
Reverie had stolen a few sips earlier—thought she was being sneaky about it. I'd let her. The small amount of alcohol has made her looser, more carefree, less filtered.
Which is exactly what she needs right now even if she doesn't know why.
Better she's happy and slightly tipsy than anxious and paranoid about threats she can't control.
I watch as they finish the live stream. Reverie waves enthusiastically at the camera, promises more content tomorrow, thanks everyone for watching and following along on the "Knotty Christmas Series."
Nash ends the stream with a final shot of the snowy landscape.
Then Grayson carries her over to where I'm standing, still holding her like she's precious cargo. Which she is.
"You want to come inside?" he asks me, snow clinging to his hair and coat.
I smirk slightly.
"Take our lovely fighting maiden inside before she tries to create an abomination snowman or summon a fleet of evil snow figures to do her bidding."
Reverie laughs—bright and genuine and slightly tipsy.
"I'm unstoppable! I could totally build an army! They'd be adorable and terrifying!"
She's a bit giddy. The Bailey's I'd let her sip worked exactly as intended—loosened her inhibitions, made her let go of stress, allowed her to just have fun without overthinking.
She focuses on me suddenly, her expression becoming more serious despite the alcohol.
"You'll come inside soon? You won't stay out in the cold?"
The concern in her voice makes my chest tight.
"Mhmm," I confirm with a nod. "Just finishing my drink. I'll be right behind you."
She beams at me—that brilliant smile that makes everything feel worthwhile.
"Okay! Don't take too long or I'll come drag you inside myself!"
Grayson carries her toward the lodge entrance, her laughter echoing as she makes him promise to help her build at least one snowman before the storm gets too bad.
Nash lingers behind. Waits until Grayson and Reverie are definitely out of earshot before walking over to where I'm standing, his boots crunching in the accumulated snow on the porch.
His expression shifts immediately and drastically.
The playful warmth and easygoing charm disappear completely, replaced by cold tactical calculation and barely restrained violence.
His blue eyes are hard as ice, sharp as blades.
This is Nash in operative mode—the version of him that very few people ever see.
"You got the fingerprints analyzed?" he asks quietly, voice pitched low enough that it won't carry even in the open air.
I nod curtly.
"Two clear sets. High quality impressions. Running them through the comprehensive pack registry database as soon as I get back to my laptop and establish secure connection. Should have results within fifteen minutes of starting the query."
"Good." His jaw clenches visibly, muscles ticking.
"Once the blizzard lets up enough for safe travel—the second roads are passable and visibility is acceptable—we're leaving.
Immediately. No delays, no excuses, no 'let's wait another hour to be sure.
' We get her back to Oakridge Hollow where we have established security measures, familiar territory, and definite home advantage. "
I agree completely without hesitation.
"Already mapped multiple route options depending on which roads clear first. Highway 7 is most direct but exposed.
County roads offer more cover but take longer.
Highway conditions permitting, we can be back in Oakridge in under forty-five minutes once weather clears enough.
I'll be monitoring road reports continuously. "
Nash stares out at the falling snow with the intensity of someone planning military operations. His hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides.
"Someone was close enough to watch her during her entire Pilates session.
Close enough to see specific details about her positions and movements.
Close enough to observe without us noticing their presence.
Close enough to leave that note in a location we'd definitely find it without being seen entering or exiting. "
"They wanted us to know," I say grimly, stating what we're both thinking.
"This wasn't a covert surveillance operation.
Wanted us to understand they can access her whenever they want.
Can get close despite our vigilance. It's a deliberate power play.
Classic intimidation tactic designed to make us feel helpless and her feel unsafe even with pack protection. "
"Fuck that." Nash's voice is deadly quiet—the kind of quiet that precedes extreme violence. "Nobody gets to her. Nobody touches her. Nobody even fucking looks at her wrong without us knowing about it and dealing with it permanently."
I pull the note from my pocket one more time, looking at the careful handwriting with analytical detachment now instead of rage. Studying the letter formation, the pressure points, the slight variations that might indicate stress or deliberate disguise.
Whoever left this made several critical mistakes.
They revealed themselves and their presence.
Showed their hand too early.
Left physical evidence with biological markers.
And now we're going to systematically hunt them down using every resource and skill we possess and make absolutely certain they understand exactly what happens to people who threaten our Omega.
Nash and I lock eyes. Hold the gaze. No words needed at this point.
We've dealt with situations like this in the past—been through enough dangerous situations together—to communicate entire tactical strategies and contingency plans through sustained eye contact alone.
And I vow—silently but absolutely, with complete commitment—that no one is hurting our Sugarplum.