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Irritation flickered in Sabine’s eyes. “About?”

“About your daughter’s murder.”

“Stay the fuck out of our business,” Sabine barked, setting the glass on her table rattling. Bile burned Bryce’s throat, and she focused on not screaming or launching herself at the woman.

Hunt’s wing brushed Bryce’s back, a casual gesture to anyone watching, but that warmth and softness steadied her. Danika. For Danika, she’d do this.

Sabine’s eyes blazed. “Where the Hel is my sword?”

Bryce refused to answer, to even snap that the sword was and would always be Danika’s, and said, “We have intel that suggests Danika was stationed at Luna’s Temple the night the Horn was stolen. We need the Prime to confirm.” Bryce kept her eyes on the carpet, the portrait of terrified, shameful submission, and let Sabine dig her own grave.

Sabine demanded, “What the fuck does this have to do with her death?”

Hunt said calmly, “We’re putting together a picture of Danika’s movements before the kristallos demon killed her. Who she might have met, what she might have seen or done.”

Another bit of bait: to see her reaction to the demon’s breed, when it hadn’t yet been made public. Sabine didn’t so much as blink. Like she was already familiar with it—perhaps because she’d been summoning it all along. Though she might just not have cared, Bryce supposed. Sabine hissed, “Danika wasn’t at the temple that night. She had nothing to do with the Horn being stolen.”

Bryce avoided the urge to close her eyes at the lie that confirmed everything.

Claws slid from Sabine’s knuckles, embedding in her desk. “Who told you Danika was at the temple?”

“No one,” Bryce lied. “I thought I might have remembered her mentioning—”

“You thought?” Sabine sneered, voice rising to imitate Bryce’s. “It’s hard to remember, isn’t it, when you were high, drunk, and fucking strangers.”

“You’re right,” Bryce breathed, even as Hunt growled. “This was a mistake.” She didn’t give Hunt time to object before she turned on a heel and left, gasping for breath.

How she kept her back straight, her stomach inside her body, she had no idea.

She barely heard Hunt as he fell into step behind her. Couldn’t stand to look at Ithan as she entered the hallway and found him waiting against the far wall.

Back down the stairs. She didn’t dare look at the wolves she passed.

She knew Ithan trailed, but she didn’t care, didn’t care—

“Quinlan.” Hunt’s voice cut through the marble stairwell. She made it down another flight when he said again, “Quinlan.”

It was sharp enough that she paused. Looked up over a shoulder. Hunt’s eyes scanned her face—worry, not triumph at Sabine’s blatant lie, shining there.

But Ithan stood between them on the steps, eyes hard as stones. “Tell me what this is about.”

Hunt drawled, “It’s classified, asshole.”

Ithan’s snarl rumbled through the stairwell.

“It’s starting again,” Bryce said quietly, aware of all the cameras, of Micah’s order to keep this quiet. Her voice was rasping. “We’re trying to figure out why and who’s behind it. Three murders so far. The same way. Be careful—warn your pack to be careful.”

Ithan’s face remained unreadable. That had been one of his assets as a sunball player—his ability to keep from broadcasting moves to his opponents. He’d been brilliant, and cocky as fuck, yes, but that arrogance had been well earned through hours of practice and brutal discipline.

Ithan’s face remained cold. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

“Do you need our numbers?” Hunt asked coolly.

Ithan’s lip curled. “I have hers.” She struggled to meet his stare, especially as he asked, “Are you going to bother to reply this time?”

She turned on her heel and rushed down the stairs into the reception hall.

The Prime of the wolves stood in it now. Talking to the receptionist, hunched over his redwood cane, Danika’s grandfather lifted his withered face as she came to an abrupt halt in front of him.