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Pearl smiled widely, handing me a thick manila folder. “It took a lot of digging, but I present to you: Trystan Wells. Age twenty-five.”

Twenty-five?! Ugh, I’m practically a cradle-robber.

She continued, “I have to say, this omega of yours is excellent at covering his tracks, but no one’s perfect.”

“Except you.” I chuckled, flicking the folder open.

My eyes immediately caught on a blurry CCTV image of a young man glaring up towards the camera. It was dated several years ago. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen. His black hair was longer, with a jagged fringe covering one eye, but even blurred I recognised the scowl painted across his face.

“He seemed to be quite the little rebel in his teen years. Started with vandalism, then moved on to shoplifting and a few car jacks for added spice,” Pearl commented. “But strangely, his record quickly cleans up remarkably well. Looks like he really turned his life around—on paper, at least.”

“Or he was just more experienced and learned to hide better.”

“More than likely, considering your run-in with him.”

I studied the pictures first, none of them recent. The latest was three years old, taken at a hospital where he sat in a waiting room, cradling his right arm. My blood boiled seeing him in obvious pain, even in an old photograph.

“His hospital records tell more of a story than his criminal record. For what it’s worth, I don’t recommend reading them, even though I know you will.” Pearl’s heels clicked towards the door until she closed it behind her, leaving me alone with the folder.

She was right on all counts. It was filled with seemingly endless entries of broken bones, fractures, deep lacerations requiring stitches all throughout his childhood, from toddler years to early-teens. If I’d read these records on behalf of a client, I’d feel sick. Reading them and knowing the maninvolved, caring for him, made me want to burn the fucking world.

Eventually, I leaned back in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose and inhaling a long, deep breath. There was nothing I could do about the past. I thought I’d come to terms with that in my line of work, but it felt so much more personal with Trystan. With my omega. A few quick searches confirmed his mother died almost ten years ago and his father went shortly after. Drug abuse. At least they were dead and gone. If I’d been able to meet them…

My inner alpha bristled against my mind, aching to protect him. I’d settle for making sure nothing like that ever happened to him again. He may not have taken my role as his alpha seriously when we spoke, but I meant every word I said to him.

Turning to the final page in the folder, my interest piqued. Another CCTV photo, this time outside the hospital, dated four years ago. Trystan was standing in the car park, speaking to a bald man leaning out of the driver’s side window of a classic Ferrari. His stance was awkward, leaning away from the car. I’d bet money Trystan wasn’t enjoying this conversation. Focusing on the stranger, the camera angle didn’t allow me to see his face and his head tattoo was blurred to hell.

But the car’s licence plate was perfectly legible.

Scribbling the details on a Post-It, I checked the time and groaned. Time for my mysterious client meeting. At least I’d still have time afterwards to review the diary before seeing Norah and Rhodes.

As I exited my office, my nose tingled. I could smell something minty and…earthy. Hm.

“Pearl, could you do me a favour, please?” I handed her the note. “A few favours, actually.”

Chapter Nine

Trystan

Itdidn’ttakelongto realise that the easiest way into Emerson’s office was the front door. A couple showers later, Morgan & Watson’s newest clients were standing outside, ready to go meet their lawyer. Or at least, one of their clients was.

“Remember, keep the meeting going as long as possible,” I said, straightening my button-down shirt. “If anyone asks, I’m your cousin, here for emotional support.”

Bee nodded, dressed head to toe in adorable knitwear that would hopefully inspire some extra sympathy. “Right. My cousin with terrible IBS, who had to run to the bathroom as soon as we arrived and will be with us when he can.”

“Stop enjoying this so much. I’ll text you when I’m back outside so you can make an excuse and leave. If all goes well, Emerson will never know I was here.”

As much as I focused on avoiding Emerson, part of me was still desperate to see him. I couldn’t even blame the thoughts on my heat anymore. It was all me.

Getting so close to him would be a risk. If I caught his scent again, I’d have a hard time resisting the pull of his alpha against my omega. Luckily, I’d stocked up on pheromone suppressants.

I just needed to get through this job. Once it was over, it would be easier to stay away from him, and my attraction would fade, like with anyone else. The thought made my chest ache, but it was for the best. There wasn’t space for an alpha in my life.

We entered the building and immediately split up. Bee headed for the receptionist’s desk, while I weaved through groups of lawyers until I slid into a bathroom stall. It took a few minutes longer than expected—Emerson must’ve been running late—but eventually, Bee’s “affirmative” text came through. Three toilet emojis. Classy.

I waited a couple extra minutes, until I was sure no one else remained in the bathroom, before leaving and heading to the elevator. There were security cameras everywhere. It had taken practice to walk around with my head angled away from cameras in a way that the people around wouldn’t see me as acting strange, but it was more than worth it during jobs like this. Following Bee’s cryptic emoji message, I took the elevator to the third floor and began searching for Emerson’s office.

It was never easy looking for a particular room when I hadn’t had the time to properly scope out the building or get a good disguise together, but luck seemed to be on my side today. Down the hallway of the first corner I turned, I hit the jackpot. An empty assistant’s desk outside an equally abandoned office belonging to Emerson Richter. Not wasting any time, I tried the handle—emptyandunlocked, what a day—and slipped inside, flicking the lock behind me.