Page 17 of A Cobbled Conspiracy

Blake approached the intercom with the caution of someone who’d learned to be suspicious of unexpected situations. “What kind of delivery?”

“Manila envelope, sir. No return address. The courier said it was specifically requested to be delivered to Mr. Sterling-Hart personally.”

She continued, her voice crackling through the intercom. “He had proper corporate delivery credentials from a legitimate courier service, sir. The package was pre-screened through our usual security protocols. The sender used a registered business account.”

My stomach dropped. Someone knew exactly where Blake’s secure location was and had managed to get a package past building security designed to keep unwanted visitors out.

“Don’t accept it,” Jake said immediately. “Packages without return addresses are never good news.”

But Blake was already shaking his head, his sharp mind working through the implications. “If they wanted to hurt us, they wouldn’t announce themselves with a delivery. This is a message.”

He returned to the intercom. “Bring it up.”

The next five minutes felt like hours. I found myself pacing the floor, my body responding to the stress with increased heart rate and the kind of restless energy that demanded action. The mating mark on my neck throbbed with anxiety, and I pressedmy fingers against it, wishing desperately that I could feel Dominic’s reassuring presence through the bond.

Penny moved closer to me, his sweet scent deliberately calming despite his own obvious concern. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it,” he said quietly, his eyes studying my face with the kind of keen perception that missed nothing. I stopped my pacing to let him place a steadying hand on my arm.

When the elevator chimed and Blake’s assistant appeared with a security guard, I felt my stomach clench tighter. The guard was a professional alpha who looked like he could bench press a small car. His presence was reassuring—a reminder that we weren’t completely defenseless despite feeling exposed.

“Security wants to scan it first,” the guard said, holding a portable device that looked like something from an airport. “Standard protocol for unusual deliveries.”

The envelope passed the scan without incident, but that didn’t ease my anxiety. Blake accepted it, but his movements were precise and deliberate like a bomb technician approaching a suspicious device. My name was written across the front in block letters that revealed nothing about the sender’s identity.

When the door closed behind the security guard, the four of us stood around Blake’s coffee table, staring at a piece of mail that felt loaded with malicious intent.

“Open it,” I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. “Whatever it is, we need to know.”

Blake carefully tore open the envelope and tilted it so the contents spilled onto the coffee table. A single photograph fluttered down, landing face-up among mine and Penny’s weeks of collaborative research.

It showed Dominic being led into the courthouse in handcuffs, his head down and shoulders rigid while photographers captured his arrest. But someone had drawn a red circle around his face and written a message across the bottom in hauntingly familiar scratchy lettering: “Stop digging.”

The threat was crystal clear. Someone knew we were investigating, knew we were starting to fit the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle together. And they wanted us to stop.

As I stared at the photograph, another wave of nausea hit me so hard I nearly doubled over. I staggered to the sofa, collapsing onto the cushions and buried my face in my trembling hands. The stress was making everything worse. I could feel Penny’s concerned gaze burning into me.

“Leo,” Penny said sharply, moving to my side. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I managed, though we both knew it was a lie. I pressed my hand to my mouth, tasting bile.

Penny’s instincts engaged, his sweet scent shifting to protective, soothing concern. “You know what? I’m starving, and stress eating sounds amazing right now. Blake, can we get some groceries delivered? I’m craving those honey-lavender cookies from that fancy market downtown.”

Blake looked up from the photograph, his thoughts momentarily distracted by Penny’s cheerful tone. “Of course. My assistant can arrange a delivery. What do you need?”

“Just some comfort food,” Penny said, already pulling out his phone. “Leo looks like he could use some actual nutrition too.”

He turned his gaze to me. “You know how you get when you’re stressed—you forget to eat. How about some of that creamy soup you like?”

“Yeah, sure… that sounds good,” I said, even though food was the last thing I wanted right now.

“Jake, what’re you in the mood for?” Penny busied himself with the grocery app, placing an order for food and some other “omega necessities.”

When Blake turned back to Jake and their analysis of the threatening photograph, Penny leaned closer to me. “Want me help you lay down until the food gets here?”

I started to decline, but Penny was eyeing me meaningfully. I nodded and let him help me to my feet.

“Leo,” he said quietly once we were out of earshot, his voice carrying the kind of gentle authority that came from years of friendship. “We both know this isn’t just bond separation. Your symptoms have gotten worse the past few days… you can barely keep food down and your scent has been shifting in odd ways.”

My heart pounded as I understood what he was really saying. “Penny…”