Page 29 of Clashing With The Grumpy Wolf

No. Absolutely not. This is my wedding to save, my reputation on the line.

I kick off my heels, grab them in one hand, and take off running. The cold marble floor sends shocks up my legs as I sprint down the corridor, my stocking feet silent compared to the thunderingfootsteps of the men ahead. I round the corner just in time to see Adrian's broad back disappearing through a doorway at the far end of the hall.

"Wait!" I call, but my voice echoes uselessly off ornate walls.

By the time I reach the doorway, they're gone. I lean against the frame, catching my breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. The hallway branches into three different directions, each one identical with their dark wood paneling and dragon-motif cornices.

I’ll never catch them. This estate is so big, it’ll take me a half hour just to find them. I’ve truly been left behind. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I’m not law enforcement.

What help does a werewolf and a dragon need from a human wedding planner anyway?

"Great," I mutter, smoothing down my dress. "Just perfect."

I strain my ears, hoping to catch some sound of their passage, but the manor seems to have swallowed them whole. The silence presses in, broken only by the distant ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere.

That's when I see it, a flicker of movement at the far end of the leftmost corridor. A shadow sliding along the wall with purpose, all dressed in black and wearing a face covering.

Someone who doesn’t want to be seen.

My pulse quickens. That's not staff. The staff here move with efficiency and openness. This figure is hunched, furtive, heading toward what looks like a service entrance.

Logic says I should find Adrian. Logic says I shouldn't pursue a potential thief alone in an endless mansion.

But logic has already lost this battle when I see the figure pause at a small, unobtrusive door, glance over their shoulder, then slip inside.

I check my phone, intending to text Adrian, but the signal bars mock me with their absence. Of course there's no service in this part of the building. The walls are practically fortress-thick, designed in an era when "cellular reception" was akin to science fiction.

The sensible thing would be to find help, to track down Adrian and let the actual law enforcement officer handle this. I'm a smart woman. I should call for help.

I start walking toward the service door.

Because sometimes, being sensible doesn't get results. And I need results. I need this wedding to happen, need the tiara found, need everything to go perfectly so I can salvage what's left of my career.

The service door is plain oak, unadorned unlike every other surface in this ostentatious manor. It's been left slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible through the crack. My hand hesitates on the tarnished brass knob, common sense making one last desperate plea.

I push it open anyway.

A narrow stone staircase spirals downward, illuminated by weak electric sconces that cast more shadows than light. The temperature drops with each step I take, the air growing heavy with moisture and the musty scent of age. My breath forms small clouds in front of me.

The stairwell is claustrophobic, the walls pressing in on both sides.

This is not just a staff stairwell. This is going down to the basement. I put my shoes back on, then make my way down the stairs. Each step echoes softly despite my sensible rubber soles, the sound bouncing back at me from the cold stone. I place my hand against the wall for balance, feeling the damp rock beneath my fingertips.

With each turn of the spiral, my heart beats faster. What am I doing? This is madness. I'm following an unknown person into thebowels of a dragon estate with no backup, no weapon, not even a decent pair of shoes to run in.

But I keep going. Because turning back means I could lose track of the thief. This could be our one and only chance to catch him.

The stairs end abruptly at a massive oak door bound with black iron. It's ancient, imposing, the wood scarred with age. Unlike the service door above, this one is meant to be seen, to intimidate. A small sliver of yellow light spills from beneath it.

I press my ear against the wood, holding my breath to listen for any sound from within. Nothing. Just the hollow silence of a large space.

I try the handle. It turns smoothly, surprising for something so old. The door swings open with barely a whisper, revealing a cavernous space with a vaulted ceiling supported by stone arches that disappear into shadows.

I’m in the wine cellar, I realize.

Rows upon rows of wine racks stretch into the gloom, bottles gleaming dully in the weak light cast by bare bulbs hanging from chains. The air is cool and heavy with the scent of earth, old wood, and the complex bouquet of aging wine and fungi.

Along one wall stands enormous oak barrels, their staves darkened with age. Stacked wooden crates form labyrinthine passages between sections. The floor is flagstone, worn smooth by generations of feet.