Page 4 of Conall (The Sunburst Pack #3)

C ONALL’S VISION SWAM AS he fumbled with the key to the apartment.

The counteragent Nadine had administered was fighting a losing battle against the tranquilizer. His movements felt sluggish, disconnected, like he was trying to navigate underwater.

The walk from the edge of pack territory to downtown Sunburst had taken three times longer than usual. He’d barely managed to avoid being seen, sticking to shadows and back alleys, his body alternating between feverish heat and bone-deep chills.

Get inside. Alert Quinton. Secure the perimeter .

The checklist kept him moving when his body wanted nothing more than to collapse. One foot in front of the other. Focus on the mission parameters.

Finally, the key slid home. Conall practically fell through the doorway, catching himself against the wall as the apartment swung into view.

The familiar scent of home—their shared space above the bakery, just down the block from the Sunburst Diner—should have been comforting.

Instead, it collided with the lingering scent of mountain snow, wild honey, and pine forest that seemed to have embedded itself in his senses.

Nadine .

Even thinking her name sent an unwelcome pulse through the fledgling mate bond, like touching a bruise to see if it still hurt.

It did.

Con? Quinton’s voice cut through the haze. What the—

His twin materialized from the kitchen area, a sandwich forgotten in his hand as he took in Conall’s appearance. The bond between them flared with concern, a different kind of connection from the raw, jagged thing that now tied Conall to Nadine.

What happened? Quinton was already moving, sandwich tossed aside as he rushed to support Conall’s weight. You’re burning up.

Trank dart, Conall managed, his voice rough as sandpaper. Eastern border. Ambush.

Quinton helped him to the couch, his movements efficient, familiar.

They’d patched each other up countless times, a consequence of their role as pack protectors. But this was different. This wasn’t a training injury or the result of breaking up territorial squabbles.

Who? Quinton’s face hardened, the rare shift from his usually more reserved demeanor revealing the depth of his concern. Hunters?

Conall shook his head and immediately regretted it as the room tilted sideways.

Military precision. Specialized equipment. Each word required effort, pushing through the tranquilizer’s effects. Targeting shifters specifically.

Quinton disappeared into the bathroom and returned with their emergency medical kit. The twins kept a better-stocked first aid setup than most humans would find reasonable, but it had proven necessary more than once.

Show me the entry site, Quinton ordered, slipping into the rhythm they’d established years ago. In medical situations, Quinton took the lead. In combat, Conall. They’d never needed to discuss it; the roles had simply evolved naturally, like two halves of a whole.

Conall gestured to his shoulder, where the dart had penetrated, and Quinton hissed through his teeth.

This isn’t standard. He examined the wound closely. The skin around it’s red, and there’s a darker color spreading outward—looks like a spiderweb. What else? You shouldn’t still be conscious with this kind of reaction.

Counteragent. Conall’s lips felt numb. “She gave me something…slowed it down.

Intruder. On our eastern border. Conall took a shuddering breath. Said she’s Gregory Torrance’s daughter.

Quinton’s hands stilled. Gregory Torrance had a daughter? How did we not know about this? The man was Vincent’s right hand for years.

Apparently. Conall grimaced, both from the physical pain and the unwelcome revelation. Must have kept her away from the pack. Maybe she grew up somewhere else. She smelled like high mountains, pine forests—nothing like our territory.

Vincent kept tabs on everyone’s family connections. Quinton resumed cleaning the wound, his movements betraying his agitation. If Torrance had a daughter, Vincent would have known. Which means he deliberately kept that information from the pack records.

She thinks we killed Gregory. The words came out slurred as another wave of dizziness hit. Says he’s dead.

That’s impossible. He was exiled, not executed. Quinton reached for a bottle of antiseptic. Malcolm and Larissa would never—

I know. Conall winced as Quinton cleaned the wound. But she believes it. And she’s…

He trailed off, not ready to voice the connection aloud.

She’s what? Quinton asked.

She thinks we’re traitors, Conall finally said. That we’re working to destroy other packs.

What? Quinton’s hands stilled again. Where would she get that idea?

No idea. Conall fought to keep his eyes open, to maintain focus. Didn’t have time to discuss it before we were attacked. Professional hit team with tacticals, specialized tranks.

Chimera?

Maybe. Conall shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t send shock waves of pain through his system. Or whoever Gregory was working with after his exile.

Quinton worked in silence for a moment, applying a poultice to the wound—one of Dr. Weiss’s special blends designed to counteract silver poisoning. Not a perfect match for the tranquilizer chemicals, but the closest thing they had.

You need to report this, Quinton said finally, his tone making it clear this wasn’t a suggestion. To Malcolm and Larissa. Tonight.

Tomorrow. Conall shook his head. Pack meeting. I’ll be more coherent then.

This can’t wait until—

It has to. Conall cut him off. I can barely string thoughts together. And I need to figure out what I’m going to tell them about Nadine.

You’re not thinking of protecting her. It wasn’t a question.

Conall met his twin’s gaze directly. I don’t know what I’m thinking right now.

That was a lie.

His thoughts, muddled as they were by the tranquilizer, kept circling back to the contradictory impressions of Nadine Torrance: the hatred in her eyes, the precision of her movements, the way she’d saved him despite her accusations, the connection that had flared between them against their will.

How could fate be so cruel as to connect him to someone who despised everything that mattered to him?

The pack was his life, his family, his purpose. He and Quinton had built their entire identities around serving and protecting Sunburst.

Now he was bonded to a woman who saw his pack as murderers, who looked at him with suspicion and rage.

He and Quinton had never needed anyone else, never wanted the complication of mate bonds.

And now, when he least expected or wanted it, the universe had thrown him a mate who was possibly more hostile to the bond than he was.

She left you alive, Quinton observed, securing a bandage on Conall’s shoulder. And gave you the counteragent. If she truly believed you were working against other packs, why help you?

A valid question, and one that had been nagging at Conall since he’d regained enough clarity to think.

Maybe she wants answers more than she wants me dead.

Or maybe there’s more going on than we know. Quinton secured the bandage with practiced efficiency. Either way, you need to tell the alphas everything.

I will. Tomorrow. Conall leaned back against the couch cushions, exhaustion tugging at him. I promise.

Quinton studied him for a long moment.

I’ll get you water and something to eat, he said finally, standing. You need to flush that tranquilizer out of your system.

Conall nodded, grateful for the momentary solitude as Quinton returned to the kitchen. He closed his eyes, trying to center himself, to find the calm focus that had always come so naturally.

Instead, his senses filled again with the phantom scent of mountain snow and wild honey.

When Quinton returned in a few moments with water and a plate of food, Conall forced himself to sit up straight, to project more strength than he felt.

You realize what this means, right? Quinton asked quietly, setting the plate down. If there really is a traitor in the pack… And if someone is targeting both you and Torrance’s daughter…

It means we really are missing pieces of a much larger puzzle, Conall finished, taking the water with a slightly trembling hand. And someone doesn’t want us putting them together.

Quinton paced a few steps, his agitation breaking through his usually calmer demeanor. I still can’t believe Gregory Torrance had a daughter he kept hidden all these years. And now she shows up right when we’re dealing with Chimera and the assets? He shook his head. That can’t be a coincidence.

Conall ran a hand through his hair, wincing as the movement pulled at his injured shoulder. Nothing about this feels like coincidence. The timing, the attack, her accusations about the pack…

Quinton nodded, settling into the armchair across from the couch. The position gave him a clear view of both Conall and the apartment door—a protective stance Conall would have taken himself if their roles were reversed.

We’ll figure it out, Quinton said with quiet certainty. Like always.

The simple declaration eased the tightness in Conall’s chest.

Whatever dangers lurked in the shadows beyond their territory, one fundamental truth remained unchanged: the twins faced everything as a unit, two parts of a whole.

Yeah, Conall agreed, finding comfort in their lifelong pattern.

But hours later, as he tossed and turned, trying to find sleep, it wasn’t Quinton’s reassuring statement that stayed with him.

It was Nadine’s final accusation.

I intend to prove it’s you and your twin brother.

And beneath that, the unwelcome hum of a bond that defied his every attempt to deny it.