Page 3 of Fae Devoted (Fae Touched #3)

T ucker slammed the commander’s office door behind him, in part to ensure their privacy against the enhanced hearing of the nearby Guard warriors gearing for duty—and defuse a fraction of his mounting frustration.

“No additional information on your brother’s whereabouts, I take it?

” Samuel Walker, leader of the East South Central’s Ferwyn Clan and Alpha of the local Mud Island pack, looked up from the papers spread on his desk.

As Clan príoh, Samuel was already the most dominant wolf shifter in four states.

His royal appointment to Commander of the Guard elevated him to the third highest-ranking official in the entire Fae Touched region.

Second only to the ESC’s ruling vampire queen and her heir, Prince Myles.

As Clan Walker’s beta and the commander’s first lieutenant, Tucker was his second in command.

“None,” he answered, striding back and forth across the limited width of the room.

“We’ll find him before he turns feral.” Samuel’s steady amber gaze held the same promise as his words. “But it’ll be more difficult if he’s already left the territory.”

It’d been a week since they caught Tucker’s sole sibling, Jeremiah Grayson, inside Clan Walker territory.

Seven days since they challenged the Elven Lord at an old farmhouse in Mississippi and lost. One hundred and sixty hours since Jeremiah slipped away without explaining his betrayal of the magical community to Tucker or anyone else.

The neighboring region’s previously well-respected Alpha’s unlawful entry into ECS territory could be overlooked with a formal petition and a generous bounty paid by Jeremiah’s Clan príoh, Dugan McCoy.

The exorbitant fee would return Tucker’s brother to his home in Texas, chastised yet unharmed.

But it was harder to forgive Jeremiah’s establishment of a rebel Ferwyn pack within Clan Walker’s borders.

The illegal act would have signed his death warrant if not for Samuel’s compassion and the extenuating circumstances involving the Fae.

“We won’t give up on him. I swear it.” The commander rose from his seat and rounded the wooden desk, the circuit-like connections that bound Tucker to his pack Alpha telegraphing his inner turmoil.

Samuel gripped him by the nape and halted his pacing.

“There is no way you could’ve known about Lord Daimhín’s influence over Jeremiah. Now or in the past.”

“I abandoned my brother when he needed me the most,” Tucker pushed the admission through lengthening canines.

Then Ferwyn laws restricting all non-outcast male shifters from crossing rival Clan lines, along with his stubbornness and pride, kept him away for over half a century.

He hadn’t spoken to Jeremiah in six decades, but he checked on his birth pack often.

If evidence existed that Tucker’s former clanmates did less than thrive under his sibling’s leadership, he never discovered it.

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“I could have stayed.” And dug deeper to discover the cause of Jeremiah’s uncharacteristic behavior instead of walking away.

“You heard what James said in the debriefing. He is convinced that your twin was bound to Príoh McCoy and the Sídhe Lord at the same time.” A dual state thought impossible for any Ferwyn.

Samuel shook his head. “There’s no way to determine when the binding took place or the level of control Daimhín exerted over Jeremiah in the beginning.

If you had questioned him too closely, his wolf might have viewed it as a challenge to his status as your pack Alpha and sought to eliminate the threat. ”

“It never would’ve gone that far.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

No, he couldn’t. And now that Príoh McCoy severed his connection with Jeremiah and branded him an outcast for his involvement with the Athair, the sole buffer against Daimhín no longer existed.

His wolf would eventually break without the stability of a Clan.

But did Jeremiah have the usual year like other unbound Ferwyn males, or was his time shorter because of his unnatural tie to the Fae?

“He needs a new príoh.” Jeremiah’s time was running out, and few males were strong enough to gain his brother’s submission. Although no longer a pack’s Alpha , Jeremiah’s wolf was still an alpha with a dominance level that exceeded the majority of other shifters.

“I’ve promised to offer him my bond before it’s too late.” Samuel squeezed the back of Tucker’s neck and returned to his desk. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

It was a generous offer considering Jeremiah was culpable in the West South Central’s Dádhe King’s abduction of Samuel’s truemate, Abby.

Yet Tucker couldn’t allow his brother to accept the príoh’s gift until they discovered the depths of the Fae’s intrusion, or Lord Daimhín was dead.

Whichever came first. Either way, Tucker was determined to save his littermate. No matter the personal cost.

A pair of sparkling hazel eyes and smiling lips flashed in his mind, but he shoved the vision aside.

“I request—”

“Request denied.” Samuel cut him off, correct in the assumption Tucker was about to ask for a leave of absence from his duties with the Guard and Clan to pursue Jeremiah.

“Commander Walker…” A warm wave of brotherly love and pack loyalty brushed his senses. “My Alpha—”

“You don’t have to do this alone, Tucker.”

Tucker—not Grayson.

Samuel was one of a handful of Fae Touched aware his loyalty once belonged to Jeremiah and the Grayson Pack. That he relinquished his birthright, his Clan, and the surname Grayson a human-lifetime ago. Now, almost everyone routinely referred to him as what they thought was his last name. Tucker.

Only one person called him by his given name of Jacob.

Joan Helen Long, Johnnie to her friends, was a spirited she-wolf who joined the Walker Pack a year ago. Tucker called her Jo—and he wanted far more than mere friendship.

But the Fae’s appearance and his brother’s subsequent betrayal made the dream an impossibility for now.

“Johnnie’s birthday is coming up.” Samuel sat, his attention on the computer screen in front of him, voice deceptively bland.

Damn Alpha bond.

“Next week, if I remember correctly,” he said as if making an off-hand remark of little importance.

As her Alpha, Samuel knew exactly when Jo turned twenty-five; the age when a Ferwyn female was old enough to accept the bond of their Ca’anam, their truemate. An event Tucker once anticipated, but now dreaded.

“Lieutenant, about Johnnie,” Samuel closed the laptop with a soft click, his tone no longer teasing, “don’t allow the past and what-ifs to dictate your future.”

“I have no future until Jeremiah does. I owe him that much.” He turned and walked to the exit.

“What happened to your brother wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known about Lord Daimhín, so don’t place blame where it doesn’t belong.”

Tucker opened the door and stepped outside the office without looking back. “Too late.”

Tucker arrived at Mud Island Hospitality Management five minutes early, carrying a tall to-go cup from the Riverfront Café.

The office was the third on the left in a row of businesses housed in the Harbor Complex and consisted of two employees who came and went as demand required.

Jo handled the daylight hours, and Noreen, a Dádhe, covered the nightshift.

The management company dealt with all aspects of any Fae Touched moving to the island community, the service including everything from finding suitable housing to recommending a reliable plumber.

But relocations were infrequent, so the females also fulfilled hostess and concierge duties at the Queenstown Inn, and in his she-wolf’s case, acted as a de facto den mother to incoming Ferwyn college students.

“Hey, Jacob,” Jo said from behind the room’s single desk, while focusing on her computer’s oversized screen. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“No hurry.” Tucker planted his shoulder on the doorframe, content to wait. Content to watch while he still could.

Jo’s auburn hair was piled on the top of her head, a vivid purple band binding the locks in place. She leaned down to return a folder to the bottom drawer, and the misshapen knot bobbed precariously.

He chuckled, the weight of worry on his heart suddenly lighter. Something Jo was able to do without even trying.

“What?” Her chin raised at his quiet laugh, and the messy bun drooped to the side.

Shoving off the doorjamb, he cut between the two client chairs facing her desk and reached across to give the tangled skein a gentle flick with his finger. It slid another inch toward her ear.

“Oh, that.” She rested an elbow on the polished wood and propped her chin in her hand. “It’s always getting in my way at work. I’m thinking of chopping it off.”

Tucker choked, then coughed, almost swallowing his tongue, repressing a firm no .

“Or not.” Her eyes danced with mischief.

She-wolves were world-renowned for their extraordinary hair. Commercial ads touted everything from shampoos and conditioners to vitamins and miracle creams promising that human women could achieve the same thick, lustrous manes organic in Ferwyn females.

Jo loved her hair almost as much as Tucker did, the color a glorious combination of chestnut, rust, and copper. She’d never cut it short.

“Maybe you should.” He gave a nonchalant shrug.

“I should?” A dainty crinkle formed between her brows.

“A bit scraggly looking.”

“What?” Jo straightened from her relaxed position, hand flying to the flopping bun.

She yanked out the bright tie and dragged a hunk of the silken mass to within an inch of her nose.

“I haven’t changed my hair products, but I did buy a new blow dryer.

But that shouldn’t matter unless…maybe it runs hotter than my old one? ”

“Could be.” He ducked to hide his smile.