Page 56

“No, you may not. All you need to tell us is where she is,” Knox states, puffing up his chest and allowing his alpha dominance to swirl within the air.

Except, it doesn’t work. Her eyes don’t glaze over, and she doesn’t cower. Instead, she stands straighter with a nonplussed look on her face.

“Your dominance won’t work on me. I’m an alpha, too.”

Well, shit.

A slow, deliberate step carries me forward, the tension in the room tightening like a drawn bowstring.

I let the energy shift, calling up the simmering command that lies coiled just beneath my skin.

It unfurls within me, a wave of confidence and power that demands attention.

My presence expands, filling the space, daring anyone to question my right to it.

The air thickens as my gaze sharpens and my voice lowers, edged with authority—the irrefutable signature of an alpha who knows exactly who they are.

“Tell us where Charlene went,” I all but growl.

There’s a hesitance in her movement, a stutter of a step.

She may be able to fight off Knox’s dominance, but she can’t fight off mine.

If it weren’t for Knox, I’d be First Alpha of our pack.

My alpha dominance is strong enough to bring an alpha to its knees, whether male or female.

I don’t use it all the time because I see no use in it.

Right now, though, it goes without saying that we need to know where Charlene is so we can question her.

“I—um.”

“Well,” I urge her on.

“She, uh, went out back right after you guys left. She took the trash out,” she says, hurrying through her explanation. She seems timid and shy now that my alpha has come out to play.

A low growl vibrates in my throat, barely restrained—a sound meant more for myself than anyone else, but sharp enough to give everyone pause.

My next words are bitten off, frustration slipping through clenched teeth.

“You didn’t think to stop her? She’s an omega for goodness' sake.” The incredulity in my voice hangs heavy in the charged air, every syllable emphasizing how little patience I have left for evasions and mistakes.

She rolls her eyes. “If I had known you wanted to keep her here, I would have alpha commanded her to stay put. Since you didn’t, I didn’t.”

“Convenient,” I say again.

“That’s the third time you ‘conveniented’ me, and, alpha boy, I don’t appreciate it.”

“That’s not even a word,” I bark out.

She narrows her eyes. “Like. I. Care. Now, if you want her, she should be out back taking out the trash. Go find her.”

We give her one last look—a mix of exasperation and wary gratitude flickering in our eyes, the weight of uncertainty pressing in on all sides.

The scent of adrenaline hangs thick in the air, nearly drowned out by the bitter tang of coffee and the sharper edge of tension.

My gaze lingers a heartbeat longer, searching her face for any flicker of deception, but all I see is stubborn pride and a simmering challenge.

Without another word, our feet move in unison, shoes scuffing against the worn floor as we stride toward the back door.

The knowledge settles heavy in my chest: we’re already bracing for what we’ll find waiting for us beyond that threshold.

Each step is purposeful, our senses sharpened, the promise of confrontation hanging just beyond the dumpsters and the narrow alley’s shadow.

We push past swinging doors, caught between duty and dread, already knowing answers we’d rather not claim.

What we find is an empty alley. Charlene is gone. Vanished. She hightailed it out of here the moment we went in search of Al. I bet anything she knew Al wasn’t in today. Even though she had to open the shop, Al could’ve still been lurking around. Yet that doesn’t feel like this situation at all.

Charlene knew. She had to.

So, now, she’s enemy number one.

“Well, that sucks,” Boone says, heading toward the dumpster. There’s trash all inside of it, but a bag looks like it’s new, so she probably did come out back to throw the trash away to keep Marcia off her scent.

“Where could she go? She couldn’t have gotten far,” Knox says.

I shake my head. “She’s gone, guys. Scent past the trash and you’ll smell it.

But as I move closer, the truth hits: the faint trail Charlene left behind is already turning stale, dissipating in the lazy swirl of alley air.

Whatever heat or urgency clung to her is fading, replaced by the flat, musty tang of a presence long since gone.

She’s been out of here for a while—long enough that even her panic has bled into nothing, the adrenaline leached from her scent until only the memory of her flight lingers with a threadbare ghost of sweat and fear.

“She didn’t just slip out,” I murmur. “She’s been gone. We missed her by more than a minute.”

It’s a fact that settles between us, heavy and unyielding, as we exchange grim looks. The game has changed; Charlene’s not just hiding—she’s vanished on purpose, covering her tracks with a cunning that tastes like betrayal.

From what little we know, Charlene is a somewhat friend of Remi’s.

At least, that’s what I assume with how many times I frequented the coffee shop.

Charlene was always rambunctious and spouting sonnets over how terrific Remi is when I asked about her.

It should have piqued my spidey senses then, but it didn’t. Charlene hid her true colors very well.

“We better get back to Remi.” Knox moves to head down the alleyway. His steps are firm and resolute.

“She was supposed to stay at the house, right?” Boone asks, peering down at his phone.

“Yeah?” My eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. “She was snoring when I checked on her this morning.”

It was hard not to smile, thinking back to that quiet moment earlier in the morning—the house still draped in the hush of dawn, and Remi curled up, lost to the world.

Her tiny snores had drifted out from her room in soft, uneven puffs, barely audible unless you were listening for them.

There was something oddly endearing about it; the way each gentle exhale punctuated the silence whispered a kind of innocence.

For a fleeting instant, all the sharp edges and secrets seemed to melt away, leaving only that sweet, vulnerable sound—a reminder that even the most unpredictable souls sometimes just need a safe place to rest.

“Snoring?” Knox chuckles. “I bet that was cute as fuck.”

“It was.” I smile in return, feeling a lightheartedness almost steal my breath. Remi is nothing but cuteness tied together in a voluptuous package.

“Okay. Then, if she was still supposed to be at the house, why is it showing that she’s at hers?” Boone asks, and the moment his words settle over me, a thunder cloud of warning settles over my being. Muscles taut with tension, I pick up my steps until I’m almost running.

“She’s not supposed to be.”

“You’re definitely sure she’s at her house?” Knox asks, picking up the pace.

“While she was asleep, I broke into her phone and linked our Find My’s. She is definitely at her house, guys.”

A prickling unease crawls up my spine, each step fueled not just by urgency, but by the sense that something is fundamentally wrong—a darkness thickening at the edges of my awareness.

My mind races with possibilities I don’t want to consider, but the certainty in Boone’s voice presses down like a warning.

Instinct whispers that we’re already too late, that whatever safety Remi found this morning is slipping through our fingers.

I can’t shake the sense that the ground beneath us is shifting, subtle but sure, toward something we won’t be able to undo.

Without another word, the three of us break into a sprint, boots thudding against the pavement in ragged sync.

Boone, always a step ahead, fishes out his keys as we round the corner, his breath coming in sharp bursts.

The world blurs—hedges, parked cars, the distant hum of a city waking up—until only Boone’s car matters, shimmering in the early morning light.

Knox yanks open the back door before the car even fully unlocks, flinging himself inside with reckless abandon.

I reach for the passenger handle just as Boone slides behind the wheel, our movements frantic, practiced, born from the kind of fear that leaves no room for hesitation.

I tumble into my seat, heart jackhammering, slamming the door so hard the window rattles.

Boone’s fingers are steady despite the tension coiling through his jaw. “Seatbelts,” he orders, voice sharp.

Knox’s seatbelt snaps into place with a metallic click just as Boone jams the key into the ignition. For a beat, we all catch our breath—then Boone guns the engine, tires screeching as we lurch into motion, racing against the clock toward Remi, and whatever shadows have managed to slip between us.