Page 7 of Red Hood, Bad Wolf (Cursed Kingdoms)

"H er questions weren't right. She knew too much about Red Hood procedures—about silver testing, about how we identify feral transitions. Things that aren't common knowledge."

Alder looked up from behind his desk, his green eyes sharp with concern. The mate bond carried his worry to her, tangled with threads of defensive protectiveness. "Mae's lived alongside Red Hoods for decades."

"She asked about silver testing." The words burst out in a rush. "About how we determine early signs of moon madness. Specific details about how silver affects wolves before they turn feral." Rowan's voice cracked. "That's classified information. Even most Red Hoods don't know the exact procedures unless they're field certified."

The mate bond rippled with Alder's unease. He stood, moving around the desk toward her. "What exactly did she say?"

"She mentioned how silver can force a shift, make the madness show itself." Rowan's training finally broke through the bond's haze. "Those were her exact words. Then she asked about early symptoms, about how we track ferals, about our weaknesses—" She cut herself off, remembering more. "And her herb collection. Wolfsbane mixed with cooking herbs. Who does that? And the tea. I’m still shaking off the sluggishness."

His jaw tightened. "Her tea is probably too potent for a human."

"Maybe." Rowan resumed pacing, her boots silent on the hardwood floor. "And her movements, Alder. The way she blocked exits, monitored sight lines. Those aren't grandmother behaviors. They're predator behaviors." She stopped, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "I know how this sounds. I know the mate bond is screaming at me that I'm wrong, that I'm betraying pack trust. But my training—" Her voice broke. "My training says something's very wrong."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with implication. Outside, a crow called a warning to its mate.

"There's more," Rowan said softly. "When she talked about your mother..." She hesitated as pain flashed across Alder's face. "She said something about how the Red Hoods were 'less discriminating' back then. Asked very specific questions about how we determine if someone's truly gone feral. And the way she talked about the territory, about humans encroaching—" She shivered despite the morning warmth. "It wasn't just protective. It was hungry."

Alder's hands clenched. The mate bond carried his turmoil to her—doubt warring with denial, trust battling against instinct. "You're sure about this?"

"No," Rowan admitted. "That's what terrifies me. The mate bond keeps trying to make me doubt everything I noticed. But..." She crossed to him, laying her hand over his. "Alder, you know how extensive Red Hood training is. How many signs of predatory behavior we're taught to recognize. Everything in me is saying something's wrong, even with the bond trying to convince me otherwise."

His fingers interlaced with hers, drawing strength from the contact. "What do you want to do?"

"I need to talk to her again." Rowan squeezed his hand. "This time without letting the mate bond or tea cloud my judgment. I need to know if I'm seeing threats where none exist, or if—" She couldn't finish the thought.

Fury rolled through the mate bond like thunder. Alder's hands clenched on the edge of his desk, knuckles white. "You're accusing my grandmother of what, exactly? Being a secret murderer? Taking trophies from victims?"

The rage in his voice made Rowan step back, her wolf instincts responding to an Alpha's anger even as her human side tried to stand firm. "I'm saying something isn't right. These aren't normal questions, normal behaviors—"

"Normal?" He barked out a harsh laugh. "You've known her for what, a few days? And suddenly you're an expert on what's normal for her?" The desk creaked under his grip. "She raised me after your kind murdered my mother."

The accusation hit like a physical blow. Rowan's chest tightened, memories of her own family's death tangling with the present pain. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" Alder straightened, power rolling off him in waves that made her inner wolf want to bare its throat. "You come here, make me think we have something real, and then start throwing accusations at my family?"

"I'm trying to protect you." The words burst out before she could stop them. "Do you think I want this to be true? Do you think the mate bond isn't screaming at me to shut up, to look the other way?" Her voice cracked. "But I can't. Not when my instincts are telling me people might be in danger."

"Your instincts." His lip curled. "The same Red Hood instincts that said my mother had to die?"

The mate bond between them twisted, sharp with shared pain and betrayal. Rowan wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold in the hurt. "Maybe..." She swallowed hard. "Maybe this was a mistake. The mate bond. Us." Each word felt like glass in her throat. "Maybe I should just finish the investigation and go."

Silence fell, heavy and cold. Through the bond, she felt his pain match her own, felt him wrestling with pride and anger and fear.

"Maybe you should." His voice was quiet now, controlled, but the bond carried the agony those words caused them both.

Rowan nodded, unable to speak past the knot in her throat. She turned toward the door, then stopped. "I still need to talk to her again. To be sure, one way or the other."

"Fine." Alder's voice was still tight. "I'll check the cabin while she's gathering herbs. You..." He looked away. "You do what you need to do."

Neither of them said what they were both thinking—that this might be the end of something that had barely begun. The mate bond keened between them, mourning what they might be losing.

"I'll go find her in the woods," Rowan said softly. "Better to talk away from the cabin."

Alder gave a sharp nod, still not looking at her. "She gathers herbs every morning on the east trail. She should be there now."

The formal tone hurt worse than his anger had. Rowan hesitated at the door, wanting to say something—anything—to bridge the gulf suddenly yawning between them. But there were no words that could make this better. Not until she knew the truth, one way or the other.

She left without looking back, the mate bond aching like an open wound with every step she took away from him.

***

T HE CABIN DOOR CREAKED under Alder's touch, the sound unnaturally loud in the late morning quiet. His grandmother's scent lingered—herbs and earth and something else he'd never quite been able to identify. Something that had always made his wolf uneasy, though he'd spent years ignoring that instinct.

Just like he'd ignored so many things.

The mate bond throbbed like a fresh bruise as he moved through the familiar rooms. Every surface held memories: Mae baking him cookies, tending his scrapes, telling him stories of the old ways. Had there always been that edge to her tales about humans encroaching on pack lands? That gleam in her eye when she spoke of protecting territory?

Focus . He had to be thorough, had to prove Rowan wrong. Or...

His jaw clenched. Or prove her right.

The kitchen first. Nothing unusual in the herb bundles except... he paused, nose twitching. Wolfsbane. Not just a trace, but woven through multiple bundles. Why would a wolf keep so much of something toxic to their kind?

The living room next. Maps on the walls, marked with Mae's precise handwriting. He'd never noticed how the annotations clustered around areas where hikers had gone missing. Gathering grounds , she'd called them. His stomach turned.

In her bedroom, the scent of death hit him—faint, old, but unmistakable. How had he never noticed? The mate bond's anguish tangled with his rising horror as he searched methodically, fighting memories of childhood comfort against growing suspicion.

The jewelry box on her dresser had belonged to his mother. Mae had claimed she'd found it in the woods after... after. His hands shook as he opened it.

Silver glinted against dark velvet. A delicate chain with a distinctive pendant—a small crystal wrapped in twisted wire. His breath caught. He'd seen this necklace before, just last week in the missing persons report. Balinda Dross, age twenty-four, last seen hiking the east trail. In her photo, the crystal had caught the light exactly as it did now.

The truth slammed into him like a physical blow. Memory after memory realigned: Mae's odd comments about territory, her convenient absences when bodies were found, the way she'd always known exactly where to gather the richest herbs.

A floorboard creaked outside.

Alder froze, ears straining. Familiar footsteps approached—Rowan. She must have given up searching the gathering grounds. But under her scent...

He reached the window in two strides. Rowan stood at the edge of the clearing, unaware. And emerging from the trees behind her, moving with silent purpose was Mae.

All this time. All these years. His grandmother—the woman who'd raised him, who'd comforted him after his mother's death—was a murderer. Had probably killed his mother. And now she was stalking toward his mate with death in her eyes.

The mate bond screamed warning, but Rowan was too focused on the cabin to notice what approached from behind. Mae's lips curved in a hunter's smile as she closed the distance, her movements too deadly for the frail woman she pretended to be.

Alder's muscles tensed to spring, to shout warning, to do something —but he knew with sick certainty that any sudden move would only make Mae strike faster. She was too close to Rowan already, and she'd had decades to perfect her hunt.

His mate. His grandmother. And no time to prevent what was about to happen.

Through the window glass, Mae's shadow stretched across the grass like reaching claws.