Page 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

MALACHI

I catch the scent of Ashe’s agitation the moment before the door slams into the wall.

His scent—cutting through the hush of postcoital air and blood—slices under my skin and lances deep. It rides the charged weight of the room and settles like a blade into my spine. He didn’t knock again. Didn’t announce himself properly. That tells me more than any report could.

“We have a problem.”

And the world stills.

Across my lap, Blake stiffens. Her heartbeat, already slowing after what I just did to her against the desk, picks up again. Not in pleasure this time. Fear. Embarrassment too, the flush creeping up her throat like a bloom of wildfire. She tries to twist modestly, subtly drawing the hem of her shirt down. Her scent, a mix of sweat and satisfied desire, curls like incense in the air. Heat clings to her skin, to mine, mingling in a way that would normally drive me into another round of hungry worship.

But not now.

Not with Ashe’s face carved from stone. Not with the electric roar of danger snapping my instincts awake.

Blake’s voice falters as she starts to lift herself out of my lap, instinct trying to piece dignity back together. But I anchor her with one arm around her waist, the other bracing against the armrest of the my chair as I meet Ashe’s golden stare straight on.

“What kind of problem?” I ask, my voice quiet, too quiet. It’s the calm of an experienced soldier; the breath before bloodshed, the stillness before the charge.

Ashe closes the door behind him and steps in with the measured control that tells me how bad it actually is. He’s one of the steadiest men I know. But even now, I can feel it: something sharp, dangerous, hanging off him like blades of ice hanging from a snow cornice.

“Joséphine was incapacitated at Blake’s home,” he says, each word clipped, surgical-like. “Charlie’s gone. Kit took her.”

Each word hits with the violence of a bullet. For one breath, the world narrows to a single point—an impossibly fine edge of disbelief before the torch in my gut ignites—to fuel.

Gone.

The word detonates behind my eyes, raw and sick and echoing like a scream swallowed too fast. My hand clenches against Blake’s hip before I realize what I’m doing, fingers tightening around her like I could hold the panic at bay with brute strength. Her body jolts against mine.

“What?” she breathes, pressure rising in that one syllable, brittle and breaking. I feel her heart stutter then race. This time I’m not able to hold her back, because I’m standing up too. Mechanically, my hands go to my zipper and belt to right them.

Ashe nods once, grim and absolute.

“No forced entry,” he continues. “No signs of struggle on the exterior. We found her house quiet. Joséphine was unconscious but alive—drugged, we think. We’ve locked it down. Lan’s combing for residual traces now. But—” Ashe stops, jaw flexing. “There’s no question. It’s him.”

The only reason I don’t punch the desk is Blake. Her breathing is sharp and shallow; her fingers now grip the front of my shirt like she can’t find air. I turn her fully into my arms, pulling her so her chest is against mine, her face buried above my heart. Her hands clutch the sides of my shirt like holding me might keep her from disintegrating entirely.

“Charlie,” she whispers, so soft it shouldn’t reach me. But it does. And the sound slices deeper than any blade.

“How the fuck did this happen?” My voice breaks, not from volume, but from a rage so cold it’s calcified already in my veins.

Ashe’s gaze never flickers, not even when my fangs punch fully free. He knows. He’s seen it before.

“The guards didn’t catch it on the cameras. We’re reviewing the security footage now. We’re running facial recognition programs. Kit must have masked his scent. Cassandra is certain he paid a witch to spell him to look like Sam.” Blake stiffens against me at her twin’s name, and Ashe’s gaze goes to her even though she doesn’t look at him. “Your brother met him at his residence. He left. But it wasn’t Sam. Sam was still there, sitting on the couch playing video games.”

“What do you mean he was still there?” Blake’s voice is hoarse—raw disbelief cutting through the ragged edge of grief blooming in her ribs—but it holds. I feel that tremble echo beneath my hands, still pressed firm to her hips, anchoring her to the only steady thing in the room.

Ashe doesn’t hesitate. “Kit glamoured himself. Wore Sam’s face to get close. Got Joséphine talking. Walked in the front door and charmed his way past her like he belonged there.” His expression hardens. “Once he was in, he got the jump on her. Knocked her out with some chemical. Then walked right out with Charlie.”

“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath, jaw tightening to the point of pain. “Is Joséphine okay?”

Ashe nods, shoulders taut. “She’s awake and furious. She wants to track him down herself, but Ambrose won’t let her. She’s with Eloise and Cassandra now.”

The breath I was holding leaves me in a slow, silent exhale. Relief that Joséphine is still breathing battles with the wildfire of fury clawing through my chest. No one touches my family. No one.

“She’s blaming herself,” Ashe says. “But you know as well as I do—whatever he used wasn’t off the shelf. No average chemical could put Joséphine down for as long as it did.”

My hands tighten against Blake’s back, pressing her more firmly to me even as her body trembles like something just barely strung together. I can feel her mind spinning out—can feel the moment she hits that internal avalanche and starts falling.

“This is my fault.” Her voice fragments mid-thought, near silent, near breaking. “If I hadn’t been so—so distracted—if I hadn’t let myself believe we were safe—if I’d—I’m the one that demanded you make the guards leave—” She chokes on her next breath.

My hands rise, swift and certain, to frame her face, holding her gently, fingers warm against her cheeks even though my fury runs cold beneath. Her eyes—bright, red-rimmed, the sea-glass green of them gone wide with disbelief—refuse to meet mine. I tip her chin, not with force but with resolve, and anchor myself in the haunted whirl of her gaze. She’s spiraling. And if I don’t cut the rope tethering those thoughts to her, they’ll pull her under.

“Look at me,” I say quietly. It’s not a request.

She does. Slowly. Her lashes wet, jaw trembling, but she meets my stare.

I drop my voice to something lower. Fierce. Soothing in its raw honesty. “You are not to blame for this.”

“But I?—”

“No,” I clip, voice sharp enough to rend through her protest. “I won’t let you carry that weight. Because the only one responsible is the fucking asshole who did it. And I swear, Blake—he’s not going to get away with it.”

She stiffens under my hands, the tension spiking like a live wire beneath her skin. Her lips tremble, but she doesn’t look away now. Doesn’t back down or collapse under the grief clawing in her gut. Not this time. She holds my gaze—and gods help me, she breaks me.

Something dislodges in my chest, brutal and aching and uncontrollable. Because I’ve known fear. I’ve walked into fire for men and monsters alike. I’ve faced death in languages older than cities. But I have never—not once—been this terrified of anything as I am right now. Not for myself.

For her.

For Charlie.

“I told you I wanted to mark you tonight,” I admit, the words low and unscripted, falling from my mouth like a dam has burst and there’s no going back. I wouldn’t even if I could. “I didn’t just mean it because of how much I want you. I meant it because the idea of living without you—without Charlie—” I stop, breath catching, and her fingers press more tightly around my forearms. “Terrifies me more than death ever has.”

Her weight shifts forward like she’s about to crumble all over again, but I catch her, just letting her lean into me and stealing what strength I can give her. My voice is rough silk—every syllable pulled over broken glass. “She’s mine too, Blake. Maybe not by blood, not yet by name, but I’m not going to stop until she’s back where she belongs. With us. I fucking swear it to you.”

Blake’s chin notches against my collarbone, and she nods, sharp and small, a jerk of brittle strength riding the edge of tears.

I stroke her hair once before guiding her to the narrow loveseat along the wall of my office, easing her down like something precious and shaken. It kills me to let go of her even long enough to draw the phone from my pocket.

I look at Ashe, whose chin dips toward his chest in silent solidarity. He knows what I’m feeling. He’d almost lost his mate, Cassandra, twice. My brother knows how far I’ll go if Blake is my mate. He gives me room to think without interrupting, his body still as carved stone at the edge of the desk. Watching. Waiting. Calculating next steps even as my heart is shattering.

I pull up the app, the one Blake and I installed days after the break-in—a private, encrypted GPS tracker tied to Charlie’s phone. A mutual agreement born from wariness and reality. I open it, praying . . .

The dot is still at the house.

I curse, teeth gritting tight enough I nearly bite through my own words.

“Her phone is still at home,” I rasp. “Kit had to have guessed about the tracker. Left her phone behind so we’d lose any digital trail. With his scent masked, we’re left relying on the traffic cameras. You said Lan is on it?”

Ashe nods. “He’s tapping into private security feeds too. Without his scent, it’ll take longer, but we’ll find him.”

“Too long,” I mutter, the venom in my tone unmistakable. A low growl brews at the base of my throat, vibrating up through my chest as I force myself to take one composed breath. Then another. Roaring won’t help. Not yet. Not until I have my fangs in Kit’s throat.

“Get us to the Clan House,” I say without breaking eye contact with Ashe. “Now. I want every Nightshade on alert. Ask Cassandra to scry. Mobilize every fucking soldier if we have to. If Kit was able to drug Joséphine, I want to know how. And I want that fucker’s face plastered on every magical and mundane screen in this city. We find the witch he worked with. His pack members. Every fucking person he’s ever worked for.”

Ashe’s already pulling out his phone as I turn back toward Blake. Crouching before her, I gather her hands in mine like I can stitch this gaping wound in her together with touch alone.

“We’ll find her,” I whisper, and the conviction in my chest radiates stronger than any vow I’ve ever sworn. “I promise you, love, we will find her.” Blake’s gaze holds mine, the world outside narrowing to the fierce shimmer of her tears and the quiet war happening behind them—that agonized tug-of-war between faith and fury, between the part of her heart that wants to believe in me . . . and the part that’s been stripped raw by every betrayal from the people she’s supposed to trust. She doesn’t speak, but her fingers clutch mine with a bruising strength, like she’s holding on to that promise with the ragged edge of her soul.

Her pulse claws at her throat, uneven and quick, and I want to tear the world apart just to slow it for her.

“I don’t want to lose her,” she says finally, the words breaching the heavy silence on a breath no heavier than falling ash, and they hit with the weight of thunder. Her voice is hoarse from emotion she hasn’t figured out how to name—grief threaded with dread, a mother’s love melted down to its molten core. “I can’t, Malachi. If we don’t find her in time . . .” Her throat seizes.

I press my forehead against hers, holding her gaze as I make a vow I’ll keep to the very last beat of my damned heart.

“I’ll turn this city into a graveyard if I have to. I’ll tear down every building, brick by brick, if that’s what it takes to bring Charlie home.”