“I need you to conduct a complete investigation into Blair. Everything her movements, her contacts, every person she’s spoken with since leaving for the western territories.”
“Will do. Anything else?”
“Focus particularly on any connection between her and Lucian. I want to know if their relationship extends beyond him simply helping her return to Blackwood.”
Edward’s voice sharpened with understanding. “Are you suspecting orchestrated attacks against Miss Crawford?”
“I’m suspecting I’ve been played by someone much more calculating than I realized.” I started the engine, my grip tight on the steering wheel. “How soon can you have preliminary findings?”
“Within forty-eight hours for basic movements and contacts. Deeper investigation will take longer.”
“Do it.”
Darrell’s POV
The cigarette trembled between my fingers as I sat in my car in the hotel parking lot. I’d been chain-smoking for the past hour, but nothing could burn away the images playing on repeat in my mind.
Sable’s laugh. The way she looked at him. The trust in her eyes when she handed him her drink. The easy affection in every touch.
Had our entire relationship been a lie? Had she been performing for me while saving her real self for someone worthy of it?
The jealousy was eating me from the inside out, but it was more than that. It was the crushing realization that I’d held something precious and beautiful in my hands, and I’d been too stupid, too selfish, too blind to see its value until it was gone.
Another drag of my cigarette. Another image of Caelan’s hand on her face.
Then I picked up the phone and typed four words.
“I agree to cooperate.”
I hit send.
The hotel key card slipped from my fingers twice before I managed to get the door open. The scotch I’d consumed in the hotel bar burned in my chest, but it did nothing to numb the ache that had taken up permanent residence there.
What I found waiting in my room made me stop dead in the doorway.
Camila was stretched across my bed. Black lace barely covered her curves, and her eyes held a hunger that should have been flattering.
“What are you doing here?”
She sat up slowly, deliberately arching her back. “You’ve been traveling so much for business lately. I missed you, so I thought I’d surprise you.”
“Get out.” I turned away.
But she was already moving, crossing the room with feline grace. Her hands settled on my chest, and despite everything, despite the sick feeling in my stomach, my body responded.
“You don’t mean that,” she whispered, her lips brushing against my jaw.
She kiss me. And maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the crushing loneliness, maybe it was just the need to feel something other than the hollow ache in my chest-but I kissed her back.
My hands found her hair, tangling in the golden strands as I pushed her back against the wall. She gasped against my mouth.
When I lifted Camila and carried her to the bed, I kept my eyes tightly shut. When I buried myself in her heat, I let myself imagine I was with someone else.
I woke to find Camila watching me, and the sight filled me with instant disgust.
Good morning, handsome, Camila purred, trailing her fingers down my chest.
I caught her wrist, stopping the movement. “Don’t.”
Her face shifted, hurt replacing satisfaction. “Relly, what’s wrong?”
“I want you to stop trying to seduce me. My heart belongs to Sable. Only Sable.”
Camila’s laugh was sharp, cutting. “Only Sable? But last night you seemed to enjoy me plenty.”
“Men can separate sex from love.” Each word was deliberately cruel, designed to hurt her the way I was hurting. “And besides, the whole time I was with you, I was thinking about Sable. Why do you think I wanted you so many times?”
Her face went white. “You bastard.”
“What did you expect?” I got out of bed, not bothering to cover myself. “You’ve always known what I am, haven’t you? If I wasn’t a bastard, would I have cheated on Sable before I broke up with her? Would I have lost her in the first place?”
The truth hung between us like a weapon. Camila stared at me with growing horror and rage.
“You’re shameless,” she whispered. “Absolutely shameless.”
I looked at myself in the hotel mirror-stubbled, hollow-eyed, a shadow of the man I used to be. “Yeah. I am.”
Sable’s POV
Friday night started like any other work week ending. My colleagues at the pack hospital had been pestering me for weeks to join their regular dinner gatherings, and tonight I’d finally caved.
Since Daisy’s kidnapping, Caetan’s injury, and our engagement ceremony turning into a nightmare, my nerves had been stretched thin as wire. Every shadow seemed to hide a threat. Every unexpected sound made me jump. The pressure coiled tight in my chest like a spring ready to snap.
Then yesterday, Caelan had told me about Dad’s ultimatum, Two weeks to prove I’d be safe, or lose me forever. It increased my anxiety.
So when my colleagues suggested drinks after our shift ended, I surprised everyone by saying yes.
Sable Crawford actually agreeing to socialize?” Dr. Lewis had joked. “Mark this day on the calendar.”
The dinner was exactly what I needed. Normal conversation about normal things, Hospital gossip, vacation plans, complaints about the new electronic chart system.
By nine-thirty, half our group had headed home, but the remaining three of us weren’t ready to call it a night.
“There’s this place I love just a few blocks away,” suggested Stacey, one of the nurses. “They have live music on Friday nights.”
The bar turned out to be exactly the kind of cozy neighborhood spot I would have chosen myself. Warm wood paneling, soft lighting, mismatched vintage furniture that looked like it had stories to tell. In one corner sat a small stage where a comedian was wrapping up his set to scattered applause.
Open mic night,” our server explained as she brought our drinks. “Anyone can sign up. We get everything from comedy to poetry to really bad karaoke.”
I settled into the booth with my colleagues, letting the wine and easy conversation wash over me.
The alcohol was doing its job. The tight knot of anxiety in my chest had loosened considerably. When the comedian left the stage and the host announced that the mic was open, I barely paid attention.
“Come on, Sable!” Stacey nudged my shoulder. “You should go up there.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not? You’re funny when you want to be.”
I’m also sober enough to have good judgment.”
But as the wine continued flowing, my good judgment started to feel less important. The third glass hit different than the first two. My cheeks fell warm, my limbs loose and relaxed.
On stage, a woman in her forties was doing an enthusiastic but slightly off key rendition of Total Eclipse of the Heart.” The audience was eating it up, cheering and singing along to the chorus.
“Your turn next, Stacey declared, pointing at me.
‘I don’t sing.”
“Then do comedy!”
The idea should have horrified me. Public speaking while tipsy? In front of strangers? The sober version of myself would have fled.
But sitting in that warm, dimly lit bar with wine coursing through my system and my colleagues egging me on, it suddenly seemed like the most natural thing in the world.
Before I could change my mind, I found myself walking toward the host.
“I’d like to try,” I heard myself saying.
The next thing I knew, I was standing on the small stage with a microphone in my hand, looking out at maybe thirty faces. The stage lights were warm on my skin. My colleagues were cheering from their booth.
“Hi everyone,” I began, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. “I’m a doctor, but lately, my job feels less about medicine and more like… professional therapy for men with severe emotional intelligence deficiencies.”
A few chuckles from the audience encouraged me to continue.
“You know what the hardest condition to treat is? Not cancer, not heart disease… it’s straight male emotional constipation. Especially the type where a guy likes you for years but insists on playing the ‘protective older brother’ role instead of just asking you out.”
More laughter. The wine was making me bold, reckless in a way that felt dangerously good.
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