Page 21 of Red Hood, Bad Wolf

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.

***

THE CABIN DOOR CREAKEDunder 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.

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