Claimed (The Lair of the Wolven 1)

“Intervention? Nah. I’d be the last person to get in the way of self-destruction.”

She wasn’t so sure about that. Under his crunchy exterior … well, there was a straight-up killer, true. But he had his own set of loyalties, all of which were centered on the people in that mansion she lived in.

“So you just needed a place to smoke?” She motioned around. “There’s a big-ass city out there, full of park benches—”

“I dreamed of you,” he cut in harshly. “During the day.”

Xhex’s breath caught in her throat. “Oh, fucking hell.”

There were a whole host of things a person didn’t want to hear: Your mate is missing in the field. That limb is not going to grow back. Lassiter has the remote.

And right up there with that happy list? Vishous, son of the Bloodletter, telling you he’s had a dream with your name on it.

Just as she only tracked the addicts, the desperates, and the malcontents in the clubs, he only ever saw bad news. Very bad news.

In the future.

“What,” she gritted out. “Fucking tell me, whatever it is.”

It was a long while before the Brother answered—and his nearly white, navy-rimmed eyes shifted to her own before he spoke. As fear speared right into her chest, his one-word reply hit the airwaves—and she felt even worse.

“Wolven,” was all he said.

TWO DAYS LATER, on Sunday morning back in Walters, Lydia found the footsteps in the dirt outside her rental house.

The two-story, two-bedroom, one-and-a-half bath was barely more than a shotgun, even though the only things on either side of it were a shallow lawn and a whole lot of trees. Given the town it was in, it went without saying that her nearest neighbors were a quarter mile away and her driveway was a hundred yards long.

As she stepped out onto the porch, she had her running shoes on, her windbreaker zipped up, and her earbuds in. At ten a.m., the air was still and cold, and overhead, the sky was a clear, but weak, blue. The sunlight was warm on her face, however, and that felt good.

It also felt calming—which considering the gymnastics her brain had been going through since Friday night was exactly what she needed. Even if it was the kind of thing that didn’t last.

After she locked up, she stretched her calves on the stairs, and enjoyed contemplating, for a moment, the simple problem of choosing left or right when she got to the end of her driveway. Right would take her out along the rural road for about a half mile before she could cut into a trail and do some intervals on the mountain’s incline. With a left, she’d head into town, going by the post office, the supermarket/diner, and the bank, which would be closed. The decision seemed obvious as there was more traffic on the road—relatively speaking—but she didn’t want to go into the preserve.

She didn’t trust herself not to end up at the hotel site—

At first, she wasn’t sure what got her attention. But as she glanced around, she had the same sense she’d gotten when she’d been sure someone had moved something in her office.

Her out-of-place alarm was never wrong.

And that was when she saw the footprints going around the porch. The depressions in the damp earth were barely noticeable, but sunlight was as always the great revealer, the subtle shadows thrown by the indentations forming a pattern that was unmistakable.

Stepping off onto the scrubby, brown grass, she got down on her haunches. The prints were big, and oddly, they had no tread to them. They were smooth and box shaped—and they went around to the living room window. Went around the whole first floor of the house.

As she tracked them, she was careful not to interfere with the trail, and she took pictures on her phone. By the back door, she fired up her Samsung’s flashlight and tried to see if whoever it had been had come up on the shallow landing and left any dirt or residue.

Hard to tell.

Returning to the front, she went inside and checked all of the windows. Everything was locked, the old brass fixtures cranked into place, and all the glass panes were intact—although given how small the place was and how quiet the nights were, she would have heard something breaking or getting smashed.

A cold numbness went through her.

There had been some rain on Saturday afternoon. Given the clarity of the markings and how deep they were, it seemed like the ground had to have been damp … so she guessed they’d been made sometime during the night.

Back in the kitchen, she looked over the uncluttered counters. The stove, with her grandfather’s teapot and the skillet she’d bought a year ago sitting on cold burners. The table, with the two chairs, the single place mat, and the napkin holder—as well as her laptop, which was worth maybe six or seven hundred dollars.