Chapter 91

Something kept nagging at me about Lydia's secret meeting place. We'd found evidence there before—coded messages, signs of regular use—but I couldn't shake the feeling that we'd missed something important. The thought had been eating at me for days, growing stronger with each passing hour.

Maybe it was desperation. With Raymond's restrictions tightening around me and Kane's emotional walls growing higher, I felt like I was running out of options. But every instinct I had screamed that I needed to go back. Look deeper. Search more thoroughly.

I waited until my guard rotation changed, then slipped through the hidden passages I'd discovered as a child. These narrow corridors between the walls had been my secret escape routes during countless childhood punishments, and now they served a far more dangerous purpose.

The forest clearing was located on neutral territory, far enough from pack lands to avoid detection but close enough for regular meetings. As I made my way through the dense woodland, every shadow seemed to hold potential threats, every rustling branch a possible enemy.

Kane appeared beside me just as I reached the treeline, materializing from the shadows with his usual silent grace. His presence shouldn't have surprised me—he'd been monitoring my every move for days—but the way he emerged from concealment reminded me of his impressive skillset.

"You can't be here alone," he said quietly, his voice carrying that same professional detachment that had become his default with me over the past weeks.

"I'm not alone. You're here." I kept my own voice carefully neutral, matching his tone. If he wanted to play the game of emotional distance, I could match him step for step.

Kane's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Actually, I don't know what you mean anymore." I pushed past him toward the clearing, my shoulder brushing his arm and sending unwanted sparks through both of us. "Your communication has become frustratingly unclear lately."

The accusation hung between us like a wall. Where we once moved as a seamless unit, anticipating each other's thoughts and actions, now we stumbled over the simplest coordination. The emotional barriers Kane had erected were destroying our effectiveness as partners.

"We need to search more thoroughly this time," I explained as we approached the clearing. "I keep feeling like we missed something crucial during our first investigation."

Kane's response was clipped and professional. "We documented everything we found."

"Maybe not everything was visible on the surface." I gestured toward the area we'd previously examined. "If someone has been using this location for months, there might be evidence buried deeper. Hidden better."

We moved through the forest in tense silence, our usual fluid teamwork replaced by stilted awkwardness. Kane kept proper professional distance, never getting close enough for accidental contact, never letting his guard down enough for real communication.

The clearing looked exactly as we'd left it during our last surveillance run, but with even more evidence of recent activity. Fresh footprints pressed into the soft earth. Cigarette butts scattered near a fallen log. The tire tracks leading to the access road remained clear impressions in the mud.

But this time, I was determined to look beyond the obvious.

"Help me search the perimeter," I said, already moving toward the tree line. "Look for anything that doesn't belong to the natural environment."

Kane nodded curtly, his response mechanical. "Systematic grid search?"

"Yes. Start from the north and work clockwise."

For the first time in weeks, we fell into a working rhythm. Professional, efficient, but lacking the collaborative enthusiasm that had once characterized our investigations. Kane examined trees and undergrowth with methodical precision while I focused on ground-level anomalies.

Twenty minutes into our search, I found what my instincts had been telling me was there.

"Kane," I called softly. "Look at this."

Hidden beneath a carefully arranged pile of dead leaves and branches, almost invisible unless you knew exactly where to look, was a small metal box. Waterproof. Recently cleaned. Definitely not something that belonged in a natural forest setting.

Kane knelt beside me as I carefully lifted the container, his proximity sending familiar electricity through me despite everything. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of his natural scent, the one that had once brought me comfort.

But when I turned slightly, hoping to catch his eye, he immediately focused on the box, maintaining his professional distance with military precision.

Inside, we found a treasure trove of intelligence that made our previous discoveries look insignificant. Detailed photographs of pack members with personal information. Financial records showing payments to various contacts. Most damning of all—a communication device with recent message history.

"This is current intelligence," I said, studying the timestamps with growing alarm. "Look at these messages—they're from yesterday. Someone is still actively coordinating with enemy forces."

Kane examined the device over my shoulder, his training evident in how quickly he navigated the interface. "These aren't just surveillance reports. They're operational plans."

The messages contained specific instructions for upcoming activities. Guard rotation schedules. Patrol route modifications. Even dietary preferences of high-ranking pack members—information that could only be useful for poisoning attempts.

"Since when do you worry about calculated risks?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. "You used to say information was worth any danger."

Something flickered in Kane's eyes—pain, maybe, or longing—but his expression remained professionally neutral. "Circumstances have changed."

"Yes," I said quietly, the weight of those changes pressing down on both of us. "They have."

I tried to focus on the investigation, photographing documents and copying message logs, but Kane's emotional withdrawal was making our work infinitely harder. He responded to my observations with clipped acknowledgments, offered no theories of his own, and refused to engage in collaborative analysis.

When I found additional evidence suggesting the drop-box was checked on a predictable schedule—fresh scratches on the lock indicating recent use—I turned to share the discovery with Kane. But he was already moving away, examining a different section of the clearing with deliberate focus.

"Kane, look at this," I called softly. "The lock shows signs of being opened within the last forty-eight hours."

"I see it," he interrupted without looking back. "Document it and move on."

The dismissal stung worse than any direct insult would have. Kane was treating me like a junior operative whose insights weren't worth discussing, rather than the partner who had once been his intellectual equal.

"Your fear is going to get us both killed if you can't work with me properly," I finally snapped, my frustration reaching its breaking point.

Kane stopped moving. For a moment, I thought I'd finally broken through his defenses.

But when he turned back to me, his expression was colder than ever.

"I'm working with you," he said evenly, each word carefully measured. "Just not the way you want."

Before I could respond, we heard voices approaching through the trees. Male voices, low and cautious, discussing something that made them constantly check their surroundings.

Kane immediately moved closer, his protective instincts overriding his emotional barriers as he pulled me behind a massive oak tree. The trunk was wide enough to conceal us both, but barely, forcing us into intimate proximity that neither of us wanted but both desperately needed.

We pressed against each other in the confined hiding space, his body automatically shielding mine from potential discovery. His heart hammered against my back. His breathing was carefully controlled but slightly too fast.

"Don't move," he whispered against my ear, his breath sending shivers down my spine despite everything.

The voices grew closer. Two men, maybe three, discussing pickup schedules and payment arrangements in the casual tone of people conducting routine business.

"Next delivery is Thursday," one voice said. "Same location, same time."

"Payment better be on schedule this time," another replied. "My people don't work for promises."

Kane's hand found mine in the darkness, squeezing gently—an unconscious gesture of comfort that he realized immediately and quickly released. The brief contact left my skin burning and my heart aching for what we'd lost.

When the voices finally faded, we remained hidden for several more minutes. Kane's professional mask had slipped slightly, revealing glimpses of the man underneath.

"We need to get back," he said finally, but his voice lacked its usual cold efficiency.

As we made our way back to pack territory, the weight of everything unsaid hung between us like a fog. Kane's fear was destroying us both, but I couldn't figure out how to break through the walls he'd built.

The investigation was progressing—we had proof that the conspiracy was ongoing, evidence of regular meetings, intelligence about future plans. But at what cost? Every lead we followed together felt like another step toward complete emotional destruction.

I was losing not just my mate, but my partner, my friend, and my last ally in a battle that was far from over.