I started tracking him the morning after the banquet.
Not dramatically. Not with confrontation or tears. I simply opened the pack's territory monitoring system—the one I'd helped design five years ago to coordinate border patrols—and began cross-referencing Ryder's stated locations against the scent trails my wolf could pull from the air.
The system was straightforward. Every pack member's movements generated a faint digital signature when they crossed sector boundaries. It was meant for security, for coordinating responses to rogue incursions. I'd used it a thousand times to manage logistics.
I'd never used it to track my own mate.
The first discrepancy appeared on Tuesday. Ryder told me he'd be inspecting the eastern training grounds all afternoon. The system showed him crossing into Sector Seven—southwest border—at two-fifteen. He stayed there for three hours.
I noted it in the encrypted file on the spare tablet I kept in my office safe. Date. Time. Location. No commentary. Just data.
Wednesday, he claimed a council meeting ran late. The system put him in Sector Seven again. Same duration.
Thursday, I walked the southwest perimeter myself after he left for what he called a "supply run." The scent trail was there, clear as daylight to my wolf: cedar threading through the underbrush, heading toward the territory border. And underneath it, faint but unmistakable now that I'd stopped suppressing my instincts—that synthetic floral wrongness.
Aria.
I stood in the forest, alone, and let my wolf surface just enough to follow the trail. It led to a narrow access road I didn't recognize, one that crossed into Bellevue. Then it faded, lost in the noise of human territory.
I turned back. Added the coordinates to my file. Pressed my fingertips against my wrist until my pulse steadied.
I wasn't angry yet. Anger required certainty, and I was still building the case. What I felt instead was a cold, methodical focus—the same state I entered when managing pack crises. Assess. Document. Plan.
By Friday, the pattern was undeniable. Sector Seven. Southwest border. Three to four hours, minimum. Always when he'd told me he'd be somewhere else.
I sat in my office that evening, the tablet open in front of me, and stared at the data. Ten separate instances over eight days. A decade of marriage, and I'd never thought to check.
My wolf stirred, restless and low. Not pacing anymore. Watching.
I picked up my phone and scrolled to Felicity's contact. My thumb hovered over the call button.
Felicity Moore was the sharpest wolf I knew. Beta-ranked, Ironridge Pack, and the only legal strategist who'd ever made an Alpha back down in open council by sheer force of procedural knowledge. We'd met at the pack training academy, back when I still thought the world made sense.
She was also the only wolf I trusted completely.
I pressed call.
She answered on the second ring. "Lina. What's wrong?"
No preamble. No small talk. That was Felicity—she could read silence like a legal brief.
"Nothing's wrong," I said carefully. "I just wanted to check in. See how you're doing."
"Lina."
I closed my eyes. "I need you here."
A pause. Then: "When?"
"Tomorrow evening. Ironridge-Silvercrest border. The clearing near the old pine stand."
"Should I bring anything?"
"Your folio."
Another pause, longer this time. I could almost hear her mind working through the implications. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. "Okay. I'll be there."
"Thank you."
"Lina—" She stopped. Started again. "Whatever this is, we'll handle it."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "I know."
I ended the call and set the phone down. My hands were steady. My wolf was still.
Ryder came home an hour later, smelling of cedar and winter air and that faint floral wrongness I could no longer pretend wasn't there. He kissed my temple, asked about my day, poured himself a drink.
I smiled and told him everything was fine.
***
Felicity arrived at the border clearing just after sunset. She parked her car on the access road and walked the last quarter-mile on foot, her worn leather folio tucked under one arm. When she stepped into the clearing, her sharp eyes found mine immediately.
"You look like hell," she said.
I almost laughed. "Thanks."
She crossed to where I stood and set the folio on a flat boulder. "Talk."
I pulled out the tablet and handed it to her. "Start with this."
She took it, her expression unreadable, and began scrolling through the file. I watched her face as she absorbed the data: the tracking logs, the scent trail coordinates, the timeline of discrepancies. Her jaw tightened, but she didn't speak.
When she finished, she looked up. "The social media post?"
I pulled it up on my phone and passed it to her. She enlarged the ornament reflection, studied the fireplace, the jacket, the furniture. Her mouth pressed into a thin line.
"That's your packhouse stone," she said quietly.
"Yes."
"And the jacket—"
"Ryder's."
She handed the phone back and uncapped her pen with a soft click. "Start from the beginning. Every detail. Don't leave anything out."
So I did.
I told her about the scent I'd been smelling for years, the one Ryder always explained away. The Alpha tone he used to make me doubt my own wolf's instincts. The way Aria looked at him when she thought I wasn't watching. The southwestern trail that led to a border I'd never crossed.
I told her about the ornament, the fireplace, the furniture. The decade of small wrongnesses I'd taught myself to ignore.
Felicity wrote everything down in her precise, methodical hand. When I finished, she tapped her pen against her lower lip—the tell that meant she'd found something.
"We need surveillance," she said. "Video, if possible. And a location. You said the trail crosses into Bellevue?"
I nodded.
"Then we follow it. Together. And we document everything."
She looked at me, her expression hard and certain. "You're not imagining this, Lina. You never were. And we're going to prove it."
I pressed my fingertips against my wrist. My pulse was steady.
"Okay," I said quietly. "Let's get to work."
