Charles
Sunlight spills through the tall windows of my study, cutting across the desk and catching the edges of the tablet in my hand. The familiar scent of wood and leather should calm me, but my wolf refuses to settle, prowling restlessly beneath my skin.
On the screen are photographs taken from a distance in Whispering Pine. Long shots, careful angles. In one, the man is smiling like he belongs there. In another, he leans against a fence, hands shoved into his pockets, his gaze sharp and watchful as if he knows he’s being observed.
He's tall. Sandy hair that looks harmless at first glance. Broad shoulders, relaxed posture, like he belongs anywhere he stands. But his eyes give him away. Cold. Calculating. Piercing blue with no warmth in them at all.
A predator pretending to be a nei
