The Arctic Consortium sent me its report before dawn. Caleb's family had spent the night in a roadside motel that smelled of old smoke.
They had sold one of Chloe's boutique bags to pay for two rooms. The report included the motel receipt and the declined card slips.
At midday, they found a diner willing to extend them credit. A rogue wolf at the next table shoulder-checked Caleb and spilled greasy stew across his jacket.
It was the only place near the territory line that still recognized the Blackwood name. Recognition bought them a meal and nothing else.
“Watch it, pretty boy.”
A month earlier, Caleb's Alpha pressure would have cleared the room. He straightened and tried to force out a command.
His expensive jacket hung wet against his chest. He planted both hands on the table and
