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Something about that photo stuck with me. Even seeing it again, here, in the bright light of Castle’s study, something inside me tenses in alertness. Like this girl might slip right through my fingers if I don’t keep my focus. She looks lost already, and supposedly this photo was taken months before she vanished.
“This is the last photo I have of my daughter,” Castle explains. “On her seventeenth birthday. It’s been a little over a year since she went missing.”
My eyes go back to the photo. What girl looks so unhappy on her birthday?
Across from me, the Tracker’s frowning, too. I can tell that he sees what I see.
A lost, dispirited, possibly desperate girl. Maybe she got lost, but I’m not ruling out the possibility that she’s running from something. Houses like this, with all their finery and watchful eyes, can feel just as suffocating as a tomb. There are different ways to drown, and everything is the end of the world to a seventeen year old girl.
“Can we see the security footage of her leaving?” the Survivor asks.
I grunt my approval. It’s a good question. And that footage wasn’t in the package. It would show us what Brooklyn was carrying, what she wore. That would tell us how long she expected to be out there. Plus, if she was distressed or coerced, we might spot something the police missed.
Castle shifts in his chair. “I’m not sure where it’s being stored at the moment, unfortunately. I’ll ask my assistant to track it down for you.”
The Tracker cocks his head at Castle but remains as silent as the grave. I want to say more. Push him. Surely they would have shared the footage with the police. If they did, it should be easy to find the digital trail and forward it to us.
Instead, I say, “That would be helpful.”
“My team prepared dossiers for you on Brooklyn, and on the park,” Castle continues, gesturing to the folders in the center of the table. I assume these must contain more detailed information than what was sent in the mission packet, and feel a rush of annoyed heat lick up my back that we’re being presented with new information the day we’re intended to depart. I could have studied them more thoroughly if they were sent in advance with the rest of the packet.
“And there’s one more thing.”
Castle pushes forward a small black box. It looks weatherproofed and hardy. Like I could kick it over a waterfall and know it’d harmlessly bounce off the ragged rocks below.
“You’ll need these,” he says.
Across from me, the Tracker grabs the box and opens it. His brow furrows as he sees what’s inside.
“Rut suppressants?” He glances at me and the Survivor, his voice low and rough.
“There are also heat suppressants in there for Brooklyn to take once you find her. My daughter is an Omega, and she probably hasn’t been near another person in months, let alone an Alpha,” Castle explains. “Which means she’ll be especially… vulnerable.”
We can all hear what Castle really means to say, and I want to throttle him for omitting this information in the original case file. Instead I clench my teeth and attempt to maintain my composure and the mask of professionalism that’s expected of me as team leader.
Think through the problem.
Without heat suppressants, if this Omega is alive, she’s probably a light alpha-scented breeze away from going into heat. Which makes her vulnerable to whatever Alpha stumbles on her first. Her scent alone could push any of us into a rut.
In any other circumstance, I’d resent the insult to my self-control. It takes more than some simpering Omega to make me go wild. Hell, I’ve sunk my cock into a few Omegas in my day, but I never knotted them.
None of them were in heat, though…
But hell, if I can keep my head while I’m buried in a hot, wet pussy, with a willing Omega keening underneath me, then I’ve got the discipline to resist anything.
I hold my tongue.
And I resist the urge to throw Castle’s mission and exorbitant amount of money back in his damn face for keeping this from me.
“The rut suppressants should help you keep your instincts under control and your focus on the purpose of this mission,” Castle explains.
“We wouldn’t want some selfish piece of trash to force himself on my sister,” Grayson says with a sneer. His eyes flick over me, taking in my close-trimmed beard and tight t-shirt.
I can read between the lines. He wants me to know that a brute like me isn’t good enough for his precious sister. Know your place.
My fist clenches. He’s missing the fucking point. It wouldn’t matter if I was a billionaire prince—no Alpha should be claiming his sister without her consent.
Fuck, I’m ready to growl at him, ready to show him exactly what he should be afraid of.
