Page 114 of Crimson Moon Falling

New York hit me like a tsunami of sound and scent. Manhattan rose around us as we drove in, glass and steel catching the afternoon light. My hiking boots and NPS uniform looked absurdly out of place against the hotel’s polished elegance. I drew a few stares, but the hellhounds stopped people in their tracks. A trail of smoke curled from Mangus’s nostrils, and Athena’s low, rumbling growl kept the bellhops at a respectful distance. The hotel advertised itself as “pet and supernatural friendly,” but even the concierge blinked at us.

Our suite was on the twenty-third floor, and Ash unlocked the door and stepped inside first, his senses sweeping the room before he gestured me in. I cautiously walked inside and tested the energy in the room. Nothing too loud stood out to me, and I nodded.

The hellhounds padded after us, Mangus claiming the couch. Ash set our bags down by the door and turned to study me.

“You should let Flint arrange some appropriate clothing.” His dark eyes took in my outfit with the quiet assessment of a man who understood the value of appearances. “Or we could go shopping. There’s time before the meeting.”

“No.” I dropped my duffel on the bed. “I need to look exactly like this.”

“Why?”

“Because this is who I am. A Cog park ranger with burned ankles, scars, and a half-troll as my partner. Not a politician’s wife in designer clothes.”

His demeanor was calm, but I felt an undercurrent of tension. I sensed his worry and concern, and he knew I was keeping secrets from both him and his Alpha.

“Why are you meeting a reporter, Riley?”

The question hung between us. “I don’t want to put you in a difficult position between your loyalty to your Alpha and your friendship with me.”

Something flickered across his face. “You can trust him.”

“I do trust him, and in any other circumstances, I would tell him.” I pulled off a boot and set it aside. “But I don’t want to put him in a position where he has to choose between my safety and his Pack’s well-being. He’s responsible for thousands of shifters.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” His voice was gentle. “He can protect you and the Pack.”

I looked up at him. “You’re his first Beta. Your loyalty is to him, not to me. I understand that.” Conall’s interdiction to his Pack brought that message home in a way I’d never forget.

Ash crossed the room and knelt in front of me, his movements deliberate. He reached out and rested his hand on my knee. His touch was warm and steady, and his energy was calm. Ash was one of the few people who could touch me without causing discomfort.

“My loyalty is to both of you.” His dark eyes held mine.

My throat tightened, and the implant sent cold vibrations out, trying to wall off the surge of emotion, but it leaked through, hot and sharp.

“Then trust me,” I whispered. “For a little longer.” He studied me, then nodded and stood.

I finished unpacking in silence while Ash ordered room service. We ate, took the hellhounds to Central Park before bed, then returned to the hotel room and settled in for the night. Mangus was snoring on the couch, and Ash stood at the window, his silhouette sharp against the glass. Manhattan spread out below us, a grid of lights and buildings, millions of lives moving through their routines, unaware and uncaring.

Tomorrow, I would light the match.

The morning light cut across the City in sharp angles, making the glass towers glow. Traffic crawled along the grid, a slow river of metal and exhaust. My reflection in the glass as we walked out of the hotel showed a woman in a tan national park uniform, with a white streak in her dark hair, practical cargo pants, and hiking boots that had seen better days. I touched the ring on the thin gold chain around my neck, then fingered the double-headed wolf necklace. Today, I needed its quiet power.

The bandages on my wrist peeked out from under my sleeve.

Ash wore a gray button-down shirt and dark slacks, his long hair loose and hanging down his back. He also wore an antique turquoise ring and belt buckle with intricate silver etchings. Athena and Mangus sat on the sidewalk next to us, and the pedestrians gave them a wide berth.

“You look like you’re about to hike the Appalachian Trail,” Ash observed, his lips twitching.

“That’s the point. If I show up in a suit or expensive clothes, I’m just another Alpha Mate or politician’s wife with a Pack agenda. This—” I gestured at myself, “—is my costume for today.”

“The Times building is in midtown. It’ll take us forty minutes in traffic, maybe less.” We piled in when the driver pulled up to the curb.

The morning traffic was stop-and-go, and our driver made several questionable maneuvers, but we made it in one piece. The New York Times building rose ahead of us, a fifty-two-story tower of glass and steel catching the morning sun.

The security guard at the front desk looked up, then froze when he saw the hellhounds flanking us.

“My name is Riley Blackthorne. I have an appointment with Fernanda Stratton. She’s with the Times,” I told him.

The guard blanched as Mangus yawned, displaying teeth that could easily take a man’s arm off. Athena stood beside Ash, her white coat gleaming under the lobby lights, her eyes scanning.