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“That’s what I’m struggling to figure out. I’ve found no communication outside of in-person visits,” I admit, retaking my seat. “I’ve hacked his cloud, phone, and email. There’s nothing.”

“So we don’t know what’s going on in those meetings.” Evander’s deep baritone rumbles through the room like thunder.

“The human must have reached out to Alexander another way. The question is, what the hell are they discussing?” Caelan narrows his eyes. He’s barely shifted since sitting down, still as a blade waiting to be drawn.

“Right. Deadwalkers don’t have allies. They take what they want, deal with the bodies, and move on.”

“Maybe this one’s the exception,” Ford mutters. “Some kind of friendship.”

“Nah, Deadwalkers don’t do friends.” The words come out garbled around the hair tie clamped between Silas’s teeth as he wrangles his blonde hair, which he usually wears in a long mohawk, into a knot on the top of his head. He leans back and props his boots up on the table, causing specs of dirt to fall off the bottoms and cover the thick oak.

Evander reaches over and shoves his feet off with a grunt.

Silas glares and flips Evander off, but his packmate doesn’t even glance up from the dossier in his hands.

Sometimes, I wonder if Ford feels more like a babysitter than a brother in that pack.

Ford shakes his head. “Severed are self-contained. They hunt quick and strike more quickly. They don’t deliberate and plan. That kind of coordination is so far outside their style it’s like watching a dog try to play piano.”

Ford’s sort of an anomaly in our world. Ninety-nine percent of vampires are born, but they can be made. It’s just extremely dangerous and doesn’t usually work.

Ford is the last known turned vampire. The last of his kind, in fact. He left his human life in 1953 and, for reasons unknown, has never quite moved on from that decade. He once called a Severed “a real chucklehead,” to his face during an interrogation, and fucking meant it with his whole chest.

“There’s something else.” I lean forward, propping my forearms on the table. “There’s been a nearly twenty-five percent uptick in missing Omegas within a ninety-mile radius since the Severed started meeting with Varenthrall.”

The room stills.

“How many?” Gav’s jaw ticks, and I know what he’s thinking. Omegas are rare enough as it is. Trafficking them is abhorrent, but it’s an unfortunate part of our world. There are always greedy assholes out there who will buy and sell anything they can get their hands on to get rich—living beings included.

“Fifteen in the last three months,” I answer.

Despite bracing myself for the explosion of angry Alpha Pheromones, I still wince when the full force of six pissed-off warriors detonates in a small area.

I might not trust Omegas thanks to my own personal history, but I’m more than aware of the innate biological response they provoke in Alphas.

We are made to protect them. Nurture them. Keep them safe and loved. I’m not so jaded that the idea of fifteen women forced to endure horrors no one should ever face doesn’t affect me.

I’ve just had time to work through my own anger.

The rest of my team hasn’t.

In an attempt to escape the heavy blanket of pheromones, I stand and cross toward the alcohol cart across the room. We all wear descenters outside of our personal rooms, but despite the absence of scent, Alpha Pheromones still carry a heavy, suppressive feeling that makes your bones itch.

I return once I’m sure it’s safe, carrying a decanter and glasses with me. I pour myself a drink, then pass the whiskey to Gav.

“It’s not just humans being taken,” I continue, wrapping my hand around my glass. “Vampires have also disappeared, and two days ago a wolven Omega went missing.”

“Fuck,” Silas snarls, never one to hold back. “Fifteen is like… more Omegas than we see go missing around here in an entire year.”

“A wolven?” Vae whistles low, dragging his hand through his dark auburn locks. “It’s been decades since I’ve even seen one outside of packlands.”

I take a long pull of my whiskey. “She wasn’t technically supposed to be outside of packlands from what I understand. She went with two Alphas and a Beta on a supply run. Saline— the Omega— is an apprentice healer, and their Elder healer was sick, so she went in her place.” I pause, jaw flexing. “She never came back.”

Opening another folder, I pull out her photo and pass it to Caelan. I don’t look at it. I already know what I’ll see.

A girl around nineteen, with dark skin and intricate braids. Brown eyes, the color of honey, and a smile so bright and genuine it hurts to look at. She’s delicate and slight in stature, but with the soft curves Omegas are known and coveted for.

“What about her packmates?” Caelan asks, scanning the photo I procured by… less than legal means. Wolven are notoriously private, and sometimes I have to get creative to work around their safeguards.