Mate Bond

Bowman shook him again. Cristian brought his hands up hard against Bowman’s wrists, and with a single jerk, broke his hold. Bowman went for him again, but at the last minute, spun and walked away, clenching his hands at his sides.

“Kenzie is all right?” Cristian’s voice took on a note of deeper concern. “Tell me.”

“She’s fine,” Bowman said, back still turned. “This is between her and me; none of your business.”

“She is Dimitru pack—it is my business.”

Bowman swung around. “She was. Now she’s . . .” He trailed off. If Kenzie walked away from him, following the mate bond, he’d have to get the mating annulled—by Cristian. And Kenzie would no longer be O’Donnell pack.

Cristian watched him. The trouble with the asshole was that he was smart. He was long-lived, experienced, and knew too damned much.

“She has felt the mate bond with another,” Cristian concluded.

Pain flared. “I said, it’s none of your business.”

“But it is. She is my niece, my blood.” Cristian pressed his hands to his chest. “She is also my foster daughter. I raised her. Everything about Kenzie is my business.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bowman said in a hard voice. “Yes, she found it with someone else. She’ll go. End of conversation.”

“It is not that simple.”

“Yeah? No shit. Now, can we get on with looking for whatever it is you found?”

Cristian continued to hold his gaze. Bowman finally growled and stalked away, across the cement floor of the arena and out the other side.

“Not that way,” Cristian said at his shoulder. The man could move fast. “What I found is here.”

He pointed down a hill and started in that direction. Bowman gritted his teeth and followed.

They came out into a flatter part of the woods, where the trees thinned slightly and mud proliferated. The snow of the day before had only dusted the ground here, and today’s thaw had turned it into a mess.

Cristian pointed out two sets of footprints, both in boots with heavy treads, good for traction in the cold. Two people had stood here talking to each other, then they’d parted ways. The larger set of prints went up the hill to the right, the smaller set down to the left.

“The larger set belonged to a heavier man,” Cristian said. “His boot prints, you see, are deeper, much deeper. Or he was carrying something heavy. The second man is lighter, and walks more quickly, with a longer stride.”

“Good observation, Holmes,” Bowman said dryly. He might not be up on the latest literature, but he knew that character.

Cristian did too, and slanted Bowman a look. “I am trying to help. What are your deductions?”

“Two men met and walked away from each other. Hunters. Hikers. Friends with a fetish for screwing in the woods.”

“Human, by the scent,” Cristian said. “Which set would you like to follow?”

“The larger man.” He was likely the greater danger, and as much as Bowman wanted Cristian out of his life, if Cristian got himself shot, Kenzie and Afina would make Bowman’s life hell—more than it already was.

“Very well,” Cristian said. “We will look and meet back at the vehicles in one hour.”

“Fine.” Bowman didn’t bother with more formality. He turned his back and walked off, following the boots up the hill.

* * *

Bowman made it back to where they’d parked the motorcycles before Cristian did. He contemplated taking off and leaving the older man behind, but he leaned on the seat of his Harley and waited.

The forest was quiet, the tall trees regal against the half-clouded sky. The scent that Bowman simply called woods tried to soothe him, but Bowman’s nerves were jangled. Hurt lingered behind where he’d pushed it, wanting to come out and batter him.

Cristian didn’t keep him waiting long. “My trail, perhaps not surprisingly, went to Turner’s,” he said as he approached Bowman. “Something is very wrong in that clearing, and I would like to know what.”

So would Bowman. “Mine went to a road,” he said. “Someone had parked a pickup there. Something like an F250 by the spread of the tires and depth of the tracks.”

Cristian gave him an ironic smile. “Impressive, Holmes. Anything else?”

Bowman took what he’d found on the trail out of his pocket and wordlessly handed it to Cristian.

It was a charm, a large one, from a necklace or some such, made of solid silver. The design looked Celtic—not the same as the Celtic knot that adorned Shifter Collars, but similar. The silver was old, softened by time; not tarnished, but not bright and shiny either.

Cristian sniffed it. “This is Fae.”

“Yep.” Bowman folded his arms against the cold. “Just lying in the woods, in the mud, about halfway up to the truck.”

Cristian continued to study it. “I would swear that the two men standing in the clearing were human.”

“They were. No scent of Fae anywhere. And yet, the guy in the big boots dropped it. I found it right beside his footprints.”

“Or it was lying there and had nothing to do with him.”

“The ley line is over there.” Bowman pointed to the left, away from the arena. “But I’ve never heard of any gates in it. No standing stones in this woods.” Standing stones often contained an entrance to Faerie. “I doubt a Fae popped out, went for a hike, dropped a piece of silver, and ran back home. We’d smell a trail like that.”