Slipping out of the bed, she grabbed her phone and headed toward the kitchen for coffee, Mr. Darcy greeting her in his usual weave in and out of her legs.
She slid the screen of her phone over and saw an unfamiliar number heading the text, making her brow furrow.
But as she read, her eyes opened wide and her gut clenched tight.
Now she had a name and a place.
Claire gripped the edge of her countertop and fought for her breath, knew she should attempt to wake Irish and share this, knew she should reach out for help from someone. But she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t involve Irish. She knew all about the deal he’d had with Gannon for synthetic blood. His clan needed it.
Which meant he couldn’t have anything to do with this fact-finding mission or Courtland would somehow find fault in him, find any excuse at all to hunt him down and kill him.
This was pack business. Unfortunately, her immediate pack leader included Courtland—and because she didn’t know if Courtland was a part of it, not a chance in hell was she going to him. But she was going to damn well find out if he knew what Gannon had been up to.
She wasn’t prone to snap decisions or impulsive behavior, but seeing this text, having this information handed to her, sent her flying to her bedroom to find clothes and supplies.
She gave one last glance at Irish, his chiseled features so perfect. Leaning over, she dropped a kiss on his cheek, knowing he wouldn’t stir for hours if left to vampire sleep.
Hopefully, he’d sneak out the same way he snuck in so no one would be the wiser.
Throwing on some jeans and a sweater, Claire snuck out of the bedroom and grabbed her notepad, scrawling a quick note to Irish that read, Please remember, you promised to trust me. I’ll see you later. Love, your librarian
* * *
Irish wasn’t too panicked until nightfall came and no one had seen or heard from Claire. He’d woken with a start, unsure where he was, grateful he’d told Liam he had business to take care of and wouldn’t be back until tonight.
And then he’d found Claire’s note. So he’d spent all day trying not to panic, keeping his head on straight, going though the motions.
As the day grew longer, and night fell, he had to admit, he was a little panicked. Under the guise of making sure the peace was kept, and Courtland hadn’t hauled her off to werewolf jail in some secret werewolf arrest, he’d gone to Freya, her closest friend.
She didn’t like it when he’d shown up at her door. He could tell from the disapproval in her eyes and they way her face hardened. But according to Freya, Claire had texted her and asked her to feed Mr. Darcy for her until she got home later tonight, and that was all she claimed to know.
So her definition of “see you later tonight” came and went, and still no Claire. He’d sent her text after text, circled her house, left her at least ten different voicemails like some lovesick fool, all to no avail.
She’d said to trust her, and he was trying like hell to do that, but each passing second she wasn’t in his sights was trying his boundaries of trust.
He’d spent part of the day looking for any obscure loophole in the reams of paper containing the laws of the packs and clans, searching for a way they could be together out in the open with the new rules. So far, he was shit out of luck, but he was going to keep at it.
Because he wanted Claire. And some way, somehow, he’d figure out how to make her his—openly.
To keep his mind busy in Claire’s absence, he’d decided to busy himself by disposing of Gannon’s body—for good. Just like he’d promised.
He didn’t need a shovel; he had his hands and speed on his side. What he needed was for Claire to damn well text him back. It was almost eleven, and she was nowhere to be found.
He’d walked rather than taking his bike, pushing his way through the thick trees of the campgrounds as he began to jog toward the spot where he’d left Gannon’s body.
It hadn’t exactly been a lie when he’d taken Courtland to the abandoned campgrounds. Gannon was there. He just wasn’t in a trailer. He was buried under a fallen tree about three hundred yards away.
As Irish approached the brush he’d thrown over the spot, he checked his cell phone one last time for something from Claire.
Nothing. Damn her. All women ever wanted to do was communicate and suddenly she’d gone dark? He didn’t like it. It wasn’t sitting well with him.
Clenching his fist, he attempted another exercise in trust before jamming his phone in his back pocket and coming to a complete stop at Gannon’s makeshift grave.
He sniffed the air, the icy breeze carrying an unfamiliar scent.
Something wasn’t right.
He knelt at the fallen tree, lifting it with no struggle at all and gazing down into the hole.
An empty hole.
There was nothing but dirt and brush in it, but no Gannon.
Jesus Christ.
Where in the fuck was Gannon Dodd?
To Be Continued…
(You know what comes next. Cue even more evil music.)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dakota Cassidy is the nationally bestselling author of more than thirty books. She lives in the gorgeous state of Oregon with her real life hero and her dogs, and she loves hearing from readers!
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Fangs of Anarchy - Forbidden Alpha (Part 3) Were in the World is Gannon Dodd?: A Werewolf Vampire Shifter Romance Page 3
