A Serena plan.

“Maybe you’re right, and she doesn’t want to be found. But she wouldn’t put the life of a child at risk, not even in exchange for the biggest, juiciest story of her career. I know Serena, Lowe.”

And that’s the problem with Lowe’s theory: it would mean that Serena is safely tucked somewhere, but also that she wasn’t the person I believed her to be, and I can’t accept it. Not for a minute.

Lowe knows this, because he opens his mouth to say something else, something that undoubtedly will make impeccable sense and feel like a punch in the solar plexus. So I stop him by asking the first thing that comes to mind:

“Where are we going?” We’re headed south, toward downtown. Toward Vampyre territory.

“To meet your brother. We’re nearly there.”

“Owen?”

“You have others?”

I frown. “I thought he’d come to us.”

“Were territory is more tightly patrolled and harder to infiltrate. Since we don’t want to attract attention and turn this into a formal summit, it’s safer to meet with him at the Vampyre-Human border.”

I’m well familiar with this road. I took it for the first time at eight years old, on my way to the Collateral residence, and I still remember that drowning, sticky feeling low in my throat, the fear that I’d never get to go home again. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to redirect my thoughts to the last time. Shortly before the wedding, I imagine. Maybe when I was asked to choose between flowers that all looked the same, white and pretty and ready to wither. A handful of days and a million lifetimes ago.

“Are you okay?” Lowe asks softly.

“Yeah. Just . . .” I’m not usually sentimental, but something about being with him softens me. My guard is down.

“Feels weird, huh?”

I nod.

“We can always turn around,” he offers quietly. “I’ll figure out a way to have Owen come south.”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Okay.” He turns into a small side street. When I glance at the GPS it’s not on the map, but we come to a stop at the edge of a cultivated field.

Lowe’s expression is bemused. “I’m actually curious about this.”

I glance around. All I can see is darkness. “About the wholesome experience of picking your own tomatoes?”

“About meeting your brother.”

He gets out of the car, and I immediately follow him. I thought we were alone, but I hear another car door clicking, and—there he is.

Owen, sneering at the soil sticking to his loafers, swatting away bugs. It’s shocking how happy I am to see him. That jerk, climbing up my good graces uninvited. I’m tempted to yell some insults at him, just to make up for it, until I hear another click.

Owen didn’t come alone. There’s a woman with him. A woman I’ve never met. A woman whose blood smells a lot like a Were’s.

Lowe’s mate.

CHAPTER 24

He feels like the entire world is in the palm of his hand. She seems happy, too. And mystified by her own happiness, as though the feeling is something new and foreign. It has him wondering whether he could make this work. She’s not Were, and her lack of familiarity could be a blessing. She wouldn’t need to know the full truth, which in turn would ensure her freedom.

Lowe leans back against the trunk of his car in what seems to be the official position of performative harmlessness—crossed ankles, relaxed shoulders, his best I-may-be-one-powerful-Were-but-I-have-no-intention-of-brawling-with-you air.

I settle next to him as Owen and Gabi make their way to us, trying to ignore my heart pounding in my chest. I nearly startle when Lowe laces his hand with mine.

“You’re trembling,” he says. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know why.” Except that I do. “I’m cold, I think.”

He pulls me closer—the best he can do, since I’m already wearing his sweater. I’m immediately enveloped in that toasty warmth his body always welcomes me with, and the scent of his heartbeat is delicious in my nostrils. Lowe peers at me like he knows something’s off.

I brace myself for . . . I don’t know. Seeing Lowe reunited with his mate is something that requires preparation from me. I’ve sunk way too deep into this thing between us.

“I asked you to fuck it out.” Owen’s voice is flat and annoyed, but no more than usual. “And yet, here you are. Subjecting me to this.”

“Owen,” Lowe warns. His eyes linger on me for another instant, concerned, then flicker to my brother’s. “A pleasure.”

“Learn from Gabrielle and me,” Owen continues. “We live together at the Nest, but haven’t developed unnecessary feelings for each other or any kind of sexual attraction. We cultivate a relationship of mild collaboration at best, severe indifference on average.”

“Gabi.” Lowe’s nod is warm, cordial, surprisingly neutral.

She’s a beautiful woman, with glossy dark hair and the patient expression that people forced to deal with Owen for any length of time tend to acquire. She briefly dips her head, like all of Lowe’s seconds do when they see him. “Nice to see you, Alpha. Everything okay at home?” There’s affection and respect in the words. I read nothing else.

“For the most part.”

“Good to hear.” She gives me a curious look. Her eyes briefly dart down, and I don’t have to follow them to know they’re on Lowe’s and my joined hands.

A thought strikes me like a bolt—he might be using me to make her jealous. I let it poison my brain for a moment, then dismiss it. Lowe would never stoop to those kinds of plays.

“How lovely,” Owen says drily. “In significantly less wholesome news, no luck on the security footage outside Serena’s place yet. We were hoping to get a good view from the apartment complex in front of hers, but the cameras were tampered with.”

Lowe frowns. “Only for the date of the break-in?”

“Correct.”

I frown. “How?”

Owen shrugs. “What do you mean?”

“How did the tampering occur? Was it software? Hardware? Did they paintball the lens or trip the circuit breaker or cut the data cable?”

“I’m not certain. My guy did mention, but . . .” Owen waves his hand. “Technical witchcraft that nobody could understand aside, it’s clear that—”

“Jammers,” Gabi says, and smiles when I give her a surprised look.

“They disrupted the signal?”

“Likely used a radio frequency detector to figure out the broadcast.”

It’s the sophisticated way. The one someone with resources would use. Someone who works for powerful people and is looking for clues on the whereabouts of a journalist on the run. It would fit with Lowe’s theory, for sure. “Crafty,” I say.

“Right?” She grins. Owen and Lowe exchange a commiserating look. “I know this has nothing to do with me,” Gabi continues, “but Owen is the only person who’ll talk to me at the Nest. He told me about your friend, and I’m sorry that happened to you. I can’t imagine how hard it must be, the uncertainty.”

Her words are disorienting, because no one else has said them to me before. In my quest to find Serena, people have helped me, mocked me, dismissed me, nudged me, but no one has stopped to tell me they were sorry. A thick feeling rises to my throat. “Thank you.”