First Crime Scene

Aria 

I had many things to suggest when Kieran asked if I had any suggestions, but after three years of being a rogue hunter, I knew better than to just suggest to him immediately. So, I asked that he give me time to go over all the past killings. And that was why I stayed up all night, reading file after file. The killer was one meticulous motherf**er. 

I didn't even realize it was daybreak until I got a text from Kieran. 

Unknown: There's been another death at Alpha Davidson's residence. You should come and check it out. This is Kieran. 

How did he get my number? 

I took my time to get a shower and get dressed before I headed out. 

It was the smell that hit me first. Death and fear were thick in the morning air outside Alpha Davidson's house. If it were the old me, I'd have described how fear tasted, too, but I was different. I was no longer the girl that's afraid of death.  I pulled my leather jacket tighter as I walked up the gravel driveway, boots crunching with each step. 

Kieran was already there. Of course, he was.

He stood near the front porch, talking to a police officer. Even from behind, I recognized the way he held his shoulders—tense, controlled, and three years hadn't changed that about him. The same broad frame, the same dark hair that curled at the edges when he was stressed. Which, judging by the way he kept running his hand through it, he was.

"You're late," he said without turning around.

"Traffic." I kept my voice flat. Professional. "What do we have?"

The officer looked between us, sensing the tension crackling in the air like electricity before a storm. Smart man stepped back and let us work.

Kieran finally faced me. Dark circles under his green eyes. He looked tired. Good. At least I wasn't the only one losing sleep over this forced partnership. "Alpha Davidson. Found this morning by his housekeeper. No signs of forced entry."

"Inside?"

He nodded toward the door. "Fair warning. It's bad."

I'd seen bad. I'd seen worse. Three years of hunting rogues and supernatural criminals had shown me things that would make most people need therapy. But when we stepped into Davidson's living room, my stomach twisted.

The body was arranged on the hardwood floor with deliberate care. Arms spread wide, legs straight. Like he was sleeping, if you ignored the gash across his throat and the pool of blood that had soaked into the expensive Persian rug beneath him. But it wasn't the murder that made me pause.

It was the symbols.

Carved into the wooden coffee table with surgical precision. Burned into the walls with what looked like a branding iron. Ancient werewolf markings I'd only seen in old books buried in the back corners of supernatural libraries. The kind that predated modern pack structures by centuries.

"Have you seen these before?" I crouched next to the table, pulling latex gloves from my jacket pocket. The cuts in the wood were deep, deliberate. Whoever did this had taken their time.

Kieran joined me, careful not to get too close. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell his scent, pine and rain, and something uniquely his that used to drive me crazy. Still did, if I was being honest. "Some of them. They're old. Really old."

I pulled out my phone and took pictures from multiple angles. The symbols formed a pattern: a circle with lines branching out like a tree. Or veins. Or lightning. "This one here," I pointed to a marking near Davidson's head, "it means sacrifice."

"How do you..."

"I read." I stood up, walking the perimeter of the room. "A lot. Especially about things that can kill me. Occupational hazard."

The killer had been methodical. No rage, no passion. This was planned down to the smallest detail. The positioning of the body, the careful placement of each symbol, and even the way the furniture had been arranged around the scene. Someone with knowledge and patience.

"Davidson was strong," Kieran said, his voice rough. "Former military before he became alpha. Special Forces. He wouldn't go down easily."

I examined the victim's hands. No defensive wounds. No broken nails. No signs of struggle at all. "He knew his killer."

"What makes you say that?"

"Look around." I gestured to the room. Expensive furniture, family photos lined up on the mantle, everything in perfect order except for the body and symbols. A cup of coffee sat on the kitchen counter, still half full. Morning newspaper folded neatly beside it. "If someone broke in to kill him, there'd be signs of a fight. Davidson would have shifted, tried to defend himself. But he didn't. He let someone get close enough to do this."

Kieran walked to the mantle, studying a family photo. Davidson with his mate and two kids at a pack gathering. They looked happy. Normal. The kind of normal I'd never have. "So someone he trusted got close enough to..."

"To slit his throat before he could react." I finished the thought, examining the wound more closely. Clean cut. One smooth motion. "Someone who knows the pack hierarchy. Pack politics. Someone who understands how alphas think."

That got his attention. Green eyes locked on mine, and for a moment, I was twenty-two again, standing in his office while he told me I wasn't strong enough to be his mate. The memory hit like a physical blow, but I pushed it down. Not here. Not now.

"You think it's someone from the supernatural community."

"I think whoever did this knows exactly which alphas to target and why." I took more photos, documenting everything. The police had done their job, but they didn't understand what they were looking at. "These symbols aren't random. They tell a story."

"What story?"

I studied the markings again. Ancient wolf script was tricky, half pictogram, half runic alphabet. But I'd spent years learning to read it. Had to, in my line of work. Most supernatural criminals thought that using old languages would hide their tracks. They were wrong.

"Purification. Cleansing. Something about restoring balance." I traced one of the symbols with my finger, careful not to touch the burned wood. "This one here means corruption. And this," I moved to another marking, "means weakness."

Kieran went very still. "Weakness?"

"Yeah. Someone thinks the current alpha structure is corrupted by weakness. They're trying to fix it." I pocketed my phone and looked at him directly. "The question is, what do they consider weak?"

The silence stretched between us. I could practically see the wheels turning in his head, processing implications. He'd always been smart. Strategic. It's what made him a good alpha, even if it made him a terrible mate.

"Aria." His voice was softer now. Careful. "Some of Davidson's records are packed with business. Confidential."

I looked at him. Same face that used to make my heart race. Same green eyes that had looked right through me when he explained why I wasn't good enough. The ache in my chest was familiar, but distant now. Like an old injury that only hurt when it rained.

"Then I guess you need to decide what's more important," I said. "Pack secrets or dead alphas."

He held my gaze for a long moment. I could see him thinking, weighing options. Alpha training versus the reality of what we were dealing with. The political implications versus the body cooling on the floor.

"I'll get you the files," he said finally.

"Good." I headed for the door, then stopped. Something had been bothering me since I arrived. "Kieran? How long have you been here?"

"About an hour. Why?"

"And the police?"

"They called me right after they found the body. Standard procedure for supernatural crimes.

I nodded, but something didn't add up. "The housekeeper found him at seven-thirty. It's nine-fifteen now. That's not an hour."

His jaw tightened. "I got here early."

"How early?"

"Aria.."

"How early, Kieran?"

He ran a hand through his hair again. "I was already in the area."

"Doing what?"

"Driving. I couldn't sleep."

I studied his face to see if he was hiding something from me, but I couldn't tell. "Next time, don't assume I'm late because I'm careless. I was checking Davidson's perimeter for escape routes and watching patterns. The killer parks three blocks away and walks. Always approaches from the east side where the neighbor's hedge provides cover."

His eyebrows rose. "How do you know?"

"Because that's what I would do." I stepped onto the porch, breathing in the fresh air. The death smell was starting to get to me. "I'll be at the Marriott downtown. Room 412. Send the files there."

"Aria, wait."

I turned back. He was standing in the doorway, backlit by the morning sun streaming through Davidson's windows. It made his hair look auburn instead of brown, highlighting the sharp angles of his face. For a second, I remembered what it felt like to wake up next to him. To think I had a future.

"What?"

"Be careful. If you're right about this being personal, about the killer knowing pack politics..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Just be careful."

"I can take care of myself."

"I know you can. That's not what I'm worried about."

I wanted to ask what he was worried about, but I didn't. Couldn't. Because despite everything, despite three years of telling myself I was over him, part of me still cared what he thought. Still wanted to know if he worried about me.

"The files, Kieran. That's all I need from you."

I didn't wait for his response. But I felt his eyes on me as I walked to my car, felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. Professional distance. That's what this was. What it had to be.

Even if being this close to him still made my hands shake.

I drove three blocks and parked where I'd predicted the killer would. Sure enough, there were tire tracks in the soft earth beside the curb. Recent ones. I took photos, made notes. Old habits.

My phone buzzed. Text from Marcus: Second scene. Alpha Morrison. Same MO.

I stared at the message, my blood running cold. Morrison. The elder who'd been most vocal about my "unsuitability" as Kieran's mate. Who'd pushed hardest for the rejection?

This wasn't random. Someone was targeting the people involved in my past. Which meant Kieran was right to be worried.

But not about me.

About himself.