5. The Search In The Storm

Chapter 5: Search In The Storm

ROWAN’S POV

I woke to the scent of pine smoke still clinging to my sheets and the hollow throb where the bond used to live. Sunlight knifed through the curtains, too bright, too cheerful for the way my skin crawled.

My stomach growled, sharp, demanding, but the tray should have been here twenty minutes ago. Anya’s tray. Eggs over easy, bacon crisp, black coffee steaming. She knew the order by heart, had for two years, ever since the crash turned her into the pack’s favorite punching bag.

Cassandra stirred beside me, her blonde hair spilling across my pillow like spilled champagne. She stretched, the silk nightgown riding high on her thighs, and flashed that lazy, satisfied smile that usually made my blood run south. Today it grated like sand in a wound.

“I’m so hungry,” she purred, fingers tracing lazy circles on my chest, nails grazing just hard enough to sting. “Tell the little maid to hurry.”

I shoved her hand off and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The clock glared 7:48, red digits mocking me. Anya never ran late. Not once.

My wolf, Baron, paced behind my ribs, restless, claws scraping bone. Where is our mate?

The thought slithered in before I could crush it. I pictured her hesitating at the door last night, tears still wet on her cheeks after I shredded the bond. My fists clenched, knuckles whitening against the sheets. Was she still sulking? Was she testing me? The idea of her defiance sparked irritation, then something darker, worry I had no right to feel.

Cassandra rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin on folded arms, breasts spilling against the silk. “She’s probably crying in the pantry over your little birthday gift.”

Then it hit me. It was her 20th birthday yesterday and I had rejected her on her birthday. What the hell did you do, Rowan?

A fist pounded on the door, three sharp knocks that rattled the hinges like gunshots. My pulse spiked, Baron surging. Finally!

I strode across the room, my bare feet slapping the cold marble, muscles coiled to unleash hell.

“Come in,” I barked, already tasting the lecture I’d unload, make her scrub every inch of the kitchen until her hands bled for wasting my time, for making me wait, for making me care.

The door creaked open. It wasn’t Anya.

Mrs. Harrow, the head housekeeper, shuffled in, apron twisted in her gnarled hands like a lifeline. Her face was the color of spoiled milk, eyes wide and glassy, lips trembling. She never came upstairs. Not for spilled coffee, not for broken china, not for anything short of war. My stomach dropped through the floorboards.

“Alpha,” she rasped, voice cracking like dry leaves underfoot. “There’s… there’s a problem.”

I crossed the room in two strides, looming over her, heat rolling off me in waves. “What is it, Mrs. Harrow?”

Cassandra sat up, sheet clutched to her chest, watching with bored curiosity, one brow cocked like this was a play. Mrs. Harrow’s gaze flicked to her, then back to me, fear pooling deeper.

“It’s Anya, sir. She didn’t come down for morning duties. We sent Lila to check her room—”

“What about her room?” My voice came out guttural, Baron bleeding through, fangs itching behind my teeth.

Mrs. Harrow swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “The windows were smashed, there is. glass shattered everywhere, Alpha. There were traces of blood on the floor, it looks fresh. Her bed’s torn apart like a fight happened in there. She’s gone. Just… gone.”

The words hit like a sledgehammer to the sternum. My vision tunneled, edges going black. Blood on the floor. Gone. I shoved past the old woman, shoulder clipping the doorframe, wood splintering.

Cassandra’s voice chased me, “Rowan, wait!” high and shrill, but I didn’t stop. The bond scar in my chest burned, a live wire under my skin, screaming her name.

I took the stairs three at a time, servants scattering like startled birds, tray clattering. The servant’s quarters reeked of iron and fear, thick enough to choke on. Anya’s door hung open, splintered wood jutting like broken teeth. I stepped inside and the world tilted sideways.

The cot was shredded, stuffing spilled like guts across the floorboards. Glass glittered across the rug, catching the morning light in cruel, mocking sparkles. A smear of crimson streaked the windowsill, already drying to rust, thick and accusing. Her scent lingered, faint, terrified, mixed with something feral, rogue, wrong.

My knees buckled. I dropped, fingers brushing the blood. Still warm. Still hers. Baron roared, claws ripping free, shredding the mattress further in a blind frenzy.

Guards burst in behind me, breath ragged, eyes wide. “Alpha?”

“Send out search parties,” I snarled, rising, voice shredded. “Every inch of this territory must be turned upside down. Find Anya and bring her back here alive.” I commanded, my voice echoing off the stone wall.

Cassandra appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, lips curled in a sneer. “She probably ran off with a rogue just to get your attention. Just forget her Rowan.”

I whirled on her, vision red, Baron surging so hard my bones creaked. “Does this look like a stunt of a runaway to you, Cass?” I grabbed her wrist, fingers iron, twisting until she gasped. “Answer me!”

Her eyes widened, innocent as a doe, but I smelled the lie. “Rowan, you’re hurting me.”

I released her like she burned, my skin crawling. The memory of last night slammed into me, her hushed phone call when I came out of the bathroom, voice low and lethal; “Make sure it happens exactly as we planned. No mistakes.”

Ice flooded my veins, freezing the rage into something colder, sharper.

“Put the entire pack house on lock down,” I ordered the guards, voice lethal quiet. “No one leaves. Especially not her.” I jabbed a finger at Cassandra. She flinched, but her chin lifted, defiant.

I stormed out into the rain-slick courtyard, mud sucking at my boots, sky weeping like it knew. Trackers shifted mid-stride, wolves fanning into the forest, muzzles low. I followed the strongest scent trail, Anya’s fear sharp as broken glass, cutting my lungs with every breath. It led north, toward the cliffs, wind howling her name back at me.

The storm had washed most traces away, but I found it, snagged on blackthorn, a scrap of gray fabric, her maid’s dress, soaked through with blood, torn like claws had ripped it from her body. I pressed it to my face, inhaling her scent mixed with terror and rain, pine and copper and her. My knees buckled, mud soaking my jeans.

“Anya!” My roar echoed off the rocks, swallowed by the wind, raw and broken.

Below, the river churned white and furious, hungry. Rogue prints circled the cliff edge, deep, deliberate, mocking. They’d dragged her here. Pushed her. Or worse. My vision blurred, tears or rain, I didn’t know.

I clutched the fabric until my knuckles split, blood mixing with hers. Cassandra’s voice echoed in my skull; “Make sure it happens.”

Baron snarled, fangs bared to the storm. If she orchestrated this, if she touched one hair on Anya’s head, I’d gut her myself. And maybe I’d gut myself too for letting it happen under my nose.