Patrick York’s house, a log cabin A-frame, was easy to spot—the drive was shoveled, and smoke rose from the chimney.
We parked a hundred feet down the road, got out of the car, and looked at each other.
“If he’s got the crown, he’ll want to keep it. We should be prepared for a fight.”
Jeff nodded. “You bring a weapon?”
“I am the weapon.”
He gave me a cutting look.
“Blades,” I said. “Just in case, I have my blades.” I had two daggers, engraved and gorgeous, tucked inside my boots. “You?”
“Same.” He zipped up his leather jacket, nodded, and we trekked back to the cabin in the woods. As we walked, snow began to fall, large and beautiful flakes that quickly covered the ground in a fluffy white quilt.
We reached the end of the driveway and paused at the mailbox.
“I don’t see a backdoor,” Jeff said. “Either he’s going through a window, or he’s coming with us.”
I nodded and turned to walk toward the door, but Jeff grabbed my hand before I could move. A bolt of lust and magic speared through me, followed immediately by a wave of regret.
“Be careful,” he whispered, releasing my hand and falling into step beside me.
Patrick York opened the door in a T-shirt and jeans, a white kitchen towel in hand. The smell of breakfast—bacon, eggs, cheese—wafted through the room.
It took my brain a moment to catch up. What kind of thief started cooking after stealing a crown?
Patrick beamed at me, surprise in his eyes that faded to suspicion when he caught sight of Jeff.
“Fallon. What are you doing here?”
“Patrick, this is Jeff Christopher. He’s a member of the NAC and a friend of the family’s. Can we come in? We need to talk. It’s Pack business.”
He looked confused, and rubbed his hands on his towel before moving aside to let us in. “Sure.”
We stepped inside, and Jeff closed the door behind us. The interior of the cabin was pretty, the hewn-wood walls exposed, the furniture made of logs and covered in plaid fabrics. Fishing equipment hung on the walls beside antique posters advertising vacations on the Great Lakes.
Patrick put the towel on a table and crossed his arms. “What’s this about, exactly?”
“We don’t have time to be subtle, so I’m going to get to it. The crown is missing. The evidence suggests you took it.”
The weight of the accusation seemed to actually push him, and he took a step backward, his gaze switching between me and Jeff. “I’m sorry—you think I stole the crown? The Pack’s crown?”
“Did you?” Jeff asked, with hostility he hadn’t bothered to mask.
“No, I didn’t.” He looked at me. “I told you I had no interest in the crown. And I sure as shit wouldn’t steal something that didn’t belong to me. Is this because we talked about the initiation?”
“It’s because we have video of you coming back to the house. Breaking in, and then leaving again.”
Patrick closed his eyes and was quiet for a very long moment. “Damn it,” he finally said. “I knew that was going to cause trouble. Knew it, and ignored my instincts.”
He gestured toward a set of coats and jackets that hung on the opposite wall, and at my nod, walked to the black jacket he’d worn last night. He reached into the pocket, and pulled out a pair of leather gloves.
The same leather gloves he’d taken off when he’d first arrived at the house.
“I must have dropped one, and didn’t realize it until we’d nearly gotten into the city. They were my father’s, and I didn’t just want to leave it there.” He looked at me apologetically. “I just thought it would be easier if I didn’t wake anyone.”
So he didn’t have to see me again, he meant.
Jeff didn’t care about the reason; he wasn’t buying the excuse. “So you maintain you came back to the house and broke in to retrieve a leather glove.”
Patrick glared at Jeff. “I don’t maintain it. That’s exactly what I did.”
“According to our video, you’re the only one who came into the house or left,” I said.
“And you have cameras on every door and window?”
I glanced at Jeff, who shook his head. “Just the front door.”
“There you go. I may have been the only one in and out of the front door, but clearly someone else came in and out of the house. Look, I’m sorry the crown’s missing. I’m sure that creates a political shit-storm for your family. But you’ve got the wrong guy.” He gestured to the room. “Do I look like I’m getting ready to take over the Pack? Does this look like I’m getting ready for a coup d’etat? I’ve got food in the oven, for god’s sake.”
“What about this?” I pulled the scrap of velvet from my pocket, held it in my outstretched palm.
He leaned forward to look at it. “I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s from the cushion that held the crown,” Jeff said.
“And what’s that’s got to do with me?”
“It was in your hotel room at the Meridian.”
“My hotel”—he began, then trailed off. A flush darkened his cheeks. “Ah. This is . . . awkward.” He cleared his throat, looked at me apologetically. “When I got back to the hotel, I had a drink at the bar. I met someone. I didn’t plan on meeting someone, but it happened.” He paused. “I didn’t go back to my room, if you know what I mean.”
I was going to start referring to the last twenty-four hours as the Night of a Thousand Humiliations.
Jeff, however, wasn’t humiliated. He was pissed. “You reject Fallon Keene and then go off with some bar skank?”
We both turned to stare at Jeff.
“Jeff.”
“What? I don’t care if he’s a York or Keene or Old McDonald. He needs to learn some damned chivalry.”
Patrick had at least eighty pounds on Jeff, but that didn’t stop Jeff from taking a menacing step forward.
“Whoa,” Patrick said, lifting his hands. “You’ve got the wrong idea. Fallon’s the one who wasn’t interested, not me.”
Jeff’s brows perked up. “Oh?”
“Hey, idiots, we have a missing crown,” I reminded them, ignoring the sudden grin on Jeff’s face. “Can we get back to that?”
Patrick looked at me. “The point is, I wasn’t in the room.”