Page 62 of The Runaway Mate

Jem and I sat in a corner booth of a nondescript highway diner. The droning of a worn-out jukebox in the background, along with the occasional clatter of diner staff and the distant symphony of crickets outside, were the only sounds right now. The sunlight cast long shadows that mirrored the growing unease in my gut. Derek was hidden outside, guarding us against the possibility that this was a set-up. He’d warn us if Michael arrived with an army. Though, at this rate, I was betting Michael was a no-show; he was twenty-five minutes late.

With Sam and Mason still tracking Seth, and not knowing who in the enforcers we could trust, we’d left Mai at the house with Sofia, Jase, and Wally. They had strict instructions to lock the doors, not go out, and not answer anyone who came by. Jem, Derek and me were going to check out Brock’s meeting after seeing Michael. Though, if we wanted to make it to Brock’s meeting, we had to leave in the next fifteen minutes.

“Jem, he’s not coming.”

As if in answer, the door swung open, and in walked Michael. His dark eyes were sharp, scanning the room, locking onto us. Right behind him was Tristan Heller. Tristan was a towering figure, broad-shouldered and muscular, his shoulder-length brown hair pulled back in a tight plait. His hazel eyes flicked around the room before settling on me.

Interesting. We would need to wrap this up quickly if Tristan was going to make his meeting with Brock.

“Jem. Ryan.” Michael nodded to each of us as he sat down. “Do you know Tristan?”

Tristan held out his hand, and we both shook it.

“Please to meet you both,” he drawled, though he looked anything but pleased.

“My apologies for our lateness. We got held up on another matter. Thank you for waiting.”

Jem didn’t say anything; just continued to look at Michael, waiting to hear what he had to say.

“I asked for this meet firstly to discuss your wolf Carson.”

“Michael,” I began, “these allegations… Even you must see that they don’t seem right.”

His response was immediate and gruff. “Easy for you to say, Ryan. You’re not dealing with the fallout or telling those men’s families how they died. They want justice. I want justice.”

I took a sip of my coffee, the bitter taste grounding me, focusing my thoughts.

Jem interjected, his normally light tone replaced with an uncharacteristic edge. “I know that you have always relied on evidence, on facts. Not hearsay, emotions, or assumptions. Carson deserves the same.”

Michael’s mouth twisted into a grimace, seemingly mulling over Jem’s words. “I talked to Eddie. He told me about my enforcers. Unfortunately, they’ve gone AWOL, and I haven’t been able to track them down yet to get answers.”

He sounded angry. Furious, even. It couldn’t be easy for him to admit he’d lost some of his enforcers.

Tristan leaned forward. “That doesn’t mean we believe you. You’re right. We do rely on evidence, but we haven’t seen any that Carson is innocent. Besides, Eddie told Michael you scented another one of your wolves on the note he found. So, even if it wasn’t Carson, it was someone else from your Pack. You’ve got a man-eater who is using our territory as an all-you-can-eat buffet.

“Everyone knows how weak you are. You can’t keep your Pack in line. Hell, you can’t even keep your own mate from cheating. You’re letting down your Pack, and now your fuck-ups are bleeding into our territory.”

Jem went still. It was not a good sign. I’d seen it before, right before Jem had ripped the person’s throat out. What the fuck was going on? Was Tristan trying to start a fight right here between our two Packs?

I tensed, ready to launch myself in front of Jem if Tristan or Michael made a move, but Michael placed his hand on Tristan’s forearm.

“I apologize for the words of my Beta. He is keen to find the murderer of our men. But I called you here not just to talk about Carson. I suspect there is a plot against both of our Packs.”

A jingle sounded at the diner’s entrance. I turned to see who the newcomer was. Surprise ran through me when I recognized the person stepping through the door—it was Shya, Michael’s daughter.

She was a striking figure, with an aura of strength of someone much older than her twenty years. The light streaming in from behind her cast her curly auburn hair in a fiery halo, and her large, almond-shaped emerald eyes, identical to her father’s, sparkled with determination.

Tristan looked and smelled furious, but a strange mixture of emotions flickered across Michael’s face—surprise, concern, anger. “Shya? What the hell are you doing here?”

Ignoring her father, she leveled a serious look at Jem. “We need to talk.”

Derek stalked in the door and headed for us. “Our phones have been jammed. No communications in or out. I can’t tell where it’s coming from. We need to leave, but you have to listen to Shya, Jem, to what she has to say.”

I looked sharply at Michael. Was this all a set-up?

Michael pulled out his phone and pushed some buttons. “It isn’t us. My phone’s jammed, too.”

He stood up and grabbed Shya’s arm. “We need to go.”

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