Page 25 of Rogue Games

Everything I hear about this man is a complete contradiction. Ava makes it sounds like he should be alpha of the year, where everyone else who meets him declares him abrupt or even downright rude.

Which is the real Dean Reynolds?

The man who just stormed out of the welcoming dinner is no teddy bear, no matter what Ava’s teenage crush might make her believe.

Scoffing, I turn away from where Ava disappears into the ballroom, tiptoeing past the turn for Dean’s office.

I make for the back of the house, curiosity driving me forward. My wolf is pushing me, hard, to keep searching. She wants to find out about this place as much as I do. And about who might still be trapped here.

As I drift from room to room, mentally matching each space with the layout I have burned into my brain, I note some changes. The older wolves I’ve asked about the packhouse, who visited before the pack was closed off from the outside world, recalled it being bright and airy.

Now decorated with dark wood and thick heavy drapes, that’s not how I’d describe it. The furnishings, once expensive and luxurious, look tired and dated. Only the large living room, obviously used regularly by the entire pack, has been redone in bright colours and comfortable seating. I pass a casual dining room and a giant kitchen, which seem to be the main rooms used in the house. Everything else has been left to age.

Poking around satisfies the itch I have to explore and see if it’s how I imagined, but it’s not telling me any more about the man himself. There’s very little of his scent anywhere other than the halls. Does he not spend time with his pack? Is he too aloof to hang out with them?

Wolves are pack animals; we crave that social connection. That’s why being a rogue is such a terrible thing. Often used as a punishment, it’s the equivalent to being handed a death sentence, because eventually most wolves are driven feral by the isolation.

Having Wyatt with me is the only way I’ve remained sane.

As I wander through the expansive house, breathing in every scent, I feel calmer and connected to my mother in a way I never have. But at the same time, new questions flood my mind. Our mum was so young when Graham Reynolds took her away, a single mother, a young widow with two small children and no money.

Was she impressed by the splendour of the place? This house must have been intimidating to a small-town girl like her.

Dean’s father had once been a wonderful alpha by all accounts before his breakdown. The pack was wealthy and well respected. Yet, our mother didn’t bring us with her when she left, even knowing she’d be taking on the role of stepmother to Dean and Maya.

What kind of mother leaves their children behind? And what kind of man keeps her from them?

Did he convince her that the rumours of his madness were nothing more than that? Did he promise her that leaving us was temporary and then never let her off his land again?

Or was she so enthralled by the treasured mate bond that she willingly ignored all the warning signs to try to bring her mate back from the brink of madness?

I’ll never understand what was going through her head. Unless I find her and speak to her.

Moving deeper into the bowels of the house, I leave the friendly open living spaces behind and slip from closed room to closed room. Storage closets. A dark, dusty library that looks like it’s rarely used. There’s a huge gym, one wall covered from ceiling to floor with mirrors, and fitted out with every conceivable piece of equipment. Dean’s scent is heavy here, along with his beta’s.

My knees wobble with the combination of his musky smell mingled with sweat. I can picture him in here, expression grim, as he works his body to exhaustion. Punishing himself

Next door is a medical clinic of some kind, basic in nature, but with two treatment bays all set up and fully stocked for the days ahead. No doubt, this room will see some action as the competition progresses. The smell of antiseptic makes it hard to distinguish any scents in here, but it doesn’t seem to be heavily used. Not like it probably used to be when Dean’s father was in charge.

Across from the treatment room is an office with four desks in the middle, all facing each other, and happy looking plants decorating the shelves, with a large ficus thriving in the corner. A smiling woman with a baby in her arms stares up at me from a picture frame on one desk. There’s a mug that says My favourite employee gave me this mug in hot pink. It sits in pride of place on a table that has Callum’s scent etched into it.

On the very next table, there’s a matching one that says, Not the worst employee, I guess.

I smile, then frown, confused, and my unease continues to grow. It all just seems so normal and mundane for a pack with such a poor reputation. I can’t work it out.

Before coming here, I expected everyone under Dean’s command to be afraid of him. Yet they stayed, even after his father was dead. Seeing personal touches on people’s desks, smiling photos and hints that they don’t actually hate it here is messing with my mind.

It doesn’t tally with the perma-scowling version of Dean I’ve witnessed so far.

Puzzled, I continue my search. Further down the hall, I find an adorable playroom, decorated in cheery colours with a giant mural of a running wolf pack painted on one wall. There are boxes spilling over with toys at one end, a library stacked with books, large foam playmats in the centre, and three small tables and chairs near a sink and fridge at the other.

The scent of pups has my ovaries fluttering. I don’t know why, but the idea that this pack has childcare stuns me more than anything else. Finger painted pictures hang pinned to a noticeboard, and even though it’s hard to see snooping with the lights off, I can tell one of the children has painted a picture of Dean. It must be him. Taller than everyone else, dark hair, wide shoulders. Except… frowning, I reach out and touch it. He’s smiling.

Huffing, I turn away. Kids really do have great imaginations.

Moving on, I find a few empty bedrooms, office supplies and a mudroom filled with rain gear and spare changes of clothing for shifting wolves. Spinning around in the doorway, I stare back down the corridor, perplexed. Is that it?

Nothing here suggests Dean, or his father, has a purpose-built torture chamber, a dungeon filled with lost souls, or a lab where they experiment on small fluffy animals. Or, at least not within the confines of the packhouse.

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