Page 70 of Rogue Games

Except he’s not going to get the opportunity to try it. Jax has eyes on him and his wolf never loses its prey.

"You're not killing him, Dean. That's not going to improve our pack's image. You need to hand him over to Blake or his pack to deal with, intact and breathing." Lynn, always the voice of reason, is arguing for leniency.

Callum growls in disbelief. "He can't just get away with it. He tried to murder someone, Lynn."

Rationally, I agree with Lynn. If it was anyone but Jamie, I might be prepared to show restraint. But it was Jamie, and I’m not feeling particularly rational these days. Which brings me to the other problem that needs to be dealt with.

The little rogue.

Maya went to see her, and reported her to be in good spirits, if a little sour about being kept under lock and key. She was full of questions, apparently. Over a friendly cup of tea, she didn’t enquire about what was going on with the games, or Joel and Samuel, even once. All she wanted to know was about the pack, how things worked around here, what I was like as a leader, and whether Maya still saw her stepmother.

Subtle.

Annoying as it is, I applaud her tenacity. In fact, the more I see of her in action, the more I understand how we fit together. And the harder it is to imagine letting her go.

It’s more than just a physical connection.

Which is why as we sit in the packhouse office, Lynn and Callum discussing the logistics of handling the increased number of shifters for round two, I’m only pretending to listen.

Instead, out of the corner of my eye, I’m watching my computer screen, currently showing the live feed from the security cameras in my home. The home in which I’ve left Jamie unguarded, and where I suggested she make herself comfortable.

Except Jamie might be taking that too far.

As my friends debate sleeping arrangements, I'm watching Jamie, her dark hair still damp from the shower, snooping around my house. She resisted for a while, but with Maya gone, it now appears she’s on a mission.

Dressed in a pair of tight leggings and a vest top, she drifts barefoot from room to room, opening drawers, pulling out books and ornaments. Jamie picks up anything not nailed down and examines it like a detective looking for clues.

She’s not just perusing my belongings; she’s methodically searching every inch of the property. She’s trying to find something.

Jamie glances around, hypervigilant, constantly checking to see if she’s about to be disturbed. She has to know I’m going to find her scent in every corner of the house. This is daring, to say the least.

“Has Wyatt spoken about their family at all?” I ask, knowing the abrupt change of subject will arouse my friend’s interest.

Callum looks at me with barely concealed annoyance. There are more important things going on right now.

“Not really. But I did get through to their old alpha. Said their father died when they were young, attacked by rogues on border patrol.” I feel sick to the stomach. I’ve been calling her little rogue. “Then their mother moved away with her new mate. He said the pack got sick of them causing trouble and kicked them out.”

Turning them into the very thing they must have hated the most.

Their alpha’s story doesn’t ring true. Your pack is your family. When you go astray, they try to put you back on the right path, not cast you aside. Especially two kids with nobody else.

Jamie’s suspicion that their alpha decided to get rid of Wyatt before he grew stronger and challenged for leadership seems more likely.

“Sounds fishy. Find out more about the alpha.”

Callum nods. I’m adding to his already massive workload, but I don’t care. I need to know everything I can about Jamie. And anyone who’s wronged her.

I smile as I watch Jamie sit on the sofa, clearly frustrated at her lack of success. She puts her feet up on my coffee table and drums her fingers on the worn leather, shifting impatiently.

It’s unnerving, how much I like how Jamie looks sitting in my living room, and in my house. Except the woman can’t sit still for more than a minute, and she certainly can't relax. After yesterday, she should still be tired. Her body is still healing. Yet she looks completely wound up as she sits there, knee bouncing rapidly, eyes darting around the room.

She looks unhappy, and I know she’s going to do something reckless, even before she does.

Pushing back her dark hair, she sits forward, resting her elbows on her knees, deep in thought. I wish I knew what she was thinking. Or plotting.

Fuck, she’s beautiful, but like all the most attractive things in nature, she’s dangerous. Amused, I watch as she stamps on the ground hard and listens intently. She moves over and does the same, then goes back and compares the sound.

She’s too clever for her own good. It’s impressive and scary at the same time.

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