VINCENT

I haven't slept since the gala three nights ago. Every time I close my eyes, I hear Lewis Thornfield's voice saying those two words that have been eating at me like acid: "My mate."

The bastard is wrong. He has to be wrong.

I'm reviewing the same quarterly report for the fourth time when James, my head tracker, knocks on my office door. The sharp scent of forest and exhaustion clings to him, telling me he's been running patrol all night.

"Come in," I call, grateful for the distraction ...