Chapter 185
Blake
Jasper sank into the rickety chair, the wood groaning under his weight as he reached for a rust-stained metal box beneath a stack of folders. When he pried it open, the hinges screamed, revealing yellowed letters in plastic sleeves—preserved like holy relics.
"It started ten years ago," he began, his voice carrying the weight of a story rehearsed a thousand times but never told. "Connor and Celeste discovered Eclipse Court was hunting them. They'd made the mistake of using Konstantin's network to disappear, not realizing he was already Court's puppet."
He pulled out a letter with shaking hands. "They knew they couldn't run with Kara. She was eight, terrified, slowing them down. Court wanted Celeste specifically—for her bloodline, for the blood magic she carried. Connor realized if they kept Kara, Court would catch all three. But if they left her somewhere Court had already written off as irrelevant..."
"They could make Court think she wasn't worth pursuing," Asher finished, his ebony scent sharpening.
"Exactly." Jasper's voice cracked. "So they staged their deaths. Bought two bodies from a black market morgue—homeless wolves, already dead from exposure. Set up a scene in a cheap motel, made it look like an overdose. Left Connor's wallet, Celeste's jewelry. Made identification easy."
Through our bond, I felt Cole's medical mind filling in the horrible details—decomposition rates, the lack of DNA testing if physical markers matched.
"Connor told me Victoria was desperate to believe her brother was free of Celeste's influence," Jasper continued, tears tracking down his gaunt face. "That she'd accept any evidence confirming what she wanted to believe. Marcus wanted it cleaned up fast before it damaged the pack's reputation. They cremated the bodies within forty-eight hours."
The calculated cruelty of it made my wolf snarl. Connor and Celeste had weaponized Victoria's prejudice and Marcus's pride to create a believable death.
"They watched their own funeral from a distance," Jasper whispered. "Watched Victoria take Kara inside. Connor said that was the hardest moment of his life—seeing his daughter's face when she realized they were really gone. He wanted to run to her, but Celeste held him back. If they revealed themselves, Court would kill all three."
"So they left her to suffer," I said flatly. "Left her to be treated like garbage for ten years."
"They were protecting her!" Jasper's voice rose. "Connor made Victoria promise to treat Kara like family. He trusted his sister to keep that promise."
"Victoria lied," Asher said, his Alpha authority making Jasper flinch. "Whatever promises she made, she broke them all. Kara got a storage closet to sleep in. She was worked like a servant from age eight. Bullied by everyone who should have protected her. That's the 'protection' your friend's plan provided."
Jasper's hands shook as he stared at the letters. "He didn't know. Connor asked about her every time we communicated. Every letter, every call—he'd ask if Kara was okay, if Victoria was treating her well. I always told him what Victoria told me to say—that Kara was fine, treated like family, safe and cared for. I never questioned it."
Through our bond, I felt Asher's rage spike at our mother's systematic deception, felt Cole's grief imagining Kara's loneliness.
"How did you communicate?" Asher demanded. "And when was the last verified contact—not a letter that could be forged, but actual proof Connor was alive and free?"
Jasper's hands resumed their anxious rubbing. "Early years, Connor arranged in-person meetings every few months. Different locations, elaborate counter-surveillance. He taught me how to spot tails, use burner phones, communicate through coded newspaper ads. But five years ago, meetings got too risky. We switched to written correspondence through mail forwarding services."
He spread out envelopes bearing different postmarks. "Connor would send a letter to one city, forwarded to another state, eventually reaching a P.O. box I maintain under a false name. The chain could take weeks, but it was nearly impossible to trace. He'd change the pattern every few months."
"Nearly impossible," Dmitri repeated, his silver eyes narrowing. "But not completely. Not for an organization with Court's resources."
Jasper went pale. "You think they've been intercepting the letters?"
"I think it's possible," Asher said grimly. "If Court planned Kara's abduction for months, they'd want intelligence on her parents. Compromising your communication would be logical."
"But the codes," Jasper protested weakly. "Connor always included authentication codes only we know—personal references, inside jokes, childhood memories. The letters were genuine."
"Blood magic can extract memories," Dmitri said quietly. "If Court captured Connor and Celeste, subjected them to interrogation... they could extract every memory, every code. Map his neural pathways, analyze his handwriting. Create a blood puppet so perfect even his closest friend couldn't tell the difference."
Through our bond, I felt the horrifying implications settling in. If Connor and Celeste had been in Court's custody for months, if every letter was from a puppet...
My wolf surged forward, my vision tunneling. What if they were doing the same to Kara right now? Creating a replacement while the real her suffered alone?
Blake. Asher's command crashed through our bond. She's real. The Kara we know is real. The mate bond doesn't lie. What we feel for her is genuine. Stop torturing yourself with maybes and focus on what we can control.
But the fear wouldn't release its grip. What if we were already too late?
"Show me the last letter," Asher commanded. "The one from three months ago, before Kara's birthday."
Jasper extracted an envelope with trembling hands. The postmark read Fairbanks, dated one week before Kara's eighteenth birthday.
Asher read aloud:
"J—Everything proceeds according to plan. K comes of age next week. Maintain absolute distance—any contact now could compromise her safety. Court activity increasing in the region. They suspect something but haven't confirmed our survival. Once their current operation concludes, we can finally emerge. Tell no one. Trust no one. Protect the secret until it's safe. —C"
"Court activity increasing," Cole repeated. "That suggests Connor knew something was happening."
"The letter mentions Court's 'current operation,'" Dmitri observed. "That implies intelligence about their plans. Either he had a source inside Court, or..."
"Or he was already captured when this was written," I finished hollowly. "They fed him just enough real information to sound credible while using him to keep Jasper complacent."
Jasper made a choked sound. "No. The codes were perfect, exactly how he would have—"
"If Court had him," Dmitri interrupted gently, "if they threatened Celeste, Connor would write anything they demanded. He'd use every authentication marker perfectly because Court would have extracted those details first."
Through our bond, the picture crystallized with sickening clarity. Court captures Connor and Celeste three months before Kara's birthday. Extracts information about her routines, our relationships, pack security. Creates puppets to maintain the illusion of safety. Uses the real Connor to write one final letter with authentic codes.
Then waits for Kara to turn eighteen. Waits for the perfect moment when we're distracted by guilt and attempts at redemption.
And strikes.
"The handwriting," Jasper said suddenly, grabbing the letter. "Connor's hand was always firm, confident. But this one..." He squinted. "The pressure's lighter. More hesitant. Like his hand was shaking, or he was being watched."
The observation sent ice through my veins. We'd all been trained to spot deception. We knew what writing under duress looked like.
"If Connor was captured when he wrote this," Asher said slowly, "Court's had him three months. Three months to extract information, create puppets, plan Kara's abduction."
"Three months to learn everything about us," Cole added bitterly. "Our schedules, security, blind spots."
The weight of our failure crushed down on me. We'd been so consumed by guilt, so desperate to prove we'd changed, that we'd missed every warning sign.