Chapter 62 Cracks in the Foundation
Chase's POV
I stood by, wanting to step in, but Wynter shot me a look that told me not to speak yet.
Anne's face went purple. "My father? This is about you poisoning Chase against me! You've turned him into your lapdog!"
"What am I guilty of besides being his mate?" Wynter challenged, but I heard the slight slur in her words, saw her blink hard like she was fighting to focus.
"You're nothing!" Anne spat. "A nobody who's convinced Chase to throw away everything for a broken bond that shouldn't exist!"
Her Alpha presence flared, filling the room with crushing pressure.
I watched Wynter stagger under it.
She took a step back, then another, her face draining of color.
My wolf snarled. I moved without thinking, my own Alpha presence surging to meet Anne's—not overwhelming her, but creating a barrier that absorbed and neutralized her attack. I caught Wynter as she stumbled, one arm wrapping around her waist.
She was trembling against me, and through the bond I felt not just the pressure from Anne, but a deeper exhaustion, a wrongness that went beyond the immediate threat.
"Enough," I said, my voice dropping into Alpha command. "You will not use your power against her. You will not touch her. And you will not blame her for murder."
Anne stared at us, shock and betrayal warring on her face. "Look at what she's made you into. You used to be strong, Chase. You used to know right from wrong. Now you're just her defender."
"Owen was murdered by Bloodrock operatives," I said coldly. "We know this. We had evidence before someone cleaned out his hiding spot last night."
"That's insane," Anne said, but I saw the flicker of doubt. "My father would never—"
"Wouldn't he?" Wynter's voice was quieter now, strained. "When did you last question what he does? Where he goes? Why Bloodrock's been stockpiling weapons?"
"You're paranoid," Anne shot back.
"Then prove me wrong," Wynter said. "Investigate. Ask questions. Look at the evidence instead of defending him blindly."
"I don't have to prove anything to you!"
"If I get proof your father ordered my father's assassination," Wynter pressed, "will you still defend him? Or will you admit you don't know him as well as you think?"
Anne's face twisted. "Stop. You don't know anything about my father. About what he's sacrificed—"
"I know he's a murderer," Wynter said flatly. "And every day you defend him, you're complicit."
For a long moment, Anne just stood there, trembling. I could see the war on her face—years of conditioning battling the seed of doubt Wynter had planted.
"You're trying to manipulate me," she finally said, but the words lacked conviction. "Turn me against my family with lies."
She turned toward the door, but Wynter's voice stopped her.
"Then ask him yourself. Go home. Look him in the eye. Ask if he ordered Arthur Vaughn's death. And really listen to his answer."
Anne's hand tightened on the doorframe, knuckles white. She didn't turn around.
"Why would I interrogate my own father based on your delusions?" But her voice was hollow.
"Because deep down, you already suspect I'm right," Wynter said softly. "That's why you're so angry."
Anne's shoulders tensed. Then she laughed—bitter and broken. "You want me to betray everything I know. All because you say so."
"If it's just tragedy, investigation will prove that," Wynter said. "But if you're too afraid to look..."
Silence. Then Anne walked out, her footsteps slower than they should have been, hesitating at the stairwell before continuing down.
The moment she was gone, Wynter swayed against me. I tightened my grip, feeling the tremors running through her body.
"We need to keep moving," she said, but her voice was faint.
"You need to rest," I countered.
"I'm fine, Chase." She pulled away from my support, standing on her own through sheer willpower.
"Medical examiner," she said. "We need to talk to the medical examiner."
---
The medical wing was in the basement of the administration building. Dr. Greeves looked up as we entered, his sharp eyes taking in our group.
"Chase Sterling," he said neutrally. Then his gaze shifted to Wynter and something softened. "You have your father's eyes."
Wynter's breath caught. "You knew my father?"
"I did. Arthur Vaughn saved my daughter's life five years ago. Negotiated her release when she was taken hostage in a border dispute." Dr. Greeves paused. "I owe him a debt I can never repay. Which is why I'm going to tell you something I shouldn't. Close the door."
I closed it, my heart rate picking up.
Dr. Greeves pulled out a file. "Officially, I can't share autopsy results. But your father saved my daughter, Miss Vaughn. So I'm going to tell you what I found. Then you leave, and we never discuss this again. Understood?"
"Understood," Wynter whispered.
Dr. Greeves spread photographs across his desk. Clinical images of Owen's body. "Owen Fletcher died of asphyxiation due to hanging. Time of death between 2:45 and 3:15 AM. All the classic indicators—ligature marks, petechial hemorrhaging, fractured hyoid bone."
"So suicide," Wynter said, and I heard the defeat in her voice. She was gripping the edge of the desk, her knuckles white.
"I didn't say that." Dr. Greeves pulled out another photo. "I found trace amounts of benzodiazepines in his system. A sedative. Not enough to knock him unconscious, but enough to make him sluggish, compliant."
Through the bond, I felt Wynter's surge of hope, followed immediately by a wave of dizziness that made her sway. I moved closer, ready to catch her if needed.
"He was drugged," I said.
"Possibly. The amount could be explained by legitimate medication. But Owen had no prescription." Dr. Greeves pointed to close-ups of Owen's neck. "The ligature marks are remarkably uniform. Too perfect. In real suicides, victims struggle, the rope shifts. But these marks suggest the rope was positioned expertly."
"Someone who knew what they were doing," Wynter said. Her voice was getting quieter, strained.