The scent of eggs sizzling in butter and something vaguely herby floated into Emery Vance’s bedroom, luring him from a restless sleep. He stirred, confused. The last thing he remembered was Callum Graves passed out on the couch, snoring like a wolf and mumbling about blood trails and handwriting analysis.

Dragging himself up, Emery padded out into the kitchen—only to stop in his tracks.

Callum stood by the stove, apron on, sleeves rolled, every motion smooth and meticulous. The kitchen was spotless. Emery had to blink. Counters sparkled. The spice rack was in alphabetical order. The sink had been dried with a towel. Even his cluttered fridge had been organized by expiration dates.

And Callum was plating an omelet like he worked at a five-star restaurant.

“...What the hell,” Emery muttered.

Callum didn’t turn. “Morning.”

“You—cooked?”

“Obviously.”

Emery wandered in, still blinking sleep from his eyes, and reached for his favorite fox-themed coffee mug. But it wasn’t in its usual spot.

After a few seconds of searching, his brow furrowed.

“Where’s my mug?”

“Top shelf,” Callum said casually. “It wasn’t in the correct place.”

“That was the correct place!”

Callum turned just enough to smirk. “Get used to it. Order reduces chaos.”

“You alphabetized my tea, Graves.”

Callum shrugged and slid a plate toward him. “You’re welcome.”

Despite himself, Emery sat down. The food was gorgeous—and tasted even better. The two ate in companionable silence, broken only by the occasional muttered curse from Emery when he burned his tongue on hot coffee.

They stood together later in front of the crime board, red strings zig-zagging between grainy photos, autopsy reports, and eerie handwritten messages. In the center: a blurry snapshot of a shadowed figure taken from a security camera near Amanda Carlisle’s apartment.

Her face stared back at them from the side—a proud Alpha woman, confident and radiant in life.

“She was the one in charge,” Callum murmured. “From what her partner said—she protected him. Did everything by the book. Loyal. Disciplined.”

“An Alpha who made enemies,” Emery said softly. “The killer doesn’t just hate. He mocks.”

They stood in silence until Emery broke it.

“Let’s talk to him today. Her mate.”

“Eric Carlisle,” Callum confirmed. “Five months pregnant. Currently in care at St. Lyricus.”

“Do we know how he’s doing?”

“Not great. Physically... holding on. Emotionally?” Callum exhaled. “Losing a bonded Alpha in pregnancy? That’s hell.”

St. Lyricus Omega Recovery Ward

The sterile hospital room was filled with a low hum from machines and the artificial warmth of diffused Alpha scent. But it wasn’t her scent. It wasn’t Amanda Carlisle.

Eric lay on the hospital bed, ghost-pale, his belly rising beneath the sheets like a fragile promise of something left behind. His fingers curled and uncurled, restless.

Beside him sat Victoria Sorrel, his sister. A strong Alpha, jaw set, protective. She eyed Callum warily as he entered but gave a small nod.

Emery stepped forward gently, his voice a calming balm. “Eric... I’m sorry. We don’t want to push, but anything you can remember—anything—might help stop this from happening again.”

Eric’s lips trembled. “She was... everything,” he whispered. “I still reach for her in the dark. I can’t smell her anymore... it’s like I’m drowning.”

Emery lowered his gaze, throat tightening. “I know it hurts.”

Eric continued, voice breaking. “We imprinted a week after finding out I was pregnant. I used to fall asleep wrapped in her scent. Now... it’s like she never existed. My skin itches. I can’t breathe. I can’t—”

Victoria moved to hold his hand, fierce and tender all at once.

Callum stood back, quiet, letting Emery guide.

“Eric,” Emery said softly, “before she died... did Amanda say anything odd? Did she feel like someone was watching her?”

Eric blinked slowly. “She... she said something felt wrong in the air. Like static. And—she smelled something. Not a person. Not an Alpha or Beta. Something… unnatural. Cold and sharp.”

Emery leaned forward. “Could you describe it?”

“Metallic. Like copper and burnt sugar. But sour underneath.” He hesitated. “Amanda called it ‘the scent of rot hidden in perfume.’”

Callum’s brow furrowed sharply at that.

“She said if something ever happened to her, I should stay away from shadows.”

That silence returned—heavy, grieving, laced with dread.

Outside the ward

Emery exhaled once they were out in the hallway. “That wasn’t a lot.”

“It was enough,” Callum said, already pulling out a notebook. “Rot hidden in perfume. Not human. Artificial scent masking something vile. And the shadow.”

Emery glanced back through the glass at Eric, curled on his side, pale against the sheets.

“Losing your Alpha like that... it’s like your body stops knowing what safety is. What warmth is.”

Callum didn’t speak for a long time. Then he murmured, almost too softly:

“I’ve seen that kind of grief before. It never really leaves.”

Emery looked at him, curious—but didn’t pry.

Instead, they walked down the corridor together in silence. Side by side. Closer than before.