My heart's pounding when I get to the car, like I've just won a prize match. Or not a fight, really. A shedding. Something has come off me. Peeled away. I feel raw, but clean. Lighter. A little bit wild.

Before I turn the ignition, my fingers hover over my phone.

I want to ask. About the trust. The taxes. If Beau's father told him anything about the land title. If he remembers a signature, a name, a record buried somewhere in their own records. Part of me tells myself that this is all just strategy to beat Crestline, but I know I just want the excuse to hear his voice.

Though my wolf disagrees, I'm not going to resurrect anything between me and Beau. Not yet. Not now. But I can't ignore this opportunity to help them. I promised I'd fight for Beau. For his pack.

Hey, I type. Calling seems too personal, or rather the sound of his voice too tempting. Might have something for you guys. Heading to the country records office before I leave for vacation.

I read it twice. It's vague enough. Just a friendly check in.

Hope you're okay.

I stare at that last line a long time before I delete it. I hit send.

My phone stays silent. I didn't expect an answer.

The engine turns over quietly as I pull out and merge into traffic. Morning rush has faded into something softer: a slow churn of delivery vans and city works and tourists meandering. The afternoon traffic hasn't hit yet. My pulse hasn't caught up. Or slowed down, rather. I keep replaying the fight with Hughes, the heat of it, the clarity that came after.

I can't believe I just quit. I can't believe I worked there as long as I did. I can't believe I blackmailed Hughes. I wish I would have thought of it sooner.

The Teton County Administration Office is in a little squat building in one of the residential zones in town. No sweeping stair case or modern glass fronts—just faux-river rock and peeling paint, a handicapped parking sign, and flag flapping lazily in the wind. It's not my first visit. I brace myself for the smell of paper, dust, and municipal coffee before I push through the door.

Inside, a middle aged woman with tight curls and reading glasses perched on her head looks up from the counter. Her name tag reads DEBRA.

"Can I help you?"

I give her my best polite smile. "I was hoping to take a look at some land title records."

She raises a brow at my office attire. "You with a firm?"

"No, just... independent research. Environmental law project. Trying to trace historical ownership for a parcel that might be tied up in a trust."

She doesn't blink at that, just points to a clipboard on the counter. "Write down what you're looking for. Lot number, parcel name, any filings you think it might be under. We're in the process of digitizing the older records, but it's slow going. You might get lucky. Most of the more recent stuff is online already."

I write slowly, listing the parcel coordinates from Crestline's files, the Forrester family name.

Debra helps a grumbling man with an issue with his car title before she turns back to me. She hums as she types the information into her terminal, then frowns.

"Nothing recent, hun. Just a zoning reclassification filed by Crestline Development Inc. a few weeks ago."

"Any record of a previous owner?"

"Not in the electronic system. Doesn't mean it's not in the books though. Some of the older records haven't been scanned yet." She nods over her shoulder. "Basement's where we keep the paper records before scanning and shredding them. If you want to take a look, I can give you a temp badge."

I try to keep my voice even. "That would be great."

If Debra notices the strain in my posture, the obvious eagerness, she doesn't mention it. She just hands me a laminated badge on a fraying lanyard. "Stairs are down the hall. I can give you about twenty minutes before we close up."

I nod, my heart picking up again. Steady. Urgent. I'm silently begging that Crestline only checked the electronic records. That Cassie and whatever other paralegals have been helping on this case didn't do their due diligence and actually look for the physical copies. I begging that the title or evidence of it still exists.

The hallway is dim and the stairwell smells a bit like mildew. It's cooler down here. I can barely hear the quiet activity of Debra upstairs.

I breath in and out.

Somewhere in this basement, there might be a slip of paper—a signature, one filing—that proves Crestline didn't follow protocol. Intentionally or not doesn't matter. I promised Beau and that town hall full of hidden werewolves that the law would stand. That Crestline would be expected to follow it. And I'm going to see it through.

My wolf purrs in agreement.

I start to search.

The records room is choked with metal shelves, humidity-stained boxes, and the lingering scent of dust and mold. There's a flickering fluorescent light overhead and someone's taped a sign to the breaker panel: DO NOT TOUCH. EASILY STARTLED.

I leave the light alone.

Some of the boxes are labeled by year. Other by parcel number rangers. A few are just cryptically tagged with names with things like "misc. archival—pending" and "titles."

I grit my teeth and start with looking into the nearest box, trying to make sense of the filing system. There's something soothing about the search, however, despite the sense of urgency chewing at the edges of me. The soft rustle of paper. The whisper of my own breath. My fingers are quick as I flip through the manila folders and the smeared carbon copies.

File after file. Box after box.

Nothing.

I check the clock on my phone. Thirty-five minutes gone. No one's come looking for me. The fluorescent bulbs flicker overhead. Maybe Debra's giving me some extra time.

Still, I don't stop. I push deeper into the stacks. The lights dim slightly with each row. I pass a rusted cart piled with disorganized folders. An abandoned coffee cup sits atop one of them, long dried.

"Come on," I breathe. "Just give me something."

I sift through years of county history. Land transfers. Deed exchanges. Re-zoning. Federal adjustments. It seems like an impossible task, looking for this needle in a needle-stack. The afternoon sun sends shafts of golden light through the tiny basement windows.

A long, narrow drawer toward the back of the room—warped with age and stuck on one side—gives away with a metallic groan. Inside are leather-bound ledgers and heavy folders, brittle at the edges. One is labeled in faded ink:

PRIVATE LAND TRUSTS - TETON COUNTY (1937-1950)

Most of the documents inside are yellow, fraying. Scrawled in fountain pen with ink stains. Halfway through the stack, nestled between two unrelated filings, I find it.

Forrester, William J — Land Stewardship Trust

Filed: April 4, 1944

Description: 213 acres of forested and lakeside land north of Moran, Wyoming, bordered by the Teton Wilderness and the Snake River

Purpose: to be held in perpetuity by the Forrester bloodline for conservation purposes, protection of wildlife migration corridors, and culture heritage. This land is not to be sold, subdivided, developed, or otherwise transferred without consent of successor trustee as outlined herein

Filed with the Teton County Clerk, signed and stamped with a wax seal.

My pulse spikes. This is it. This is what Crestline didn't find. I flip the page and find something even more damning.

A second document.

Stuck behind the original trust.

Reaffirmation of Original Trust Authority — Logan Forrester

Filed: February 18, 1988

I hereby reaffirm and attest the active stewardship of the parcel identified in the 1944 trust, located north of Moran, WY, in accordance with the original Forrester conversation trust. This land has neither been ceded nor abandoned, and remains protected until original intent.

Logan A Forrester.

I can't help but read it aloud. As if speaking the words will prove that they're real. I laugh. It was misfiled. Half-folded behind the original documentation. Never scanned. Never entered into the current digital record. It would have been easy to miss, unless someone knew exactly what they were looking for.

I stare at it. My hand shakes as I pull out my phone and snap photo after photo. Every page. Every signature. Every stamp and seal.

This changes everything.

At the same time, a few things become perfectly and achingly clear. This is how I help the pack. It doesn't matter that I have half of a mating bond. It doesn't matter that I can't shift. It doesn't even matter that I dropped out of law school. Rhea Dawson doesn't need any of it. She's going to protect this pack with good old fashioned diligence.

Heavy footsteps descend the staircase. The lights flicker—then go dark.

With a sudden twist of dread, I realize that Debra never came to get me. It's well past closing. She forgot I was here.

A groaning current hums before the lights snap back on.

My wolf bristles with warning.

I am not alone.