The minutes between sending that message and hearing footsteps in the corridor stretch into small eternities.
I use the time to splash cold water on my face, to press a damp cloth against my swollen eyes, to breathe through the ragged edges of my composure until something resembling calm settles over me like borrowed armor.
The porcelain shards still litter the carpet near the wall, evidence of my breakdown that I cannot bring myself to clean.
When the door opens, both brothers enter together—Paul first, his presence filling the room with barely contained energy, Zane close behind with concern etched across his features.
"What happened?" Paul crosses to me in three strides, his hands finding my shoulders, his eyes scanning my face for injury. "You're shaking, Morgan. Tell me who hurt you."
The irony of the question nearly breaks me.
"I need to tell you both something." My voice comes out steadier than I expected, the words I've rehearsed during my brief window of solitude falling into place.
"About Sarah. About what she's always been doing. And I need you to listen to everything before you react."
Zane positions himself near the window, his body angled toward the door as if expecting threats to materialize from the corridor.
Paul remains close, his hands sliding from my shoulders to cup my face with a gentleness that contradicts the storm I can see building in his eyes.
"Tell us," he says quietly.
So I do.
I tell them about Sarah's cruelty—the years of torment disguised as discipline, the casual humiliations delivered with a smile, the systematic destruction of my dignity that she conducted like an artist perfecting her craft.
I tell them about the photograph I found, the one that proves Sarah's affair with a man whose name I carefully omit. I tell them about the documents I've gathered.
And I tell them about Ricky.
"She followed us to the safe house." The words scrape past the tightness in my throat. "She must have tracked Paul's car or had someone watching the suburban roads. When Ricky went back to pack her things, Sarah was waiting. She has her now, being held somewhere, and she showed me photographs to prove it."
Paul's hands fall away from my face.
The transformation that overtakes him is terrifying in its completeness—warmth draining into cold fury, concern hardening into something predatory and absolute. His eyes flash with amber light, his wolf pressing against the surface.
"She touched someone under my protection." His voice comes out low, dangerous, barely human. "I'm going to kill her, Morgan. I'm going to tear out her throat and leave her body for the crows."
"No." The word escapes before I can stop it, and I grab his arm with desperate fingers. "Paul, you can't. I need her alive."
"Give me one reason." The demand carries Alpha authority that makes my knees want to buckle. "One reason why I shouldn't end this right now."
"Because she's the only one who can prove I didn't kill my mother."
The confession lands between us with devastating weight.
Paul goes still, his fury colliding with comprehension, and I watch him struggle to reconcile his protective rage with the implications of what I'm asking.
"My father believes I poisoned my mother," I continue, forcing steadiness into my voice. "He's believed it for eleven years because the evidence pointed to me and no one thought to question it. But Sarah was there that day. And if she dies before she confesses, I remain a murderer in the eyes of my own pack forever."
"She's right." Zane moves closer, his voice measured despite the tension radiating from his posture. "Killing Sarah without a confession only trades one problem for another. We need her to admit what she did, preferably in front of witnesses who can carry the truth back to Alpha Richard."
Paul's jaw works silently, muscles flexing beneath his skin as he battles the instinct to destroy the woman who has threatened everything he loves.
The struggle is visible—every line of his body screaming for violence while his mind processes the strategic necessity of restraint.
"The photograph," he finally says, his voice rough with suppressed rage. "You said you have proof of her affair. Show me."
I cross to my bag and retrieve the polaroid from the inner pocket where I've kept it hidden for weeks. The image feels fragile in my fingers.
Paul takes it carefully, his eyes scanning the frozen moment—Sarah and her lover captured in an embrace that leaves no room for innocent interpretation.
His expression cycles through recognition, disgust, and a particular kind of wounded pride that I wasn't expecting.
"She made me believe—" He stops, swallowing whatever confession was about to emerge. "It doesn't matter what she made me believe. What matters is ending this."
"We need a plan." Zane positions himself at my other side, creating a triangle of solidarity that makes me feel less alone than I have in months.
"Sarah won't confess willingly, and we don't know where she's holding Ricky. Rushing in without information gets the human killed and Sarah claiming self-defense."
The logic is sound, even if every instinct I possess screams to act immediately.
"How did she get in here?" I ask, my gaze drifting to the door that Sarah appeared through earlier. "There's an adjoining room she used. She walked through like she had every right to be there."
Paul and Zane exchange a glance that carries complicated history.
"Our grandmother's private study," Paul says quietly. "She used it for correspondence and pack records that she didn't want our grandfather accessing. The room has been locked since her death, but Sarah must have found where the keys are kept."
"Grandmother was paranoid about her privacy," Zane adds, a ghost of fondness softening his features. "She had the walls lined with lead sheeting to prevent anyone from listening through them. We used to joke that she was hiding state secrets in there."
The detail strikes me as both absurd and fitting—a room designed for secrets, used by a woman who understood that privacy sometimes meant survival.
"Lock both doors after we leave." Paul cups my face again, his thumb tracing across my cheekbone with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. "Don't open them for anyone except us, and don't leave this room until we return."
"Where are you going?"
"To find Ricky." Zane's voice carries quiet determination. "I tracked you across three counties. Finding one warehouse shouldn't take long."
"And Sarah?" I ask, hating the tremor that creeps into my voice.
"Sarah will be dealt with." Paul presses a kiss to my forehead, lingering for a moment that feels like a promise. "But not until we have your friend safe and evidence that will stand up to Alpha scrutiny. I won't let her escape justice, Morgan. Not for what she's done to you."
The door closes behind them.
I cross the room and turn the lock, listening to the mechanism click into place with a finality that feels like both protection and imprisonment. Then I do the same for the study door, sealing myself inside my grandmother-in-law's sanctuary of secrets.
The silence that follows presses against my eardrums, thick and expectant.
'Now we wait,' Nireya observes, her presence coiling restlessly through my consciousness. 'I hate waiting.'
"So do I," I whisper to the empty room. "So do I."
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