Jameson gently shifted his gaze from Michael to me before saying once more, "Widders."
This time he said it slowly.
"That name… I've heard it before."
Michael stood beside me wearing his usual blank expression, but I could see the discomfort beneath it. I felt it too.
I didn't react. Instead, I took a step forward and said calmly, "And where exactly did you hear it?" I asked, watching his expression closely, studying his demeanor.
Surprisingly, it revealed very little.
Jameson shrugged, dipping his hands into his pockets. "Old records. Places people don't usually look ."
His eyes shifted back to Michael. "Didn't expect to hear it here."
"It's just a name," Michael replied flatly, his tone giving nothing away.
Jameson smiled, but it wasn't the same smile he had given me earlier during the meeting. This one didn't reach his eyes.
"Names usually are."
I felt it then.
Not fear.
Not panic.
Recognition.
Recognition of something connected to us, but not exactly of us.
"Armstrong," he said next, his gaze settling on me. "Now that's a common name."
His dismissal told me one thing. He knew nothing about Armstrong. His interest lay elsewhere. With the name Michael and my mother shared.
"If you don't mind," I said, adjusting the strap of my bag, "we're busy."
Jonathan didn't step aside immediately. Instead, he smiled faintly, not amused, not threatening.
"You joined the Historical Research Association," he said casually. "That's not something most people do by accident."
My pulse remained steady. "Neither is curiosity."
For a moment, he looked like he might say more. Then he stepped back, hands lifting slightly in surrender.
"Come on, let's go," Michael said quietly, snapping me out of my thoughts.
Jameson stepped aside, clearing the pathway. "I'll see you both around, then."
We walked out of the library, into the hallway. I resisted the urge to look back.
"He knows something," Michael said, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
I was still unsettled by the fact that he knew anything at all. He hadn't struck me as a complicated person, not even the first time we met.
"Yes," I replied just as quietly as we moved through the halls, students passing us, laughing and talking, making it nearly impossible for anyone to hear.
"But not about you," Michael added.
"Not yet."
Later that evening, I returned to the library, this time alone.
Michael had a few things to take care of, which left me to continue the investigation by myself.
I came back under the excuse of retrieving additional materials.
After presenting my ID and gaining access, I made my way toward the section I had accessed earlier.
That was when I noticed it.
The record was gone.
Not missing.
Removed.
The shelves were still there. The rows were still numbered. Everything appeared intact, yet something was wrong.
"This isn't how it was," I murmured under my breath.
I ran my fingers along the spines, my movements slow and deliberate. The section Michael had accessed earlier had been rearranged. Not carelessly.
Intentionally.
Books had been shifted. Gaps closed. Titles reordered.
"It's been cleaned," I said quietly, one brow lifting as suspicion settled heavily over me.
Someone had come back after us.
And not just anyone.
This wasn't the work of a student browsing out of curiosity. Whoever did this knew exactly what to move—and more importantly, what to leave behind.
I left the library quietly, my thoughts heavy and unsettled.
The campus felt louder than before, crowded with students moving freely, laughing, arguing over things that didn't matter. To them, nothing had changed.
To me, everything had.
I could feel it.
It wasn't a scent or a sound. It was awareness. The subtle prickle at the back of my neck that told me eyes were on me, even when I couldn't see them.
I left the campus deep in thought and returned to the wolf realm, my mind heavy with questions.
Along the way, I caught fragments of conversation. Low voices. Uneasy tones. Whispers about the low-rank pack member who had been attacked.
The injured wolf had been moved to a guarded wing.
Access restricted.
By the time I reached home, exhaustion weighed on me. My father was standing with the elders, speaking in serious, hushed tones. The moment I stepped into the room, the conversation died.
That alone wasn't strange. Private matters were common.
What unsettled me was the way my father avoided my gaze. The way questions went unanswered before they were even asked.
The attack didn't make sense.
The lack of information made even less.
A strong attacker.
No scent.
No claim.
No witnesses.
I finally retreated to my room and sank onto the couch, the silence pressing in around me.
Something was wrong.
And whatever it was, it wasn't finished.
I had had a long day, but if it proved anything, it was this—someone, or some people, did not want us getting our hands on certain information.
It felt deliberate.
As though our movements were being tracked.
As though eyes followed us even when none were visible.
Someone was watching.
And they were actively making sure we stayed in the dark.
My mind replayed every moment.
Jameson's voice.
The way he said Widders.
The empty shelf.
The rearranged records.
Too many coincidences layered too neatly.
I sat up slowly.
Someone didn't just know we were searching. Someone was anticipating us.
That realization settled heavily in my chest.
The library hadn't just been altered. It had been curated. Whoever moved those records hadn't erased everything, only what mattered. That meant they understood the value of what we were looking for. Which meant this wasn't random interference or an overzealous archivist protecting academic rules.
This had been done deliberately.
I closed my eyes and focused inward, grounding myself in my wolf. The familiar presence steadied me, but even she was restless beneath my skin.
We were being watched.
And worse — tested.
A soft knock came at the door, but I already knew who it was.
I knew the scent.
"Come in," I said calmly.
Michael stepped inside. I felt the tension immediately. His expression was stoic as always, but I caught the tightness in his shoulders. He closed the door behind him carefully, as though the walls themselves might have ears.
"You felt it," he said quietly.
nodded. "The records. Someone touched them."
"Someone accessed a restricted ledger after we left," Michael said. "I checked the registry."
That sent a chill through me.
"So they're tracking access," I said.
"Yes. And falsifying it."
Silence filled the room.
"If my suspicions are right," I said slowly, "there's something about this association we don't know yet."
I paused.
"It's a filter."
Michael leaned against the wall, exhaustion etched across his face. "Or a trap."
The word settled uncomfortably well.
I thought back to the meeting. The way the room had gone just a fraction too quiet when names were taken. The way the recorder's hand had paused just briefly before continuing. Not long enough for most to notice.
But long enough for me.
"They're watching members," I said. "Not just outsiders. Anyone with access."
Michael exhaled. "And Jameson?"
My jaw tightened. "He's connected. Maybe not directly, but he knows how to read between the lines. He recognized Widders for a reason."
"And you?" Michael asked. "Armstrong?"
I shook my head. "No reaction. No interest. That tells me everything."
Widders mattered.
Which meant our mother mattered more than we'd ever been told.
A distant howl echoed through the night, faint but sharp enough to make my wolf go still.
Michael heard it too.
"That wasn't from our pack," he said.
"No," I replied. "And it wasn't a challenge."
It was a warning.
We exchanged a look, one heavy with unspoken understanding.
"I don't think the attack was random," I said firmly. "I think it was a message."
"To who?" Michael asked.
I swallowed.
"To our pack," I said slowly. "Or maybe… to us."
I turned to him, worry written plainly across my face.
He looked back at me with concern in his eyes.
But my wolf knew better.
This was only the beginning.