59: Theodore

Before he could finish, pain lanced through my chest—sharp and sudden as a knife thrust. I gasped, nearly dropping Emma's things as I doubled over. This wasn't my pain. It was Emma's, transmitted through our new bond with brutal clarity.

Emma.

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. Fear unlike anything I'd experienced in my long life surged through me, turning my veins to ice.

"Where is she?" I demanded, my voice dropping to the dangerous growl that made even the most hardened warriors step back. "Where is my mate?"

"Sir, we're still securing the—"

I didn't wait for him to finish. Clutching Emma's belongings to my chest, I pushed past him and took the stairs two at a time, moving with the preternatural speed that was my birthright as a royal Lycan. Another wave of pain crashed through the bond, weaker this time, which terrified me more than the initial sharp agony. She was fading.

The stairwell blurred around me as I raced upward, my heart hammering against my ribs with such force I thought it might shatter them. My mind was filled with horrific possibilities, each worse than the last. Benjamin Thorne. It had to be. His rejection yesterday had been too calm, too contained. I should have anticipated this, should have doubled the guards, should have kept her by my side.

When I reached my floor, the scene that greeted me confirmed my worst fears. The two Lycan guards stationed outside my suite—handpicked for their loyalty and skill—lay unconscious in the hallway, their powerful bodies limp. The door to my suite stood ajar, a thin smear of blood marring the polished wood.

Her blood. I knew it instinctively, I could smell the distinctive copper-sweet scent that belonged uniquely to Emma. The wolf in me howled with rage and terror, clawing to be released, to hunt down whoever had dared touch what was mine.

I burst through the door, barely registering as it banged against the wall. "Emma!" My voice echoed through the empty sitting room, met with nothing but silence.

I dropped her things onto the nearest chair, not caring as the meticulously chosen clothes scattered across the cushions. The leather bag hit the floor with a thud, her laptop likely damaged, but such concerns felt impossibly trivial now.

The bond pulled me toward the bathroom—the massive bathroom with its luxurious tub that had so delighted her. Each step felt like moving through quicksand, my body suddenly leaden with dread.

When I pushed open the bathroom door, the scene before me stopped my heart. The tub—that massive marble tub with its gold fixtures that had made Emma's eyes light up with childlike wonder—was empty of her presence but full of evidence of violence. The water still filled it nearly to the brim, but instead of crystal clear, it was stained a diluted red, like watercolour paint bleeding across a canvas.

The scent of her blood hung heavy in the humid air, mixed with something chemical and wrong. On the marble floor, a small puddle of water had formed, with partial wet footprints leading away—too large to be Emma's.

My knees threatened to buckle as I gripped the door frame for support. The pain in our bond had faded to a dull throb, which could mean she was either unconscious or—no. I refused to consider the alternative. She was alive. She had to be.

With hands that didn't feel like my own, I pulled my phone from my pocket and called Christian, my brother, my oldest and most trusted advisor.

"Theo—" he began, his voice already tense with awareness that something was wrong.

"She's gone," I cut him off, my voice a rasp I barely recognized. "Someone has taken Emma. There's blood, Christian. Her blood."

A sharp intake of breath on the other end. "Where are you?"

"My suite. The bathroom." I swallowed hard, forcing down the howl building in my throat. "Round up Elijah and Elena Maxwell. And get every forensic expert we have. I want them here now."

"I'm on my way," Christian replied, no questions, no hesitation. "We'll find her, Theodore."

I ended the call, unable to respond to his reassurance. My eyes remained fixed on the bloodstained water, on the evidence of what had happened while I was just floors away, choosing clothes and gathering possessions like a doting mate instead of protecting her as I should have been.

The bond between us pulsed weakly, like a faltering heartbeat. I closed my eyes and focused on it, trying to send strength, comfort, anything that might reach her wherever she was. Hold on, Emma. Please hold on.

I'm not sure how long I stood there, locked in a silent communion with our fragile bond, before the suite door crashed open and footsteps pounded across the sitting room.

"Theo!" Elijah Maxwell's voice preceded him, tight with barely contained panic. "Where is she? Where's my sister?"

He appeared in the doorway, his powerful frame blocking the light from the sitting room. His green eyes—so like Emma's—widened as they took in the scene, understanding dawning with horrific clarity.

"Fuck," he swore, the single word loaded with fear and fury as his gaze locked on the bloodstained bath. His face, normally composed with the dignity of an Alpha, crumpled for just an instant before hardening into something dangerous. "Who did this? Who has my sister?"

I met his gaze, King to Alpha, mate to brother, two men united by love for the same woman. "I don't know," I admitted, the words tasting like ash. "But I swear to you, Elijah, on my crown and my life, we will find her. And whoever took her will beg for death long before we grant it."