Buried and Shadowed (Branded Packs #3)

Less than two hours later, Sinclair was driving his pickup through the streets of Fort Collins. Like most cities, the town was a weird combination of abandoned homes, burned businesses, and tiny pockets of civilization that struggled to remain impervious to the destruction around them.

Slowing, he turned into the little cul-de-sac that had six small homes tucked behind white picket fences. He pulled into Mira’s driveway, turning off the engine as he studied his surroundings.

He half expected Mira to peek out the window, or even open her front door to see who was visiting. When nothing happened, he climbed out of the truck and made a quick sweep around the small brick house with white shutters and a narrow porch complete with a swing.

Nothing looked out of place, but Sinclair’s inner wolf was on full alert as he entered the garage to find her car. There was no scent of Mira inside. Which meant that she was out with friends who’d picked her up. Or…

He gave a sharp shake of his head as he moved to break the lock on the door leading into her house. He couldn’t let his seething fear distract him. Not when he was increasingly convinced that Mira was in trouble.

He wouldn’t do her any damned good if he walked into a trap.

Entering the kitchen, he noticed the lack of dishes. Even the coffee pot was empty. Silently, he moved past the table that was located near the back door, as if Mira preferred to look outside while she was eating.

An odd pang tugged at his heart. He came from a large, noisy Pack, who often ate together in the communal center of the den. The thought of Mira seated alone at the table cut through him like a knife.

Ignoring his strange reaction, Sinclair moved into the living room, the hair on the back of his nape rising at the unmistakable scent of Mira’s blood. A red mist of fury threatened to cloud his brain, and a howl locked in his throat.

Mira had been hurt.

Someone—or many many someones—was going to pay.

It took several minutes to regain command of his composure. Then, fiercely reassuring himself that there wasn’t enough blood to have been from a grievous wound, he headed into the bedroom that carried the light floral scent that belonged distinctly to Mira.

He was searching for any hint of who might have taken her, along with assuring himself she wasn’t sharing her intimate space with another male, when he caught the sound of the front door being pushed open.

In the blink of an eye, he was back in the living room, moving across the hardwood floor with blinding speed. Just as quickly, he was grasping the intruder by the arms and lifting her off her feet to pin her against the wall.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

The gently rounded face of a human woman in her mid-thirties flushed with fear, her brown eyes that matched her short hair going wide as she gazed down at his feral expression.

“Tanya Wade,” she managed to stutter. “I’m Mira’s neighbor.”

He allowed his senses to search for other intruders. When he found nothing, he returned his focus to the woman who looked like she was about to faint.

“I’m going to release you, but make a noise or go for a weapon and you’ll regret it,” he warned. “Understand?”

She gave a cautious nod. “Yes.”

Slowly, he lowered her back to her feet, waiting until he was sure her knees would hold her weight before he released her and stepped back.

“Where’s Mira?”

The woman made a visible effort to stiffen her spine, a look of genuine concern darkening her eyes.

“I don’t know.” She held up her hand as a low growl rumbled in his throat. “Truthfully. I haven’t seen her for almost two weeks.”

Sinclair believed her. Humans might be capable of lying with their mouths, but their scent always gave them away. This woman was deeply frightened. Not just for herself because of him, but for Mira.

“Did she tell you where she was going?” he asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “Two weeks ago, she came over to leave Sinclair-”

“Who?” Sinclair interrupted.

“Sinclair. Her cat,” Tanya explained.

Sinclair remained baffled. “Why Sinclair?”

“She said the cat reminded her of a stubborn, ill-tempered man she knew,” she said in impatient tones, her eyes narrowing. “Are you with the police department?”

Sinclair hid his smile, treasuring the knowledge that his little computer nerd had a quirky sense of humor. It was yet another piece of the complex puzzle that was Mira Reese.

“No. I’m a friend,” he assured the woman.

“Oh.” Tanya bit her bottom lip. “I called and reported Mira missing, but they said she probably met some man and took off.” Her lips flattened. “Idiots.”

Sinclair sent a glance around the worn but comfortable furniture and shelves of books along one wall. There would be no way to tell that anything had happened. Not unless a person had the heightened senses of a shifter to smell the dried blood.