A Werewolf's Unexpected Mate-Chapter 128: A False Lead

[Ann’s POV]

With a final burst of speed, I closed the last few inches. My hand shot out, not to grab his cloak, but to seize both of his arms at the elbows. I wrenched them up and back, pinning them firmly against his spine in a single, brutal motion that forced a shocked gasp from him.

"What are you doing?!" he yelped, his voice muffled and distorted behind the cobalt blue mask. He tried to twist, but my grip was unyielding.

I drove my knee hard into the back of his knee joint. His leg buckled, and he dropped to the cobblestones with a pained grunt, kneeling awkwardly before me. A circle of spectators had formed around us, their festive chatter dying into a tense, whispering silence. I could smell their fear and confusion, a sour note in the air.

"It hurts! What do you want from me?!" he snarled, the anger in his voice edged with genuine pain.

"Are you connected to the transaction of black magic restraints?" I demanded, my voice low, flat, and devoid of any emotion.

"Black magic restraints? What are you talking about?" he spat, struggling against my hold. His muscles strained, but I increased the pressure, grinding the bones of his wrists together. He let out a sharp groan. "I don’t even know what that is!"

"Do not play ignorant," I hissed, leaning closer. "I saw you. You weren’t enjoying the festival. You were scanning the crowd, hunting for faces. Who is your target?"

"Because I am looking for someone!" he gasped, his head twisting, trying to glance back at me. "My companion! We’re performers for the final grand event tonight! We got separated in this damned crowd!"

He might be telling the truth. His panic felt real, uncalculated. He had run from my killing intent, not from guilt. But I couldn’t take the chance. To be certain, I needed to push harder. With my free hand, I drew one of my daggers from its sheath at my hip. The sound of polished steel sliding free was unnaturally loud in the hushed space. The crowd gasped as one. I heard someone shout for the village watchers, but the sound was a distant buzz.

I pressed the cold, sharp point of the blade against the side of his neck, right where his pulse hammered wildly against the skin. He froze, all struggle ceasing, replaced by a violent, full-body tremble.

"What... what are you going to do?!" he whispered, his voice cracking with terror.

I leaned in until my lips were almost touching the shell of his ear, hidden by his mask. I felt him flinch, a cold sweat breaking out on the skin I could see. My breath was a ghost against his neck as I whispered, my voice a deadly, intimate promise. "I will ask one more time. Do not lie. Lie to me, and you are dead. Are you connected to the transaction of black magic restraints?"

"No!" he choked out, the word bursting from him. "I swear! I’m a musician, a performer! I only know about the regular silver magic restraints, the kind the watchers use! I’ve never even heard the term ’black magic’ used for them!"

For a second, the world narrowed to the feel of the blade against his skin, the rapid thrum of his pulse under my fingers, and the old, familiar coldness settling in my chest. The part of me that was the perfect, remorseless weapon saw only a source of information that needed to be broken.

"Ann, stop. He’s telling the truth."

The voice cut through the lethal focus like a bucket of ice water. My head snapped up. "Sir Ray?" I said, my own voice sounding strange to me. He was standing a few feet away, wiping his hands meticulously with a clean, white towel. His hands were wet. I didn’t want to think about why.

If Sir Ray said he was telling the truth, then it was the absolute truth. His sense for lies was infallible.

The coldness receded, replaced by a sudden, hollow feeling. I released the man’s arms and stepped back, sheathing my dagger in one smooth, practiced motion. The man in the cobalt blue mask slumped forward, clutching his wrists and gasping for air.

"My apologies," I said to him, the word feeling stiff and inadequate. I gave a short, formal bow of my head.

"You... you raving maniac," he spat, scrambling to his feet, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and residual terror. He backed away from me, his mask now a symbol of his fright, not his mystery. "You were really going to slit my throat! Over a misunderstanding!" Without another word, he turned and fled into the crowd, pushing people aside in his haste to get away from me.

[Ray’s POV]

The look on Ann’s face as she held the blade to that man’s throat... it wasn’t the focused intensity of a bodyguard. It was the hollow, chilling stare of the assassin she used to be. I had seen that look before—in the eyes of my most hardened knights after a particularly brutal campaign. It was the thousand-yard stare of a knight who had disengaged their conscience, who saw a threat to be neutralized, not a person to be questioned. I had seen it in knights pushed too far, right before they did something we all regretted.

I walked over to her, the damp towel now stained pink. I placed my hand on her shoulder. "Snap out of it," I said, my voice low but firm. "You were just doing your job. You followed a lead. It was the wrong one. That’s all."

"My apologies, Sir Ray," she murmured, her gaze fixed on the spot where the masked performer had been, refusing to meet my eyes. The apology wasn’t for the mistake; it was for the method.

Before I could say more, the village watchers arrived, pushing through the lingering onlookers. One was human, hand on his sword hilt, the other was a werewolf, his nostrils flaring as he took in the scene—the tension, the lingering scent of fear, and the faint, coppery smell of blood from my hands.

"What’s the commotion here?" the werewolf watcher demanded, his voice a low growl. "We heard reports of someone attempting to kill a performer."

"A profound misunderstanding, gentlemen," I said, stepping forward with a practiced, easy smile. My body language opened up, shoulders relaxed, hands spread slightly. I let my voice adopt its most reasonable, charming register. "My companion here mistook one of your talented masked performers for an individual of interest in a private security matter. A simple, if regrettable, case of mistaken identity." I glanced at Ann, my expression conveying a shared, weary exasperation. "Isn’t that right, Ann?"

She turned to face the watchers, her professional mask sliding perfectly back into place, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She gave an awkward, sheepish smile and rubbed the back of her neck. "He is correct. I offer my sincere apologies for the alarm and inconvenience. My judgment was... flawed."

"Wait a moment," the human watcher said, peering at Ann. "You’re the woman. The one who’s been handing us cutpurses and pickpockets all evening."

So that’s what she’s been up to, I thought. Playing guardian angel to the crowd.

"Exactly!" I chimed in, my smile becoming conspiratorial. "You see? Her intentions tonight have been solely protective. She merely became... overzealous in her search. It will not happen again."

The werewolf watcher looked between us, his gaze lingering on the coldness in Ann’s eyes that her smile couldn’t erase. "Due to your prior assistance, we will let this pass with a warning." he said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "But if there is another incident—if you so much as draw a weapon on another innocent festival-goer—you will be taken into custody immediately. Is that understood?"

"Understood. Thank you for your leniency," Ann said, bowing her head respectfully.

The two watchers exchanged a final, skeptical look, a silent conversation passing between them. With a last, warning glare, they turned and shouldered their way back into the crowd, their duty a constant tide against the festival’ disorder.

The moment they disappeared, a new force ripped through the periphery of my vision.

Ace.

He was shoving toward us, not with his usual controlled strength, but with the blind, frantic force of a man drowning. His silver hair was wild, strands plastered to his sweat-damp forehead. His chest heaved, not from the physical effort of running, but from the sheer, suffocating pressure of panic. His silver eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, were wide, unseeing discs, scanning everything and registering nothing. The composed, guarded prince was utterly gone.

In all our years, through childhood torment, through battles, through the weight of our father’s disappointment, I had never seen him look like this. It was a raw, terrifying vulnerability.

A bolt of pure ice shot down my spine. The immediate, dreadful question formed on my tongue, an answer I already sensed in the frantic void of his expression.

Where is Ovelia?