Chapter 114: In Her Misery

(GRIFFIN)

The laboratory door stands closed before me, the glass window reflecting the artificial lights. I hesitate, closing my eyes and catching the scents from within, antiseptic, chemicals, and Jerry, but not Maya. Not Mathew.

I push the door open to find Jerry hunched over a microscope, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks up as I enter, surprise evident in his features.

“Your Majesty,” he says, straightening. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Where’s Maya?” I ask, scanning the lab as if she might be hiding in some corner.

Jerry gestures toward a row of vials on the central workstation. “She completed a preliminary version of the antidote this morning. She’s quite confident it will work.”

My heart leaps at the news. “That’s remarkable. Where is she?”

“She left with Mathew about an hour ago,” Jerry says, removing his glasses to polish them on his lab coat. “Said they were meeting someone.”

“Meeting whom?” A prickle of unease crawls up my spine.

Jerry shrugs, his movement casual, unconcerned. “Mathew’s idea, I believe. Maya didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

The unease sharpens into something more insistent. Maya has left the palace grounds, with a man I know almost nothing about, without telling anyone where she was going.

“Did she give any indication when they’d return?” I try to keep my voice steady, reasonable.

“Before dinner, I think.” Jerry replaces his glasses, peering at me with sudden interest. “Is something wrong, Sire?”

I shake my head, moving deeper into the room to examine the vials of completed antidote. “Not necessarily. I just wanted to speak with her.”

Jerry returns to his microscope, leaving me to prowl restlessly around the laboratory. I find myself drawn to Maya’s workstation, meticulously organized despite the complexity of her work. Notebooks filled with her neat handwriting are stacked beside the computer, her observations recorded in detailed entries with pages of calculations and chemical formulas that mean nothing to me.

I flip through the most recent notebook, trying to gauge how close she is to a final version of the antidote. Her latest notes indicate successful tests on blood samples from infected shifters, including Aria. The treatment appears to reverse the separation of shifter and wolf, restoring the connection without side effects.

A breakthrough that could save hundreds of lives.

Something else catches my eye: a small sketchbook partially hidden beneath her laptop. I pull it out.

Flipping it open, I find page after page of her mother’s face, Helen smiling, Helen reading, Helen gardening. The drawings are exquisite, capturing not just her likeness but her spirit. They’re also dated, the most recent from just yesterday. These aren’t old sketches; Maya has been drawing her mother from memory, keeping her close the only way she can.

The constant ache in my chest intensifies. This is how she copes with her grief, not by talking about it, not by sharing it, but by preserving her mother’s image on paper, one portrait at a time.

I set the sketchbook down carefully and continue inspecting the workstation. My elbow knocks against a messenger bag slumped against the side of the desk, Mathew’s, judging by the garish purple patches sewn on the canvas. It tips over, spilling some of its contents to the floor.

Cursing under my breath, I crouch to gather the scattered items, a protein bar, a dog-eared paperback, a small, leather- bound journal. As I reach for the journal, I notice that something has rolled under the desk.

A pocket watch, antique silver with an intricate engraving on the case. I freeze, my hand suspended in midair.

I’ve seen this pocket watch before.

Not once, but many times, swinging before my eyes like a pendulum as questions were fired at me, as needles pierced my skin, as they tried to break me apart from my wolf.

Memory fragments that have eluded me for months suddenly crystallize with awful clarity. A voice instructing assistants, ordering tests, discussing my responses as if I were nothing more than an interesting specimen.

Mathew’s voice.

Not the cheerful, vibrant persona he presents now, but colder, more clinical—yet undeniably the same. The mental image shifts, resolving into perfect focus: a younger man with brown hair instead of purple, wearing casual clothes instead of a white lab coat, but with the same blue eyes that watched me with detached fascination as I howled in pain.

One of the scientists who experimented on me.

“Jerry,” I say, my voice dead calm as I rise to my feet, the pocket watch clutched in my hand. “When exactly did Maya hire Mathew?”

Jerry looks up, puzzled by the abrupt question. “I don’t know. I did ask her how she knew him, and she said he started a few days after she did at the company in Seattle.”

“And she never mentioned where he worked before?”

“Not that I recall.” Jerry’s expression grows concerned as he notes my rigid posture. “Why? What’s wrong?”

I hold up the pocket watch, my grip so tight that the metal edges dig into my palm. “This belonged to one of the scientists who held me captive. One of the men who tortured me for years.”

Jerry’s face drains of color. “That’s impossible. Mathew is, He’s been nothing but helpful. Maya trusts him implicitly.”

“Which is exactly why she’s in danger right now.” The realization hits me with the force of a physical blow. Maya, alone with a man connected to the Silver Ring. A man who knows exactly what we’re trying to accomplish with the antidote.

My wolf surges forward, rage and protective instinct nearly overwhelming my human reasoning. I force it back with effort, needing clarity more than fury.

“I need to find her,” I say, already moving toward the door. “Now.”

Jerry hurries after me. “Your Majesty, wait! Did they sign out with the gate guards? They might know where—”

I cut him off. “Get Erik. Tell him what has happened. Have him secure the antidote and put the palace on lockdown. No one in or out until I return with Maya.”

I don’t wait for his response, already striding down the corridor, my senses reaching out, searching for any trace of Maya’s scent. It’s faint but present, leading toward the main entrance of the palace.

Outside, I catch the attention of the first guard I see. “Dr. Sorin and her assistant—did they leave the grounds? When?

How?”

The guard responds immediately to the urgency in my voice. “Yes, Your Majesty. About an hour ago. They seemed to be in good spirits.”

“Did they say where they were going?”

“No, Sire.” The guard thinks for a moment. “But Dr. Sorin’s assistant had arranged for a car from the palace fleet, so the driver should know.”

“Which one?” I demand. “Who was driving?”

“Martin, I believe. He should be back by now, if you want me to contact the pool—”

I’m already moving, breaking into a run that startles courtiers and servants as I pass. The motor pool is located on the eastern side of the grounds, a modern facility housing the fleet of vehicles used for official palace business.

I find Martin checking the oil level in one of the cars, his uniform pristine despite the manual task. He straightens as I approach, surprise written across his features.

“Your Majesty! How can I—”

“Dr. Sorin,” I interrupt, fighting to keep my voice level. “You drove her and her assistant earlier. Where did you take them?”

“To the Golden Birch Inn, Sire,” he replies promptly. “About twenty miles north of here. The gentleman—Mathew, I believe—said they were meeting a colleague for lunch.”

The Golden Birch Inn. An upscale establishment that caters to wealthy humans. Far enough from the palace to be discreet, but not so distant as to raise suspicion. A perfect location for an abduction.

“I need a car,” I say. “Now.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Martin gestures to the vehicle he was just servicing. “This one is fueled and ready.”

I take the keys from his outstretched hand, already moving around to the driver’s side. “If Commander Erik comes looking for me, tell him where I’ve gone.”

The drive is a blur of winding roads and reckless speed, my mind spinning with possibilities, each more dire than the last.

Why take Maya now? The antidote is nearly complete; she has almost accomplished what they need from her.

Unless they intend to use her as leverage against me, against the kingdom. Or unless they never intended to let her live.

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