“There has to be a mole, Alonzo. Someone knew about the cameras outside the shop. They knew about the bell and the door and had access to them. They knew what time she locked up and when you’d be alone with her. They have an inside man.” He kept his voice pitched low, a mere thread of sound. He clearly didn’t want the other leopards in the room to hear.

Timur and Gorya had been with him since he’d taken over Antonio Arnotto’s territory. He had new leopard recruits from Borneo, friends of Drake Donovan’s. Men proven in battle with no connections to Russia or to the mob in the United States. It was a long shot that one of them would be the mole. That left his cousins under suspicion. He took them with him to the bakery all the time. It was possible, but they’d had any number of chances to slip a knife into him. His leopard was always alert, but still, they got close.

Could he say he trusted them? He’d learned too early not to trust anyone. Timur had earned his trust. So had Gorya. Both had that same faith in Sevastyan and Mitya. Mitya had thrown his body over Evangeline’s. Over his. That should buy him a little fucking trust.

He raked his fingers through his hair, something he never did in public. He was frozen—except deep inside he was screaming. He could hear himself, roaring like his leopard and then screaming his rage and fear to the demons below. “What the hell does it matter who the traitor is? My woman has been shot. When she lives, then I’ll worry about traitors.”

He turned his frozen stare on Joshua only to realize the man had deliberately distracted him. He shook his head and turned back to Jake. The man beckoned him and he stalked across the room and through the double doors to a small room. Jake stayed outside the doors, as did Sevastyan, who followed with a look on his face that dared anyone to stop him.

Alonzo stepped inside and inhaled the smell of blood and hospital. The combined scents bothered him and made his leopard leap and roar. Their mates were lying motionless, looking small and fragile beneath a single sheet. There were machines, bags of blood, morphine, lines running everywhere. At least she wasn’t suffering. She hadn’t made a sound after she’d been shot. Not of pain. No screaming. No thrashing. She’d been utterly still and quiet like a wounded animal. He had to find out more about her past. He’d told her about his; he needed her to confide in him about hers. What would make a woman react that way?