IT WAS A LOCK OF DARK HAIR.
Mailah's hair.
"He got close enough to touch her," Lucson said quietly, appearing at Grayson's shoulder. "Close enough to take that without her noticing."
Grayson's hands clenched so hard his knuckles cracked. "When we find him—"
"When we find him, he'll wish Theron had killed him instead."
They stood in silence, staring at the evidence of months of stalking.
Of violation.
Of an enemy getting close enough to the woman Grayson was protecting—the woman he refused to admit meant more than protection—to steal part of her without anyone knowing.
"Bag everything," Grayson ordered, his voice utterly emotionless. "I want every scrap of paper, every map, every note analyzed. Find me a pattern. Find me his next move. Find me anything that tells us what Theron is planning."
The security team moved with practiced efficiency, clearing the workspace while Lucson coordinated with other teams sweeping the building.
