Page 28 of Match Made In Growl

"You can come closer, young Holt. I could smell you from the square."

Criss's tiger went rigid. Not with fear but with the instinctive recognition of a dominant presence, the animal's awareness that it was in the company of something older and more controlled than itself. An alpha.

He closed the distance and stopped about ten feet away. Up close, Rydan looked exactly like what he was: a man who had outlived the era he'd shaped and was watching the next generation fumble with the pieces he'd arranged. Those pale amber eyes took Criss in with a single unhurried sweep, from his boots to his face, and whatever they catalogued didn't seem to impress him.

"Criss Holt," Rydan said. "Leora's son. You look like your grandfather."

"You knew my grandfather?"

"I knew most of the Holts who mattered." The phrasing was deliberate, and Criss heard the implication clearly: the ones who mattered, and by extension, the ones who didn't. "Your cousin has done well for himself here. Kieran carries the family reputation with more discipline than I'd expected from someone with his background."

"His background."

"Foster child. No pride structure. Raised by a human widow." Rydan said it without malice, the way someone might list items on a resume they found underwhelming. "And yet he's become indispensable. Credit where it's due."

"I'll pass along the compliment."

"Please do." Rydan shifted the book under his arm and regarded Criss with the patient focus of a man who had already decided how this conversation would end. "And what about you? What brings you to Hollow Oak? Kieran's charity? Your mother's concern? Or are you here for a reason you haven't figured out yet?"

"I'm visiting family."

"For two months."

"I'm thorough."

There was something like the acknowledgment of a move in a game he'd been playing much longer than Criss had been alive. "You've been reading the family records. I can see it in the way you're looking at me. You found the gaps."

Criss didn't blink. "What gaps?"

"The ones between 1927 and 1943. The missing pages. The adjusted entries." Rydan's voice didn't change pitch or temperature. He could have been discussing the weather. "I'd be disappointed if you hadn't noticed. Holts have always been observant, even the ones who pretend not to be."

"So you know about the records."

"I wrote most of them." Rydan let that sit for a moment. "The ones that remain, at least. The originals served a different purpose, and that purpose expired long before you were born."

"What purpose?"

"Stability. Continuity. The preservation of a community that was one revelation away from tearing itself apart." Rydan took a step closer, and despite the man's age, Criss felt his tiger brace. The dominance coming off the elder wasn't physical. It was something deeper, the authority of someone who had shaped the world Criss was standing in and his tiger couldn’t help but acknowledge it. "Your bloodline survived, Criss. Not by accident. Not by strength. By silence. Your ancestors understood that some truths are more dangerous than the lies that replace them, and they chose survival over principle."

"Chose, or were told?"

"Does it matter? The result was the same. The Holts endured. The community stabilized. And the things that needed to stay buried stayed buried." Rydan's pale eyes held his without wavering. "Until now."

"The archaeologist."

"Miss Ward is a talented woman with a gift for hearing things the ground would rather keep quiet. She is also, unfortunately, incapable of understanding that some doors are locked for everyone's protection." Rydan tilted his head slightly. "I've spoken with her. She is not inclined to listen. Which brings me to you."

"What about me?"

"You're a Holt. You carry the name, even if you've spent your adult life avoiding what it means. And I suspect you've developed a personal interest in Miss Ward that complicates your judgment." He raised a hand before Criss could respond. "I'm not asking for details. I'm asking you to consider your responsibilities."

"My responsibilities to who?"

"To your family. To the pride that sheltered your bloodline when others were not so fortunate. To the community that exists today because difficult men made difficult choices seventy years ago. Your cousin built something here. Your mother sacrificed her comfort to give you options. And the legacy they've both invested in rests on a foundation that Miss Ward's shovel is about to crack."

Criss stood in the dappled shade of the path and felt something cold settle into place. Rydan wasn't asking him for help.

The old man looked at him and saw exactly what everyone else saw: the charming one, the careless one, the Holt who could be nudged with flattery or sidelined with guilt. A tool if useful. A liability if not.