The sound of our footsteps echoed softly, a rhythmic slosh that made my pulse race.

“How far to the warehouse?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

“Three hundred yards,” Killian said from the front.

His flashlight was a tight, narrow beam pointing at the ground.

“Marcus’s office is on the second floor, overlooking the main floor.”

“He usually keeps a small night crew on duty.”

“But tonight, the docks are completely dark.”

We walked in silence for several minutes.

My mind kept returning to the fabric.

The level of precision required to lace the wool at the loom was staggering.

It was not just an assassination attempt; it was a masterpiece of industrial sabotage.

And it had been planned months in advance.

“The winter collection,” I murmured.

Aries slowed his pace, walking beside me in the narrow space.

“What about it?” he asked.

“You ordered the charcoal wool in August,” I said.

“They had to know your exact measurements, your preferred cut, and the timing of your fittings.”

“Someone who knew your schedule gave them the window.”

Aries did not answer, but I felt the tension radiating from him.