Chapter 40
They said family was supposed to protect you. But as I stood in that sterile hospital room, every word out of Alaric’s mouth twisted that lie a little deeper into my bones,
“She’s a danger,” he spat. “Anyone who dares lift a knife against her own father will do it again.”
Zara’s voice was tight with hesitation, but she didn’t argue. Not really. She never did when it involved Scarlett. Not when it meant choosing between me and her precious adopted jewel.
“She’s your daughter too, Alaric,” she whispered, voice trembling.
“And exactly for that reason, she needs to be gone.
Gone
Like trash. Like a burden.
Like a weapon they couldn’t control.
They wanted to marry me off. To bind me to the Alpha of Stormridge Pack from Northhaven–because I was expendable, and they needed a business deal. That’s what I was to them: leverage with a heartbeat.
Zara looked back at me before they walked out–guilt in her eyes, but no courage in her bones. She said nothing. -Cowards, all of them.
They thought I couldn’t hear through these thin hospital walls. They forgot I was a wolf too.
The second the door closed, I clenched my fists so hard my healing fingers throbbed in protest. My claws nearly pierced my own palm.
Alaric wanted to use me to broker a merger.
Zara just didn’t want Scarlett to suffer.
And me!
I was just a pawn with a price tag.
Laughter burst from my chest, hollow and sharp. The kind of laughter that didn’t bring relief–only a burning clarity.
Fine. If they wanted to use me, I’d let them think they’d won. But they’d regret underestimating me.
I slipped out of the room.
My leg was still dragging slightly from the injury, but the burn of betrayal gave me enough strength to limp through the corridor without stopping. I didn’t know where I was going. I just needed to breathe
I pushed open the stairwell door, expecting silence.
But there was someone already there.
A man leaned against the wall, half–shrouded in the shadows. The scent of smoke hung in the air–rich, dry, with a hint of crushed pine ash. Not cheap cigarettes. Something darker. Earthier.
My steps slowed as I looked up.
He stood on the upper landing, half a flight above me, but it wasn’t the angle that made him look like a god.
It was everything.
The way his suit clung to a tall, broad–shouldered frame built like it had been honed for battle. The subtle silver lining on his cuffs. The glint of a
signet ring on his right hand. But more than that…..
His face.
Moonlight through the stairwell window sliced across sharp cheekbones, a defined jawline, and lips shaped like a cruel promise. His eyes, deep–set and impossibly dark, watched me like a predator sizing up something unfamiliar–but not uninteresting.
His aura was crushing.
Not wild, not reckless–controlled. Deliberate. Dangerous
He was the kind of man you felt before you saw,
And my wolf… stirred.
It blinked inside me. Awake. Alert. Curious.
I should’ve turned around. Should’ve excused myself and found another corner to suffer in peace.
But I didn’t
Because he was looking at me too.
Our gizes met across the stairwell. Neither of us moved.
Then his brow lifted just barely, and he exhaled another long stream of smoke. The scent curled toward me, invasive and heady. It made my lungs tighten
1 stopped halfway down the stairs, clutching the railing with a tremble I hoped he couldn’t see.
“Sorry,” he said, his voice deep, quiet. Measured. Like thunder you only heard once it passed.
He made a motion to put out the cigarette.
But something inside me–something sharp and bitter and reckless–snapped.
“Wait,” I said hoarsely. “Do you have another?”
His head tilted. His eyes didn’t widen. He wasn’t surprised.
Just intrigued.
“Thought you didn’t like the smell,” he said.
“I don’t, I admitted. “But I need something to burn.”
He studied me for a moment longer, then reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled our the silver tin. He tossed it
to me.
I caught it with one hand, wincing at the jolt it sent up my sore wrist.
He watched that too.
“You don’t look like you should be walking,” he said.
“You don’t look like someone who loiters in stairwells,” I shot back.
He smirked. It was a small thing, but it was lethal.
“I don’t loiter,” he said, “I wait. There’s a difference.”
I pulled out a cigarette, lips trembling as I raised it to my mouth. I didn’t even smoke. But I needed the taste of something bitter. Something that wasn’t blood.
He thcked a flame for me.
The fire caught.