CHAPTER 3

Chapter 3: The Hunter

"Is he dead?"

Elara’s voice was barely a whisper, but it felt like a gunshot in the quiet room. She gripped the bloody scrap of green corduroy until her knuckles turned white. She didn't have to look up to know Abram was there. She could feel him.

Abram walked across the room, his shadow stretching over her. He didn't try to take the fabric. He just poured himself a drink, the ice clinking against the glass.

"John didn't come for you, Elara."

"You're lying," she snapped, finally looking at him.

Abram sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight. He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and tossed it onto the duvet.

"He took the money. Fifty thousand to leave town and never look back. That’s the receipt for the wire transfer."

Elara stared at the numbers. Her head spun. "No. No way. He wouldn't do that. He loves me."

"Love is for people who can afford it," Abram said. He leaned in, his gloved hand forcing her chin up. His eyes were dead. "He saw the cash and saw a way out of your father’s pathetic pack. He didn't even try to negotiate."

The memory of John promising to protect her—the "wolfless" girl who everyone else ignored—felt like a physical wound. She wanted to scream, but the blood on the fabric was real. The money was real. Everyone had a price, and she was just the change.

"Dry your eyes," Abram ordered, wiping a tear away with a thumb that felt surprisingly gentle. It creeped her out. "We’re going out. Put on the diamonds. I want everyone to see what I bought."

---

The ballroom at the Blackwood Estate was packed. It smelled like expensive perfume and ozone. All around her, high-ranking shifters moved with that scary, smooth grace they all had.

Elara felt like a bug under a microscope. She was the "broken" daughter, the one traded to settle a debt. She could hear the whispers starting.

"So, this is the collateral?"

A woman with silver hair and eyes like ice stepped in front of them. Sloane Silas. Abram’s sister. She didn't even look at Elara; she talked like she wasn't even there.

"I expected someone with actual... pedigree," Sloane said, loud enough for the people around them to hear. "Abram, seriously? You traded a whole territory for this? She smells like a human and looks like a stray."

A few people laughed. Elara’s face went hot. She hated herself for it, but she instinctively reached for Abram’s arm.

Sloane stepped closer, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "Don't touch the suit, sweetie. It’s worth more than your life. You’re just a placeholder until we find a use for your pelt."

Elara’s breath hitched. She felt small. Pathetic.

Then, the room went dead silent.

Abram didn't say a word. He just moved. His hand shot out like a snake, grabbing Sloane by the throat. He slammed his sister back against a marble pillar with a sickening thud.

"Abram!" Sloane choked out, her claws digging into his sleeves.

"Apologize," Abram hissed. The sheer power coming off him made the other guests back away and lower their eyes. "She’s mine. Every breath she takes belongs to me. If you insult my property again, I’ll forget we’re related. Understand?"

He let go. Sloane slumped to the floor, gasping and clutching her neck. Abram turned back to Elara, his face suddenly calm again.

"Better?" he asked.

Elara just nodded. Her heart was a mess. He was the monster who kidnapped her, but he was also the only one stopping the other monsters from tearing her apart.

"I need a drink," Abram muttered, looking toward the bar. He took off his suit jacket and draped it over Elara’s shoulders to hide her shaking. "Don't move."

The jacket was heavy and smelled like him—cedar and something sharp. Elara reached into the inner pocket, looking for a tissue to wipe her eyes, but her fingers hit a leather folder instead.

She pulled it out, hiding it behind her clutch, and stepped behind a heavy curtain. She opened it, expecting more debt papers.

It wasn't a contract.

It was a file on her. There were photos—her walking to the market two years ago. Her sitting by the creek last summer. There was a map of her bedroom. Notes on what she ate, her cycle, and even details about John.

The bottom page was dated three years ago. It had Abram’s personal seal and a handwritten note:

Wait for the father to gamble. Then move in. She is the one.

The debt hadn't been an accident. Her father’s "bad luck" was a setup. Abram hadn't just ended up with her.

He had been hunting her since she was seventeen.

"Find something interesting, Elara?"