CHAPTER 3

"You don’t have to do this, Maddie."

Vivienne’s voice was as sharp as the tailoring on her silk coat. She leaned against the black SUV, her eyes hidden behind oversized lenses that probably cost more than a year of pack taxes. The air at the Dulles terminal was thick with the scent of jet fuel and the underlying, metallic tang of the city.

"I know, Mother." I didn't look at her. I spent a long minute obsessively checking the laces of my boots, pulling them until the leather dug into my skin. "I want to. I need to."

"Nobody is forcing your hand," she said. She reached out, her fingers—cold and manicured to lethal points—clamping onto my wrist. "Are you truly ready to face your father? To face that house?"

Ready was a strong word. I hadn't stepped foot in the Northern Reach territory in years. The last time I saw Richard Cruz, he was signing the papers that shiped me off to the West Coast like a piece of faulty equipment. He’d sounded plenty welcoming on the phone, all hollow promises and forced cheer, but the memory of how fast he’d folded when the pack elders demanded my exile still burned.

I’d been the disgrace. The girl who broke the Alpha-heir’s arm and spat in the face of tradition. California was supposed to "tame" me. It hadn't. It just gave me different scars.

"I’m sure," I lied. If she asked me one more time, I’d probably shatter. I’d grab her hand and beg to go back to the sun-drenched nightmare of LA.

But I couldn't stay there. Not after the last six months. Too much blood. Too many ghosts. DC was a different kind of hell, but it was one I knew how to navigate.

"Running away solves nothing, Madeline," Vivienne pleaded. Her grip tightened. "Whatever happened these last few months... we can fix it here."

"I'm not running," I grumbled, yanking my arm back. I stared at the stream of cars. "I just need a change of scenery. Less... chrome. More trees."

"If you wanted trees, you’d have let me buy that estate in the Redwoods. This is personal. This is a suicide mission."

I rolled my eyes, finally meeting her gaze. She was a head taller than me in those four-inch heels, looking every bit the Lunar icon the tabloids worshipped. "I've survived enough scandals to kill a lesser wolf, Mom. I just need out of your spotlight."

Vivienne sighed, the sound heavy and defeated. She knew the weight of a name better than anyone. "Who am I supposed to use for the autumn line? You’re the only one with the right bone structure."

I shuddered. Being the face of Cruz Couture was its own circle of torment. My mother saw art; I saw itchy fabrics and cameras that felt like firing squads. I wasn't a model. I was a weapon she tried to dress in lace. Being five-foot-ten and lean didn't make me a runway star—it made me a fighter who could reach a throat faster than most.

"Find a professional," I said. "Someone who doesn't growl at the lighting crew."

"I doubt I'll find anyone with your fire." She squared her shoulders, the fashion mogul mask sliding back into place. "If this is what you want..."

"It is. Maybe the East Coast will finally turn me into a 'proper lady' of the pack."

Vivienne let out a genuine laugh. She reached up, her hand grazing my cheek. "It worked for me. Just don't do anything I wouldn't do."

I matched her smirk. "You’d do just about anything, Mom."

"Fair point. Just have a good time. And remember—you’re seventeen, but you’re still my pup. If it gets too thick with the Cruz family, you hop on a bird and come home."

She reached for her right hand, twisting off a massive diamond. The stone was a jagged slab of ice that caught the afternoon sun, throwing sharp rainbows across the concrete.

"Take this," she commanded, pressing the heavy ring into my palm.

"It’s... a bit much, don't you think?" I muttered. It was a family heirloom, passed down through the Cruz women for generations. A symbol of the wealth they kept for themselves, away from the men of the pack.

"Your grandmother was a woman of excess. She wore her power on her fingers so everyone knew exactly what she was worth. She gave this to me when I left for the trials. You’re not doing your trials yet, but you’re leaving me all the same."

She pressed my fingers closed over the cold metal. Her eyes were damp, a rare crack in the porcelain.

"Keep it safe. Your grandmother will haunt your dreams if you lose it."

"I'll keep it under lock and key." I tucked it into the deepest pocket of my bag. I didn't wait for her to say anything else. I threw my arms around her, holding on until the scent of her expensive perfume nearly choked me. "Love you, Mom."

"Love you too, sweetie. Now go. Before I change my mind and chain you to the SUV."

I turned toward the terminal, the weight of the ring in my bag feeling like an anchor.

It had to be better than what I left behind.

If there was one thing Harrison Cole hated more than a weak Alpha, it was tourists.

"Excuse me," a man in a floral shirt chirped, oblivious to the fact that he was standing in the middle of a Guardian museum. "Which way to the White House?"

Harrison didn't look at the map the man was waving. He didn't even look at the man's face. He just felt the itch under his skin, the wolf inside him pacing at the sheer audacity of being interrupted.

"Do I look like a tour guide to you?" Harrison snapped. His voice was a low rumble that made the man’s eyes go wide with sudden, instinctual fear. "Go find a kiosk."

It was the fourth time today. The city was crawling with them, their scent of sunscreen and processed sugar clogging his senses. He needed the summer to end. He needed the city to belong to the pack again.

He turned back to the display of ancient silver-tipped spears, his jaw tight. His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Grant.

Guess who just landed at Dulles? The little bitch is back.

Harrison's knuckles turned white as he gripped the railing. He didn't need to ask who. The scent of a memory—of mud, a wooden bat, and a broken arm—flashed through his mind.

"Madeline," he whispered to the glass.

The game was finally back on.