CHAPTER 4

“You done offending the low-bloods?”

I looked up, meeting Grant Lawson’s jagged smirk. He was leaning against a display of silver-etched spears, his eyes tracking the tourist I’d just snarled at.

“I hate visiting season,” I spat, the words scraping my throat. “The scent of their fear and sunscreen makes my skin crawl.”

Grant pushed off the wall. He’d been my shadow since our first shift, the only one who didn't flinch when my temper spiked. “Everything makes your skin crawl lately, Harrison. It’s the heat.”

I didn't answer. I focused on the leather-bound journal in my hands, sketching the layout of the Northern Reach fortifications. My jaw ached. The last month had been a gauntlet—Milan, Paris, the High Council summits in Dubai. Now, I was back, buried under an internship at Cole Energy and the looming weight of my eighteenth birthday. In our world, eighteen wasn't just a number. It was the night the beast took hold. It was the night I’d officially step into my role as Alpha-heir.

“Cheer up, prince,” Grant teased, narrowly dodging a pack of screaming toddlers. “What’s really got the wolf pacing? The party?”

I shoved the journal into my back pocket. “It’s in two days, Grant. If the gala isn't flawless, the Cruz family will be sniffing for weakness before the last toast. Everyone expects a coronation. If I mess this up, I’m the laughingstock of the Trinity Academy.”

Grant scoffed. “Like anyone has the balls to laugh at a Cole.”

“You’d be surprised,” I muttered.

My voice trailed off. A girl drifted past the exhibit.

She had hair the color of a forest fire and skin like cream. Freckles dusted her nose, making her look innocent, but the way her "I Love D.C." shirt strained against her chest and her shorts cut high on her thighs said otherwise. She was a tourist, clear as day, but she had a pull—a gravity—that made the air in the room feel thin.

I wasn't the only one hunting.

“Think she knows what a real wolf looks like?” Grant whispered, his voice laced with a predator’s amusement.

A dark grin touched my lips. I let my eyes trail down the curve of her spine. She wasn't the refined, polished she-wolves I was used to. She was raw. Messy. Exactly the distraction I needed before the weight of the crown crushed me.

“Doubt it,” I said, running a hand through my hair. “But I’m willing to teach her.”

“Fifty credits says you don’t even get her name.”

I never walked away from a hunt. Especially not when the prey looked that delicious.

“You’re on.”

The sky was the color of a fresh bruise when the plane hit the tarmac at Reagan National.

Heavy, charcoal clouds rolled over the Potomac, the air thick with the static of an impending storm. The seatback screen told me it was ninety degrees—the kind of East Coast humidity that turned rain into a literal steam bath. I’d missed these storms in LA. In California, the weather was as fake as the people. Here, the thunder sounded like a warning. It felt like home.

As I walked through the terminal, a jagged bolt of lightning split the horizon. I didn't flinch.

I was done with the West Coast drama. Done with the name "Lia Colton-Avilla" and the hollow life my mother had carved for me. I was Madeline Cruz again. Or I was trying to be. After seven years in exile, the name felt like a suit of armor that didn't quite fit anymore.

I adjusted the strap of my bag, the weight of it bruising my shoulder. I scanned the arrivals, looking for the one man who had the power to keep me here or throw me back to the wolves.

Richard Cruz was easy to spot. He stood like a pillar of granite, his dark hair silvered at the temples, his jawline sharp enough to draw blood. I’d inherited his eyes—ice-blue and constantly calculating. He saw me, did a double-take, and then his face cracked into something resembling a smile.

“Maddie?”

I let out a breath I’d been holding since the Rockies. “It’s me, Dad.”

He didn't wait. He lunged forward, catching me in a bone-crushing hug. He smelled of expensive woodsmoke and the iron scent of our lineage. For a second, I was six years old again, safe in the den.

“You’re all grown up,” he rumbled, his hands gripping my shoulders as he stepped back to inspect the damage. He let out a dry, disbelieving chuckle.

“And you’ve gone gray, Dad,” I countered, my lips twitching into a real smile.

His laugh boomed, startling a nearby traveler. He draped a heavy arm over my shoulders, his thumb digging into my collarbone. “Still got that bite, I see.”

“Mom says I’m all teeth,” I joked as we headed toward the baggage claim.

After hauling my life—packed into three oversized suitcases—toward the exit, we stepped out into the sweltering rain. I expected the cold luxury of a town car, but instead, a massive, black-armored SUV sat idling at the curb. A petite blonde woman practically fell out of the passenger side, charging toward us.

“Maddie, honey!” Elaine squealed, her arms wide.

I braced for impact. My stepmother was tiny, but she moved with the energy of a landslide. She slammed into me, her head barely reaching my chest. I’d forgotten how much I’d grown; I was five-foot-ten now, a tower of lean muscle compared to her five-foot frame.

“We missed you so much!” she muffled into my shirt before pulling back, her brown eyes dancing with a manic sort of joy.

Elaine was the polar opposite of Vivienne. Where my mother was a statue of ice and fashion, Elaine was a bonfire of affection and bake sales. When I was a kid, she’d take me to the zoo to howl at the lions and sneak me extra scoops of chocolate lace ice cream. She was the only good thing about my father’s second life.

She ushered me into the back of the SUV, the leather cool against my skin. As I settled in, a flash of platinum hair caught my eye from the far back row.

The Cruz Twins.

If I hadn't known they were my half-sisters, I wouldn't have recognized them. The last time I saw them, they were scrawny kids with dirt under their fingernails. Now, at sixteen, they looked like the polished, lethal socialites my mother spent millions trying to create. They wore matching silk headbands and expressions that suggested I was something the cat had dragged in from the rain.

“Welcome home, Maddie,” the one on the left said, her voice dripping with a sweetness that felt like a razor blade. “We’ve heard so much about your... adventures in California.”

The twin on the right smirked, her eyes scanning my worn boots and faded jeans. “Is that what they’re wearing in LA now? Or did you lose your luggage in a gambling debt?”

I leaned back, my pulse beginning to thrum with a familiar, dangerous heat. I looked at my father in the rearview mirror, but he was staring straight ahead, his jaw tight.

“Nice to see you too, girls,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “I see you’ve traded your dignity for hair bleach. It’s a bold look.”

The silence in the car became a physical weight, punctuated only by the rhythmic thumping of the windshield wipers.

“Now, now,” Richard interrupted, though his voice lacked any real conviction. “It’s a long drive to the estate. Let’s try not to draw blood before dinner.”

I stared out the window at the rain-slicked streets of D.C. The city was a cage, and I was just another animal being delivered to the zoo. But they’d forgotten one thing: I wasn't the same girl they’d exiled.

I had scars they couldn't see. And I knew exactly where to bite.

The Cruz Estate sat on a ridge overlooking the valley, a sprawling fortress of stone and glass. As the gates hummed shut behind us, I felt the shift in the air. The pack territory. The scent of other wolves was everywhere—territorial, aggressive, and thick with judgment.

As I climbed out of the SUV, a silver Porsche roared up the driveway, spraying gravel.

The door flipped up. A man stepped out.

He was taller than I remembered. Broader. He moved with a heavy, deliberate grace that screamed Alpha. His eyes were narrowed, two chips of amber set in a face of cold, aristocratic marble.

Harrison Cole.

He stopped ten feet away, his gaze raking over me like he was looking for a place to sink his teeth. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. The air between us snapped with seven years of unspent rage and something else—something dark and hungry that made my wolf claw at the inside of my ribs.

“Madeline,” he finally said, the name sounding like a curse.

“Harrison,” I spat back.

He stepped closer, his scent—cedar, rain, and pure, unfiltered dominance—filling my lungs until I couldn't breathe. He leaned down, his lips inches from my ear.

“You should have stayed in the desert, Little Wolf. This pack is going to eat you alive.”

He pulled back, a cruel smirk playing on his lips, and then he turned to my father. “The Council is waiting, Richard. Don't be late for the execution.”

He didn't wait for an answer. He walked past me, his shoulder clipping mine with enough force to make me stumble.

I watched him go, my heart hammering against my chest like a trapped bird.

Welcome home.