CHAPTER 5

Vanessa was the only one who bothered to look up from the frantic clicking of her screen. She didn't offer a hug, just a sharp, assessing glance before elbowing her twin. Marissa grunt, her eyes never leaving the glowing device in her lap.

“Hey, Maddie,” Marissa muttered, her voice flat. “Glad you’re back or whatever.”

That was the extent of the welcome. Fine. We weren't sisters; we were accidents of geography and a shared bloodline. We hadn't run in the same circles since we were pups, and the last seven years had been nothing but 'happy birthday' texts that felt like court summons. I hoped for better—some shred of pack loyalty—but the coldness in the back seat told me I was still an outsider.

Richard slid into the driver's seat, his hair plastered to his forehead. He smelled like ozone and frustration. “It’s a damn monsoon,” he growled, wiping the rain from his eyes. “I can’t wait for the season to turn.”

I leaned my head against the cool glass, watching the sky split open. “I missed this. LA doesn't do rain. It just does dust.”

I almost reached for the window latch, wanting to feel the sting of the water against my skin, but I kept my hands folded.

“I bet,” Elaine said, swiping a damp lock of blonde hair behind her ear. “Hot and dry, right? Like a furnace?”

“Pretty much,” I said. The SUV pulled away from the curb, and I watched the airport fade into the gray curtain of the storm.

“Are you actually happy to be home, Maddie?” Dad asked, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.

The question hit like a physical weight. Was I? I was away from the wreckage of my California life, sure. But I’d been in the Reach for twenty minutes. Not long enough to know if the cage was any more comfortable than the one I’d left.

“Yeah,” I lied, forced a smile that felt tight across my cheeks. “It’s good to be back, Dad.”

The conversation drifted into the mundane—pack politics, school schedules, the rising price of silver-grade security. I tuned it out. My eyes were glued to the window as we crossed the bridge. The Potomac churned below us, a dark, swollen muscle of water that seemed to spark under the lightning.

We hit the cobblestone streets of the Heights soon after. This was the seat of power. Row houses built like fortresses, narrow streets that smelled of old money and older blood. The homes looked small from the outside—diminutive, even—but the interiors were vast, cavernous spaces designed for wolves who needed room to breathe.

“Home, sweet home!” Elaine sang as the engine cut out.

We scrambled out, the rain instantly soaking through my thin shirt. We sprinted for the heavy oak doors, shaking ourselves off in the foyer like a literal pack of dogs. Richard nodded toward the grand staircase.

“Come on. Let’s get you settled.”

I followed him up, my shoulders burning under the weight of the suitcases. He stopped at a door on the second landing, his hand hovering over the brass knob.

“Everything is the same,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “I couldn't bring myself to clear it out when you left.”

I stepped inside and nearly choked. It was a tomb.

Posters of bands I didn't listen to anymore were peeling off the walls. Stuffed wolves sat in a row on the dresser like a jury. Glow-in-the-dark stars clung to the ceiling, mocking me. It was a shrine to a girl who had died seven years ago.

“Thanks, Dad.” I let my bags thud to the floor. “It’s… exactly how I remember it.”

He reached out, ruffling my hair with a heavy hand before letting it rest on my cheek for a fleeting second. He checked his watch. “Rest up. Dinner at seven. Don't be late; the High Council is sensitive about punctuality.”

The moment the door clicked shut, I stripped off my wet clothes and fell onto the bed. The mattress was firm, unfamiliar. My head throbbed from the flight and the sheer effort of pretending I wasn't terrified.

So far, nobody had tried to kill me. I took that as a win.

I’ve lost count of how many hotel rooms I’ve crept out of before the sun came up, but the number just hit a new high.

Standing under the stone promenade of the Ritz-Carlton, I felt the grit of the night on my skin. I stood there, watching the rain hammer the pavement, wondering when the hell I’d become this version of myself. I used to care about the hunt. I used to care about the bond. But since Serena had ripped my heart out and fed it to the crows, the one-night stands—or the two-hour distractions—were the only thing that kept the wolf quiet.

A flash of red cut through the gray rain. A Ferrari—loud, arrogant, and unmistakably Grant’s—screamed to the curb. The window slid down with a hiss.

“Need a lift, or are you waiting for the moon to catch you?” Grant drawled.

“Drive,” I grumbled, yanking the door open. The interior smelled of expensive leather and Grant’s dry wit. “You owe me fifty, by the way.”

“No way.” Grant slapped the wheel as he gunned the engine. “That redhead? You’re telling me that shade was real?”

I leaned my head against the window, the vibration of the engine rattling my skull. “We’re not talking about it.”

“Since when do you keep the details to yourself, Harrison? Was she that good, or are you just losing your edge?”

“Since I realized your sex life is a desert and you don’t need a map to mine.” I watched the city blur past. “Where are we going?”

“The Den,” Grant said, naming the coffee shop that served as our unofficial war room.

I watched the low-bloods and tourists ducking for cover as lightning cracked overhead. “Are the others there?”

“Preston and Oliver,” Grant said, shifting gears. “Oliver sounded like he was about to jump off a bridge. Something’s got his tail in a knot.”

“That’s his natural state,” I muttered.

Five minutes later, we pushed into the dimly lit heat of The Den. I spotted them in the back corner—Preston looking like he’d just seen a ghost, and Oliver looking utterly fried. Oliver’s eyes were bloodshot, that hazy, relaxed grin on his face suggesting he’d been hitting the wolfsbane-laced herb again.

I dropped into the heavy armchair between them. Oliver raised his cup in a slow, silent salute. I turned to Preston, who was staring at a pack of cigarettes like they held the secrets of the universe.

“Who died, sweetheart?” Grant asked, leaning over the table. “Did the moon fall out of the sky?”

Preston scowled, pushing a dark curl out of his eyes. “Worse,” he whispered. “She’s back.”

I froze. My heart hammered once, hard, against my ribs. “Who?”

Preston looked me dead in the eye. “Madeline Cruz. I saw the SUV at the gates. The bitch is home, Harrison. And she looks like she’s hunting for blood.”