Ch. 24

The conference room was a study in unearned dignity—oak table, high-backed leather chairs, a local artist’s hackneyed triptych of blue herons stalking tidal flats. Xander took a seat and immediately kicked his boots up. Carolina, still vibrating with the knowledge of her mother’s letter nestled in her breast pocket, took a seat across from him. The third chair was occupied by Marcus, whose expression suggested he'd rather be cleaning rifles or lighting roach bombs in the dormitory than wrangling children-cum-wolves.

Lyra entered last, shutting the door with maternal finality, then gliding to a seat at Carolina’s right. The four of them formed a rough square, too equal for comfort.

Marcus began, all administrative boredom, “It’s selection week. The Board’s expecting a full dossier on each of you by Friday.” He produced a legal pad. “You will not, under any circumstances, embarrass yourselves—or this house.”

Carolina caught the twitch at the corner of Lyra’s mouth. It wasn’t quite a smile, more the memory of one.

“Which one of us is it?” Xander drawled, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in his voice. “Let’s skip to the firing squad.”

Marcus ignored him. “There’s a scenario planned. Tomorrow night. You’ll be briefed at 1900. Until then, I suggest you play nice.” He stood, gathering his folder. “Lyra’s your sponsor, if you have questions. Try not to waste her time.”

He left, door clicking shut behind him with a sound like a snapped bone. Lyra waited a beat, then turned to Carolina, her voice pitched low. “You know what this is? It’s a gauntlet. A bloodless one, if you’re lucky.”

Xander snorted. “How’s it work? Last one standing gets the penthouse suite?”

“No,” Lyra said, “but the Board wants evidence you’ll survive in the wild.” Her gaze raked Carolina. “Nobody wants another repeat of Denver.”

Carolina stiffened. “That wasn’t on me.”

“Perception is everything,” Lyra replied. “If you want to keep your spot, you’ll need to stop scaring the handlers.” She unfolded her hands, fingers splayed like an invitation or a threat. “So. Either of you want to tell me what you’re bringing to the table?”

Xander watched Carolina, then shrugged. “I don’t do monologues. Let her go first.”

Carolina drew a breath, the air as thick as syrup. “You’re right,” she said to Lyra. “I scare people. But what scares me more is starving. So if the Board wants to see hunger, I’ll show them.”

Lyra’s brow lifted, surprised—even slightly impressed. She looked to Xander.

“I’m not complicated,” he said, “I just don’t go down easy.” He grinned, a flash of ferocity. “Give me the job, and I’ll solder the team together. Break me, and there’s a mess to clean up.”

Lyra nodded. “You’ll be briefed at 1900,” she repeated, softer this time. “Until then, you should rest.”

They filed out silently. Carolina was nearly at the stairs when Lyra’s hand darted out and caught her by the crook of the arm.

“Seriously, Ro. Don’t burn it all down. Not yet.”

Carolina blinked. Once, she’d have shrugged off the advice, or spat a retort. But something in Lyra’s face—earnest, almost maternal—slowed her rage.

“Why do you care?” Carolina asked, voice feathered at the edges.

Lyra released her arm. “Because they’re counting on you to implode. Make them choke on their own expectations.”

Xander was waiting outside, hands shoved in jacket pockets. “Cozy chat?”

“She wants us to keep it civil.”

He snorted. “That’s like telling a knife to apologize.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the gym, sparring with minimal bloodshed. Xander trounced her at first—he had the weight advantage—but Carolina was faster, and by the third round had him flat on his back, gasping. She helped him up, both of them limping.

“You know what happens after this, right?” he said, toweling blood from his mouth.

“Yeah,” she said. “We either get promoted, or we get ghosted.”

He grinned. “Promotion’s overrated.”

That night, Carolina found herself alone in her bunkroom, the letter from her mother trembling in her fist. She stared at the envelope for a long time, then finally peeled it open. The handwriting was careful, almost formal:

I know you think you’re lost. You’re not. The hunger is the answer, not the problem. Don’t let them make you ashamed of it. You are more like me than you think.

She folded the letter back into its envelope with a trembling smile. She knew what she had to do.

At 1900, the briefing room was full of faces—some from the house, some not. Cas was there, perched on a filing cabinet, and Marcus stood beside the whiteboard, marker in hand.

Lyra explained the scenario: an infiltration. There was a rival den, two counties over, holding some sort of key asset. Carolina’s job was to get in, get it, and get out. Xander’s job was overwatch; if it went south, he cleaned up.

Simple, except for the part where the rival wolves would come for blood if they got caught.

As the meeting ended, Marcus nodded at her, the briefest flash of respect—or maybe just relief—on his face.

“Don’t screw it up,” he said.

She smiled, all teeth. For once, it felt like a promise.

* * *

The mission went sideways. Of course it did.

Carolina was three blocks from the target, shadows tangling at her heels, when an unfamiliar patrol picked up her scent. She ducked into an alley, heartbeat thudding so hard it nearly drowned out the comm in her ear: Xander’s voice, terse and alive.

“Two on your six. Take the next left, I’ll cut them off.”

She ran, vaulting a wire fence, landing catlike on the other side. She could almost taste the blood in her mouth, the electric tang of fear and power. When she risked a glance back, a figure was already vaulting the fence—too quick to be human.

“Got eyes,” Xander muttered, somewhere nearby.

She turned at the next intersection and saw him, crouched behind a dumpster, knife bare and gleaming. The pursuer never saw the blade coming—just a blur, a splash, then silence.

Carolina doubled back, found the mark, and—against her own rules—looked him in the eye before putting him down. He was barely older than her, face rimed with adolescent stubble. She hadn’t wanted this kind of kill, but there it was. She rifled his pockets, found the asset—a battered silver locket—and sprinted for the rendezvous.

By the time she crashed through the safehouse door, Xander was already inside, patching up his arm. He didn’t look up. “How’d it go?”

She tossed him the locket. “He begged.”

Xander’s face closed. “You did what you had to.”

She nodded, then let herself fall against the opposite wall, sliding to the floor.

They sat in silence until the adrenaline ebbed, replaced by something sickly and cold. Xander, ever the pragmatist, broke the spell.

“You won’t sleep tonight.”

“No,” she agreed.

He studied her through swollen eyes. “Worth it?”

She looked at the blood staining her hands, and thought of the letter in her jacket, the gnaw at her heart that said this was the only way forward.

“Yes,” she said. “It always is.”

They left the safehouse under cover of rain, reports already filtering back to the house: two dead, but the mission a success.

* * *

Re-entry was as expected: Marcus at the door, arms crossed, mouth a thin line. Lyra in the kitchen, making coffee she never intended to drink. Cas leaning over the stair railing, eyes wide.

Carolina ignored them all, walked straight to the library and curled up in the furthest chair, watching the rain slice down the window. Eventually, Lyra found her.

“Rough night?” Lyra said, sitting across from her.

“I lived.”

“Sometimes that’s enough.”

Something eased in Carolina’s chest—not forgiveness, not comfort. Just the knowledge that, for once, she’d done exactly what she set out to do.

Lyra stood, smoothing her skirt. “You’ll always want more.”

Carolina smiled. “You taught me that.”

Lyra almost smiled back, then left without another word.

Carolina watched the storm for a long time, letter from her mother clutched in her fist, the hunger in her belly finally starting to feel like home.