C5

"Stop giving that dosage! Are you out of your mind?"

I grip the phone so hard the glass screen almost cracks under my palm. Across the static line, the chaotic sounds of the Blackveil District underground infirmary spill through—shouting guards, the heavy thump of tactical boots, and the frantic, shallow gasps of a dying wolf.

"Orders are orders, girl!" Sornk Mercer’s sharp, arrogant voice comes through the speaker, dripping with condescension. "Alpha Malcolm Ashford’s directives cannot be wrong! Administer the Zetro Vesper serum now before the pack heir suffers permanent nerve damage!"

Another pack enforcer barks in agreement. "She’s right! I’ve never heard of Julian Forte’s synthetic wolf suppressant containing any Zetro Vesper, let alone triggering a blood reaction. You’re just a human-bred outcast spreading panic!"

"Alpha Ashford is a recognized strategist in the Redgrave Territory!" another voice sneers over the line. "His enforcement protocols are absolute! Inject the serum!"

"Wait!" Wesley Grant’s panicked voice cuts through. I can hear the loyal old pack elder physically trying to block the door of the medical bay. "Miss Darcy said it will kill her! You can't!"

"Get this old fool out of the way!" Sornk commands. "If he continues to interfere with pack business, break his arms and throw him into the Blackveil cells!"

Scuffling sounds echo across the line. Leather boots drag across stone floors as Wesley struggles against the pure-blood enforcers. "Miss Darcy... what do I do? They’re holding me back!"

My voice does not drop a single octave. I sit in the passenger seat of the Blackwood Range Rover as it weaves through the rain-slicked streets of Ravenshire City. "It’s up to them whether they listen. When her heart stops, their blood debt is on their own heads."

Sornk lets out a cold, vicious laugh. "Inject her. Now!"

A heavy thud hits the floor across the line, followed by the metallic click of an automated pneumatic syringe.

Then came the silence. A heavy, suffocating pause that lasted less than three seconds.

"Shit! Her scent marker is vanishing!" a guard suddenly screams. "Blue-tint syndrome spreading across her neck! She’s experiencing severe oxygen deprivation!"

"Her wolf pulse is fading! Heart rate dropped below twenty! She’s going into Moon Yetako shock! The suppressant is destroying her blood core!"

"She’s seizing! What do we do? What do we do?!"

The arrogance in the infirmary evaporated into raw, frantic panic. Every single prediction I made over a burner phone—without even standing in the room—had just hit them like a rogue Alpha’s claw.

Sornk’s voice trembles violently through the speaker. "N-No... impossible. Alpha Ashford’s execution of pack protocol is flawless... How could her blood reject it? It must be a preexisting weakness! Yes! The girl was already flawed!"

She tries to cover her own neck, shifting the blame before the blood even cools. But the tremor in her throat betrays her.

Wesley clutches his phone with white knuckles, his raspy voice filled with desperate, absolute trust. He doesn't care that the Ashford Manor threw me out into the gutters of the Eastmoor Quarter like trash. He doesn't care that they stripped me of the Ashford name the second their true-blood wolf daughter, Piper, walked back through the gates.

"Miss Darcy..." Wesley begs, his breath hitching. "You can reverse the blood shock, can't you? You know how to stop the toxicity!"

I stare out the tinted window at the glowing neon lights of Ravenshire City. The Wynn pack raised me as a powerless human shell for twenty years, only to discard me when my presence became inconvenient. But Wesley was the only one in that cursed compound who ever dropped a warm blanket over my shoulders when the cold mountain winds blew through the pack lodge.

"Find an unbonded rogue inside the clinic," I command, my voice leaving no room for hesitation or argument. "Get me someone who understands old bloodline rituals and fetch a silver-tipped extraction kit."

Wesley doesn't waste a heartbeat. He turns away from the phone and roars at the terrified pack enforcers, "Find someone who knows the old blood rites, right now! The young miss has a way to save her!"

"Blood rites?" Sornk scoffs, though her voice lacks its previous bite. "Are you insane, old man? Traditional blood magic is forbidden by the Black Sun Council! It’s ancient garbage!"

With the dying girl's life slipping away by the second, Wesley completely ignores her. He turns to Dr. Elise Warren, the lead clinic medic standing frozen by the bay. "Fetch an elder ritualist immediately! I take full responsibility before the Bloodfang Court!"

Dr. Warren starts to push back. "Wesley, if Alpha Malcolm finds out—"

Wesley yanks back his collar just enough to reveal the rusted metal crest pinned to his inner vest—the mark of the ancient Redgrave Honor Guard. Dr. Warren’s face turns instantly ash-white. Sweat breaks out along his hairline as he turns to his aides and barks, "What are you standing around for?! Move! Get a ritualist!"

The infirmary is in absolute shambles. How did the dominant pack forces of Ravenshire City end up trapped in the subterranean clinic of Crownvale Moon in the middle of a territory war?

Within thirty seconds, a young, low-ranking omega female is dragged into the room. She looks terrified, her hands shaking as she clutches a wooden box of silver extraction needles. "I-I only know basic blood-channeling... I haven't even taken my pack oath..."

"You don't need an oath. You just need to follow my voice," I say into the speaker. My words are rapid, precise, and absolute. "Listen closely. Pierce the vein below her left collarbone with the silver tip. Channel your own basic energy to pull the Zetro Vesper out of her central core. Do not let your touch slip, or the poison will burn your own skin."

"You have ninety seconds. Move."

The young omega’s hands had been trembling, but the sheer command in my tone strikes her deeper than an Alpha’s growl. Her body reacts automatically. Silver glints in the harsh harsh surgical lights as she drives the needle home.

Sornk clenches her fists, her face twisted in utter disbelief. "Pure madness. She thinks a cheap silver needle and an omega’s weak magic can reverse a refined military compound?"

None of the doctors answer her. They just stare at the vitals monitor.

"She’s... her pulse is stabilizing!" the young omega suddenly gasps out, tears leaking down her face. "The blue tint is clearing from her skin! Her breathing is evening out!"

"Wolf core energy is surging back! Blood pressure reading ninety-five over sixty! Pulse rising to one-fifteen! Oxygen saturation back to ninety-five percent! Her eyes are opening!"

The infirmary drops into total, dead silence. Sornk staggers back against the wall, her throat working silently as her face drains of all color. "This... how is this possible...?"

I pull the phone away from my ear, my voice cool and flat. "Wait for me at the east entrance."

Wesley lets out a ragged, trembling breath that sounds close to tears. "Yes, Miss Darcy! Right away!"

The line goes dead.

I toss the burner phone onto the leather dashboard and glance sideways at Landon Pierce.

Landon grips the steering wheel of the custom Blackwood Range Rover, a dangerous, lazy smirk playing on his lips. Without me saying a word, he slams his boot onto the accelerator. The heavy engine roars to life as the vehicle tears through the rainy night, heading straight toward the border of the Crownvale Medical Quarter.

"Boss," Landon chuckles, his eyes gleaming in the rearview mirror. "I never thought I'd see the day 'The Ghost Alpha' steps out of the shadows just to save an Ashford pack loyalist."

I lean back against the headrest, crossing my arms over my chest. "A debt is a debt. Wesley kept me alive in that compound when Malcolm and Celeste Ashford treated me like stray livestock."

Landon’s laugh is short and sharp. "If the underground bosses in the Blackveil District knew that the silent terror of the rogue territories was running errands for an old butler, they’d burn the city down out of sheer confusion."

"Let them try," I say softly.

The Range Rover slices through the heavy fog surrounding the high walls of the Silveroak Keep territory.

I pick up my primary phone and dial a private, encrypted number. It connects on the second ring.

"Speak," a deep, dangerous voice answers. It is Alaric Sterling—the ruthless leader of the Sterling Heights network and one of the few men in Westmere who knows exactly what kind of blood flows in my veins.

"I’m entering the Crownvale Moon clinic in five minutes," I say, my tone sharp enough to cut glass. "Clear the perimeter. If any of Malcolm Ashford’s enforcers or Kieran Ravenscroft’s mafia wolves try to trap me inside, I’ll take their throats."

A low, dark chuckle echoes from Alaric’s end of the line. "Consider it done, Darcy. No one touches the Ghost."