Chapter 7. This Isn’t About Art.

(Kaelan's POV)

Rain covered the city like a curtain, hiding Elaria’s face behind mist and faded neon. The sound of water striking asphalt blended into one tangled rhythm, like a heart forced to run. Under that black umbrella, I stood too close to the only thing that still kept me sane—and the most dangerous thing I could ever touch—Rhea.

“I can’t,” I said back then, when she asked me to let go of her arm. Not a poetic line, not a threat; just a shy truth, bitter, stuck on my tongue. Because with every tick of the clock, something was trying to take her away from me. My instincts knew it before my mind had the words.

I loosened my grip seconds later—slowly, like pulling a hand away from an open wound. She looked at me; in her blue eyes, a small storm I couldn’t read. I tilted the umbrella, shifting my body slightly to the outer side of the sidewalk, placing myself between her and the street.

“Let’s get to the car,” I said. “The safest place right now.”

“What’s your definition of ‘safe’? Is it the same as mine?” Her brows knit, lips stiff from cold and confusion. Or maybe… fear.

“Nothing between us is the same right now.” I realized how harsh that sounded. “But I’ll make sure it means the same thing for you: going home in one piece.”

She sighed, holding back words she didn’t say. We walked. Rain danced on the umbrella’s canvas, stabbing the ears like tiny needles. Two blocks to the parking building, and my instincts wouldn’t stop measuring shadows, weighing steps, dissecting scents—faint wolfsbane, oil, wet metal, stale coffee from a 24-hour kiosk, and one scent that constantly pulled my nerves tight: her skin. Warm. Soft. Dangerous to me in all the wrong ways.

My car was on level two—an unmarked black SUV, tinted windows, an engine that could start without a fuss. I opened the passenger door. Rhea hesitated for a split second—understandable mistrust when you’re with a stranger—then got in. I shut the door, walked around the hood, and slid into the driver’s seat. Key turned. Engine hummed low, steady, like a big animal holding itself back.

“Seatbelt,” I said. “If not, I’ll put it on you myself.”

She buckled up immediately, neat and precise—like someone clinging to routine to keep her head above the storm. I tossed the umbrella behind, turned on the heater, and steered into the rain-soaked streets.

“If that ‘safe place’ is your house,” she said, voice soft but sharp, “I’m not coming.”

“No.” I caught her gaze for half a second. “My house isn’t walls. It’s a billboard.”

“Hm. Figures. You’re someone famous. Your life’s already stripped of privacy.” She turned to the window, following the lights. “What then… the police station?”

“Worse than a billboard.”

She exhaled, almost like a laugh that didn’t make it out. “So where?”

“Under the arena.” I broke the pause. “There are old tunnels now used for ice maintenance. One service room isn’t on the public map. Damp air, bad for lungs, but good for disappearing.”

She turned to me. “Of course. Totally normal to take me to a basement under an arena. Not creepy at all.”

“If I wanted to hurt you,” I said flatly, “I wouldn’t bother with a basement.”

Her small shoulders tensed for a second. Regret climbed my throat. “Sorry. Should’ve picked gentler words.”

“Yeah. You should have.” She looked back at the rain, quiet for a moment. “Am I allowed to ask now?”

“Yes. Go ahead. It’s safe enough here for you to ask.”

“Back at the gallery… who was that man in the raincoat? His aura was terrifying.”

I steadied my breath. Truth is a sharp thing; I kept its edge from bleeding. “Not someone who happens to like art. Not someone looking for paintings for their beauty.”

“Then… who?”

“A Seeker. A mouthpiece for people who like to collect things that aren’t theirs.”

“You mean… a hunter?”

I didn’t answer. My silence was the answer.

Her eyes flickered fast. “What is he after?”

“The painting you restored. The one now displayed in Elaria’s gallery.”

Her frown deepened. “Which painting?”

“The one you stared at the longest.”

“Why that moon painting?”

Because it holds the key they want to use to cut my throat—and the throats of everyone like me. Because it’s a door, with unfinished pasts on both sides. Because in that old canvas lives a shard of moonline, never fully extinguished, peeking through layers of paint, waiting for certain blood to knock. Because your mother—Rhea Hale—once stood in the same place, choosing a path that changed the history of the pack beneath this city.

I gave the answer that wouldn’t terrify her tonight. “Because people like them believe old things can still be commanded with money and violence. And old things often hold mechanisms that respond when touched by the right person.”

“The right person?” She swallowed. “Like… a curator? Collector? Or—”

“—like you.” The words slipped before I could stop them. Damn it! Too late to take them back.

She glared. “Excuse me?”

“Forget it.” I tightened my grip on the wheel. “I just need you to trust me for the next twelve hours. After that—if you still want to curse me out, I’ll listen.”

“Trust you?” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “You show up in a stadium corridor, grab my hand, send cryptic messages, then appear in the gallery before opening hours, shatter my silence, refuse to explain anything, and now you’re taking me to a basement. God. Who do you think I am?”

“The most stubborn person I’ve ever met,” I muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She looked away, but I caught the tension at her lips—caught between anger and fear. I let silence take the next few minutes, only wipers scraping rain and tires slicing puddles. My mind ran its own track: service door B6, keycard panel I’d overridden, analog cameras I twisted away a week ago when instinct first itched. Callum—yeah… I needed to tell Callum.

I pressed the button on the wheel, connecting to a secure channel. Two short tones. “Yeah?” Callum’s voice, lazy as usual, but with an edge of steel.

“B6,” I said. “Route three. Twenty minutes.”

“You alone?”

“Two of us.”

A pause. “Her?”

“Yes.”

“You sure you don’t want me to bring two more?”

“No. They’d smell.” Hunters always sniff out “organizations.” What we needed was silence.

“Copy. I’ll sweep the perimeter, mask the signal. If you don’t check in after thirty minutes, I’m breaking the entrance.”

“Make it twenty-five.” I cut the line. Rhea looked at me, curiosity plain on her face.

“Who is he? Why can’t I understand a single thing you two just said?” she asked.

“Friend.” I chose the simpler word. Beta would stick like a thorn in her mind. She wouldn’t grasp what it meant anyway.

“Oh.” She leaned her chin on her hand, gazing out. “A friend who knows… whatever this is.”

“A friend who’ll still be standing when everything falls apart.”

She didn’t reply. The road sloped down, leading into the arena’s underground parking. Swipe card; barrier lifted. Neon lights lit damp concrete. I parked where cameras couldn’t see, shut off the engine.

“If once we’re inside you start feeling unsafe,” I said, undoing my belt, “say it. We’ll move.”

“I’ve felt unsafe since the moment I decided to follow you.” Her chin lifted. Brave. God, what a cruel world to pair beauty with courage like that.

We got out. Underground air greeted us—damp glue, old rust, machine breath. I pocketed the keys, held the umbrella, then closed it. No rain here. Corridor B6 was narrow, cold, lights flickering half-dead. Service door at the end, gray paint peeling. Keypad waiting.

I pressed my palm. “Don’t freak out.” I ran the override—rhythmic taps tricking the circuit into thinking the old key was used. Panel clicked. Door swung open. Room inside was bare—two metal chairs, one work table stained with oil, a half-filled tool rack, and a battered first-aid kit.

“Romantic,” Rhea said dryly.

“This place is cleaner than my heart,” I quipped without thinking. She stared at me like I’d confessed to eating my neighbor. “Kidding.”

She exhaled. “I’ll try to believe that.”

I checked again—vents, grilles, blind spots. Silent. “Sit.” I pointed at a chair. “I’ll talk.”

“You sure?” Her eyes pierced. “Because so far, you’ve been a hunter of half-sentences.”

I pulled another chair, sat across from her. Rested arms on the table, leaned just enough to catch micro shifts in her face, but not enough to give her the wrong idea.

“There are things I can’t give you right now,” I said. “Not because I don’t trust you. But because certain words—if they reach the wrong ears—become treasure maps that could kill half this city.”

She froze a moment. “And the things you can give me?”

“My instincts,” I answered. “And facts I can prove.”

She tilted her chin, signaling: go on.

“In the moon painting you restored—there’s something not meant for ordinary eyes.” I searched for words she could digest. “Symbols. Not paint. Old carvings on the substrate. They won’t appear until touched, invisible unless you’re sensitive to them.”

Her pupils tightened. Her small hand moved hesitantly toward her bag. She paused halfway, staring at me. “You won’t take it from me?”

“If I wanted to, I would’ve done it in the car.”

She let out a breath, pulling out something: a yellowed sheet, corners fragile. Thin symbols, not quite ink—more like scars etched on the surface. My breath shifted. At the edge of my senses, something old brushed my chest wall—a warm coldness, a contradiction only my kind understood. Werewolves.

“Don’t touch it,” I said, when she reached to trace the symbols with her finger. She stopped, eyes on me.

“Why?”

“Because your body will react. You had a headache last night, right? Felt like stabbing. Cold from the bone? Like electricity.”

She froze. “How did you…?”

“I can smell it on you,” I said.

Her face twisted—embarrassment, anger, a reluctant awe. “My… smell?”

“My instincts work through things that disgust humans.”

“Who are you, really?” she asked, suspicion sharp.

“A man who isn’t fully human. That’s all you need to know.” I lifted my hand, palm open. “May I?”

She hesitated, then handed me the sheet. The moment the old note touched my skin, the wolf in my chest opened its eyes—slow, hissing. The symbols were grim, woven with something once called prayer, but written in the accent of denial. Not truly a seal—more like a stencil. A map to place a seal on something larger.

In the back of my mind, a soundless voice—a muscle memory from nights when we hunted the one who made it first. Many died. More chose to forget.

“This isn’t from the painter,” I muttered. “It was slipped in later—ah… no. Inserted is more accurate. Finger grease not from oil paint, resin traces wrong for the era.”

“I seriously don’t understand. Can you put it in words I can?”

“Someone hid a ritual guide behind that painting.” I met her gaze. “And this sheet reacts to… certain lines.”

“Lines? What lines?”

I couldn’t say Moonline without blowing everything open. I chose the hazier path. “Lines passed down through blood.”

“Blood… family?” Rhea swallowed. “You think I’m… what? Descendant of some art cult?”

“Not a cult.” I held the paper by its edge, careful not to let the symbols touch her skin. “And this isn’t about art.”