CHAPTER 4

The Alpha’s gaze caught mine, tracking the way my eyes lingered on that obsidian watch. A heavy, dangerous silence stretched between us until he leaned in. His scent—cold rain and crushed cedar—washed over me, making my skin prickle.

"It’s a fake, Brooke," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against my ear. "Borrowed it from a rogue friend. I only wear it when I need to look like I’m worth more than the dirt in my boots. Didn't think you had an eye for high-caste trinkets."

He slid the watch off and shoved it into his pocket with a careless shrug.

"It’s a damn good imitation," I whispered, stepping back as my ears began to burn. The heat from his body was staggering.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Of course. A man cast out of the Pierce Compound would have connections in the black markets of the Shifter Citadel. For a second, I’d actually panicked, thinking I’d been sold to a high-ranking spy or a criminal lord. A street-hustler was much easier to handle.

Logan tilted his head, his dark brows drawing together. He looked at my flushing face with a strange, piercing intensity. The rumors said the Lawson girls were all sirens—promiscuous and power-hungry. My reaction seemed to trip his predatory instincts in a way he hadn't expected.

"The loser is finally here. Why are we still standing around?"

Madison’s sharp voice sliced through the tension. she strutted forward, her fingers hooked into Jason’s arm like claws. "Since the groom finally crawled out of his hole, let me introduce a real wolf. This is Jason Miller, heir to the Miller pack lands. We’re family now, Logan. Maybe Jason can find some use for you."

Jason looked like he wanted to shift into a flea and hop away. He kept his head down, refusing to meet my eyes.

I looked at the two of them—the sister who stole and the mate who betrayed—and I felt a cold, jagged stone settle in my gut. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just smiled thinly.

"A lovely introduction, Madison," I said, my voice as sharp as a silver blade. "But you’ve changed 'soulmates' so many times this moon, I’m losing track. Is Jason actually staying for the next cycle, or should I expect a new introduction by Sunday?"

Jason’s face went bone-white. Madison’s smug expression twisted into a mask of pure hate.

"You bitch," she hissed, before forcing a fake, high-pitched laugh for the benefit of the guests. "Anyway, Logan... if you’re tired of scavenging, I can talk to the Miller Alphas. They always need someone to scrub the grease off the war-vans or hose down the kennels. It’s better than being an idle stray, don't you think?"

I glanced at Logan, my heart hammering. Any Alpha would have ripped her throat out for an insult like that. But Logan just broke into a lazy, devastatingly handsome grin. He waved a hand as if dismissing a fly.

"No, thanks," he said, his voice smooth and untroubled. "I’ve always preferred the freedom of the wilderness to the smell of bleach."

Madison’s jaw dropped. She hadn't gotten the rise she wanted. Sulking, she dragged Jason back to the pews.

The ceremony was a blur—a rushed, cold ritual performed by a weary Elder who clearly wanted to be anywhere else. No flowers, no music. Just the bite of a ritual dagger, the smear of blood on a contract, and I was no longer a Lawson. I was a Pierce.

Logan took me to a secluded edge of the Harbor View district.

The "apartment" was a crumbling stone flat overlooking the misty ruins of the old city. It was small, cold, and smelled of woodsmoke. The furniture was sparse—just the essentials, all of it looking like it had been salvaged from the wreckage of the Citadel borders. Logan was a massive man; his presence made the low ceilings and narrow walls feel like a cage.

It was obvious he was living hand-to-mouth.

"This is the den," Logan said, tossing his keys onto a scarred wooden table. He didn't look ashamed. He looked like he was daring me to complain. "Make do with it."

"It’s small," I said, running a hand over a clean but worn tabletop. "But it’s quiet. It’ll hold the two of us."

I meant it. Compared to the suffocating cruelty of the Lawson Estate, this felt like a sanctuary. He’d kept it tidy, the floor swept and the hearth cleared. It didn't feel like a home, though—it felt like a campsite, a place where a predator rested before moving on.

I watched him move. He stripped off his suit jacket, draping it over a rickety chair, and began unbuttoning his white shirt. My breath hitched. Beneath the fabric, his back was a map of hard, corded muscle and faint silver scars. He didn't have the soft body of an "idler." He had the body of a warrior who had survived hell.

Logan turned, catching me staring. His eyes darkened, a flash of something raw and hungry flickering in the depths. He stepped toward me, his shadow swallowing mine against the stone wall.

"You’ve been through the ringer today, Brooke," he said, his voice dropping into a low, intimate growl. "You want to wash the scent of that chapel off first?"