Thirteen

"What did you just say?" I demanded again, louder this time, my voice cracking. "I need to know. Please."

The please surprised even me. I never begged. Not anymore.

But this—this was different.

This was the one thing I'd been desperate for my entire life.

Aiden's expression remained neutral. "I asked you for your name one more time," he said, his tone completely even. "That's all."

"No, no, no—not that." The words tumbled out frantically. "You said something else. I heard it. I know I did."

Was I hearing things again?

This had happened before—when I was dying from blood loss during the hunt, when I was drowning in the river.

Voices that weren't there. Hope that turned out to be hallucination.

The excitement in my eyes—that desperate, fragile hope—was washed away instantly, replaced with the familiar sadness and disappointment.

My chest tightened painfully.

Not again. Please, not again.

But I still had one last thread of hope to cling to.

I looked at Aiden with what must have been a pathetically desperate expression, silently begging him to confirm what I'd heard.

Tell me I'm not crazy. Tell me it was real.

"I said nothing else," Aiden replied, his voice maddeningly calm.

And just like that, my hope shattered into a thousand pieces.

Again.

I was indeed imagining things. Desperate for the one thing I couldn't have.

A mate bond. A connection. Something that proved I wasn't broken.

Something that proved I was worthy of being chosen.

I looked down at my hands, blinking back the sudden burn of tears.

Stupid. So stupid to hope.

I was wolfless. Rejected. Worthless April Quinn.

Of course I didn't have a mate bond.

Of course I'd imagined it.

But even through my disappointment, I couldn't help studying him.

Trying to read him.

Aiden's calm demeanor was more unsettling than anger would have been. His face gave nothing away—no hint of whether he was telling the truth or lying through his teeth.

The fact that he somehow believed I wasn't a spy—or at least wasn't rejecting the possibility outright—even when his own pack members were trying to convince him otherwise...

Why?

Maybe he could smell the lie about my last name. Maybe he was just curious.

Or maybe he was playing a longer, more dangerous game I couldn't see yet.

"You're running from something, aren't you?" he said, changing the subject smoothly.

I noticed he phrased it as a question this time, but his tone said he already knew the answer.

"I can see it in your eyes. In the way you hold yourself. In every scar on your body."

His gaze traveled over me again, but this time it felt different. Less predatory, more... assessing. Like he was cataloging every injury, every wound, every mark left by the wolves who'd hunted me.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was a puzzle he intended to solve.

"And wolves who run from betrayal..." He paused deliberately, letting the words hang in the air. "They turn out to be good allies."

The statement felt loaded. Like a test.

"I'm not your ally," I said before I could stop myself.

The words tumbled out—defiant and stupid and probably suicidal.

But I couldn't help it.

I was so tired of being used. Of being a tool in other people's games. Of being moved around like a chess piece with no say in my own life.

His smirk deepened. For the first time, his smile reached his eyes—genuinely amused now.

But there was something else there too. Something that looked almost like... approval?

"Feisty," he murmured, so quietly I almost didn't hear it. "I like that."

Then louder: "Not yet."

The way he said it—so certain, so confident—made something flutter in my chest.

Like he could see a future I couldn't.

Like he knew something I didn't.

He straightened up and turned, heading for the door.

"You can't keep me here," I said, trying to stand up as the words came out breathless. I hated how desperate I sounded. "I'm not—I'm not yours to keep."

He paused in the doorway, not even bothering to turn around.

"Says the dying lady who stumbled into my territory with no name, no pack, and no claim to anything."

"Besides," Aiden continued, his voice dropping lower, "I think we both know you have nowhere else to go."

He wasn't wrong.

Going back meant death. My father had made that clear.

Leaving meant... what? Wandering alone, injured, hunted?

I was trapped, and he knew it.

The words hit like a slap. His words were cold, yet they were the truth.

I frowned and looked away, my hands clenching the rough sheets. He was right. I had nothing.

No bike. No home. No family. No identity.

Just a body full of wounds and a head full of nightmares.

He stood in the doorway, having a low conversation with the two men. I couldn't make out all the words, but I caught fragments.

"...watch her..."

"...don't trust..."

"...if Quinn finds out we have his daughter, we could..."

Wait. They knew?

They knew.

They knew who I was.

Howard Quinn's daughter. The enemy's spawn.

Which meant they could—would—use me.

A bargaining chip. A hostage. Or a message with my head chipped in a box with a message written in blood.

I coughed suddenly, the realization making my chest tighten, and pain shot through my ribs and arms. I winced, pressing a hand to my side.

Broken? Or just bruised? Hard to tell through the haze of pain.

"So what do we do with her?" one of the men asked, louder now.

Aiden turned back to look at me. Those hazel eyes locked onto mine, and for a second, I could have sworn I saw something almost like... pity?

Pity? No, not pity.

It was more like curiosity.

He put one foot out the door, then stopped and looked back at me one more time.

Then he said the words, and my heartbeat skipped and started racing immediately.