Chapter 1

Wren's POV

The bruise on my wrist is shaped like Garrick's thumb. I noticed that this morning while I was scrubbing the west hall floors, the way you notice something small and stupid because your brain refuses to look at the bigger thing sitting right behind it.

"You missed a spot," Talia whispers, crouching next to me with her own rag, not because she has to but because she can't stand watching me do it alone. "Right there. By the leg of the table."

"I didn't miss it. I'm saving it. Like dessert."

She snorts, quiet, careful, glancing at the door as the sound might carry through wood. Everything in this house gets measured that way now. How loud. How far. Who might hear.

Six years of measuring, and I still haven't gotten good at it.

"You're in a mood," Talia says.

"I'm on a floor," I say. "There's a difference."

She doesn't laugh this time. She just looks at me, that soft, worried look she gets when she thinks I'm about to do something reckless, which is usually right before I do something reckless. I wasn't planning anything today. Today was supposed to be ordinary. Floors, then the kitchen, then whatever Garrick decided he wanted before dinner, then sleep, if sleep decided to show up.

Then the front doors of the house open without a knock, without a warning, and every hair on my arms goes straight up like the air itself flinched.

"Get up," Talia hisses, hauling me by the elbow into the shadow of the stairwell before I've even processed the sound. "Get up, get up, that's not one of ours."

She's right. I don't need to see him to know it. There's something about the way powerful wolves walk into a room, a pressure, low and constant, like a hand pressing on your chest before you've even looked up. Thornhollow pack doesn't have anyone who walks like that. Garrick tries. He postures and raises his voice and slams doors, but it's all performance, thin as the good shirt he wears for guests.

This is not performance.

I stay low, half-hidden behind the stairwell rail, because six years of training taught me that the safest place for someone like me is nowhere at all. Don't be seen. Don't be smelled, if you can help it, though that one's harder. I stopped being able to control that a long time ago, the day they bound what I used to be. Don't be a person in a room full of people who matter.

I hear Garrick's voice first, pitched high and friendly in a way that makes my skin crawl. "Alpha Blackwood. This is an honor. We weren't expecting you until next week."

Alpha Blackwood.

I know that name the way everyone in three territories knows that name. Ravencross pack. The Alpha who took over young and bloody and never lost a fight since. The kind of name mothers use to make children behave, except I don't have a mother anymore to use it on me, and I stopped being anybody's child a long time ago.

"Change of plans," a second voice says. Low. Even. Not raised at all, and somehow it fills the whole hall anyway. "I like to see what I'm signing for before I sign for it."

"Of course, of course. Please, come in, let me show you..."

"I can see the house from here, Garrick."

There's a beat of silence that makes my stomach twist with secondhand fear, the kind you get watching someone else get caught in a lie. Garrick laughs, too loud, covering it badly.

I risk it. Just one look, just the edge of my eye around the stair rail.

He's tall in a way that doesn't need explaining, dark hair, dressed plain but expensive, and even from here I can see the exact moment he stops being polite and starts being an Alpha. Something shifts in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, like he's decided the pleasantries are over and he's not going to pretend otherwise for Garrick's comfort.

And then his head turns.

Not toward Garrick. Toward the stairwell. Toward me.

I freeze so fast my knee cracks against the wood, and the sound is unbearably loud in the sudden quiet, and Talia's hand clamps down on my arm so hard it'll bruise on top of the bruise already there.

Alpha Blackwood goes still.

I watch it happen. I watch a man that half the wolf world is afraid of go completely, unnervingly still, nostrils flaring once, like he's caught a thread of something he can't place and doesn't like not being able to place.

"Something wrong, Alpha?" Garrick asks, and for the first time all day I hear real nerves under his charm.

"Who else is in the house," Alpha Blackwood says. It isn't a question. It's an order wearing the shape of one.

"Just staff," Garrick says quickly. Too quickly. "Nobody worth your time."

I don't breathe. I don't move. I have gotten very, very good at making myself into nothing, into a shape in a shadow that doesn't register as a person, and for six years it has kept me alive.

But he's still looking at the stairwell.

He takes one step toward it.

"Wren!" Garrick's voice cracks through the hall, sharp and furious, aimed like a weapon. "Get out here. Now."

I feel Talia's fingers dig in, a silent don't you dare, and for half a second I actually consider it, staying folded into the dark where nobody has to look at me, where I don't have to stand in front of the most powerful Alpha in the region wearing a servant's dress with my brother's thumbprint bruised into my wrist.

But six years of obeying that voice wins out over six years of hiding.

I step out of the shadow.

And Alpha Ronan Blackwood looks at me like he's just found something he didn't know he was looking for, and something in my chest lurches sideways, terrified, because being found is the one thing I was never supposed to let happen again.

Garrick's hand closes around my wrist before I've taken a second step. The bad one. The one already blooming purple under my sleeve. His grip finds the bruise like he knows exactly where it is, because he does, and he yanks me forward hard enough that I bite down on the sound that wants to come out of me.

"I told you to get back to work," he says, low, meant for only me, his fingers tightening for one more second than necessary before he lets go.

I don't make a sound. Six years of practice, and I don't make a sound.

But Alpha Blackwood does.

It isn't loud. It isn't even really a word. It's a sound low in his chest, something between a warning and a growl, and every single person in that hallway goes rigid at once, because whatever that sound means in wolf, everyone in the room understood it perfectly.

Garrick's hand drops off my wrist like it's caught fire.

"Alpha, I only meant..."

"Don't." Just that. One word, flat and final, and I watch my brother, the man who has never once flinched in front of me in six years, take an actual step backward from a stranger in his own house.

Alpha Blackwood's eyes haven't left me. They drop to my wrist, to the fresh red mark rising on top of the old bruise, and something moves behind his face that I don't have a name for yet, something that makes the air in the hallway feel three degrees colder.

"We're going to have that conversation now," he says, still looking at me, though the words are clearly for my brother. "Not tomorrow. Now."