C3

“Are you telling me that Pearl Whitlock’s human heart didn't shatter when her wolf bond broke?” Maureen Gilbert snapped, her voice carrying a venomous screech that echoed off the white tile walls of the Pack Healing Center.

I sat three doors down in the waiting area, my wide, heavy hips spilling over the edges of the metal chairs. The smell of antiseptic, blood, and silver-laced medicine filled the corridor of Silverpine City's medical floor. My human ears didn't need wolf hearing to catch Maureen's rage.

The pack doctor shifted his clipboard, his tail-end scent souring with anxiety. “The diagnostic scans from the Moonridge Medical Center don't lie, Luna Maureen. Pearl’s heart muscle was deteriorating fast from baseline stress. But whatever herbal tonic she ingested twenty minutes ago stabilized her internal channels completely. Her heart function is higher than it’s been in a decade.”

Maureen’s boots clicked hard against the linoleum as she turned toward the hallway, her amber eyes burning with pure fury. She locked onto me sitting on the bench, my hands resting calmly over the heavy canvas of my duffel bag.

“You,” Maureen hissed, stalking toward me with her manicured nails curling into claws. “What did you force down my mother’s throat before the ambulance arrived at the Whitlock Cottage?”

I slowly leaned back against the wall, my wide shoulders square, my brown eyes unblinking. My human heart beat at a low, steady sixty-eight beats a minute. “I gave her peace, Maureen. Something she never got living under the Gilbert Pack Estate.”

“You gave her unverified human sludge!” Maureen barked, her voice drawing the attention of two heavy-set wolf guards posted by the elemental science wing. “You’re a baseline stray! A scentless, oversized leech who got swapped into my noble bloodline by a corrupt nurse! Do you think mixing dried leaves makes you a Pack Healer? You’re nothing!”

“If I’m nothing, why is your mother still breathing?” I asked, my voice flat, hitting her like a frozen slab of iron.

Maureen’s face flushed a deep, ugly crimson. She stepped into my space, the suffocating, heavy air of her alpha-lite aura rolling off her skin in waves. A normal human would have choked, bowed their head, or started crying. I just crossed my thick arms over my chest and stared at her faded eyelashes.

“The pack council cleared your expulsion an hour ago,” Maureen whispered, her breath smelling of bitter ash and cold coffee. “Your human father, Sterling Whitlock, signed the transfer papers at the Davis Alpha Residence. The Whitlock name is stripped from your records. Your trunk is sitting by the Mooncrest Iron Gate. If your heavy feet are still touching Gilbert Pack Lands when the moon reaches its peak tonight, I’ll let the enforcers drag you out by your hair.”

“Save your breath, Maureen,” I said, standing up. My full, curve-heavy frame towered over her slender, lace-clad figure. “I was already leaving.”

I picked up my canvas duffel bag, slinging it over one shoulder. I didn't look back at Pearl’s room. I knew the medicine would hold for three months. I knew the old woman would live. And I knew that staying here would only force Pearl to bleed her small pension dry to protect a human who didn't need saving.

I pushed through the heavy glass doors of the Pack Healing Center, stepping out into the cold, damp air of Silverpine City.

The rain had just stopped, leaving the asphalt of Mooncrest Pack Roads glistening under the high-beam headlights of idling pack vehicles. I dragged my bag down the concrete steps, my sturdy boots crunching over the gravel near Mercer’s Corner Market.

A low horn honked twice from the shadow of an overgrown oak tree.

I stopped, my eyes narrowing at a sleek black sedan parked in the alleyway. The car lacked the flashy chrome emblems of the Gilbert Pack Household, but its wide stance, reinforced steel frame, and tinted glass screamed raw power. It was built for speed and blood.

The driver’s side door swung open.

A tall figure stepped out into the misty air, wearing a dark leather coat that broad-shouldered him into an intimidating silhouette. A black baseball cap was pulled low over his forehead, shadowing his sharp jawline and the faint pale scar running down his cheek.

Celt Hawkridge leaned his massive frame back against the driver’s door, his silver-gray eyes tracking my slow approach. His scent hit the wind a second later—dense cedarwood, crushed iron, and the electric tang of an unbonded Alpha wolf.

I stopped three feet away, settling my weight into my thick thighs. “Have you been tracking me from the cottage, neighbor boy?”

Celt’s scarred lip twitched with a dark, dangerous amusement. He crossed his arms over his massive chest, his gaze sweeping down over my plain cotton shirt, my heavy waist, and the worn leather of my bag.

“Eavesdropping on a Gilbert pack exile isn't hard when your grandmother screams loud enough to wake the dead,” Celt rumbled, his voice low and gravelly, vibrating through the cold dampness between us. “What’s the matter, Joxie? Did the noble wolves finally realize you don't have a tail to wag?”

“Did you loiter in the rain just to run your snout, Hawkridge?” I asked, my arms folded, a lazy smirk pulling at my lips.

For almost a year living in Hawkridge Row, Celt had been the silent thorn in my side. Our small cottage shared a crumbling stone wall with the Hawkridge pack’s outer perimeter. I saved his little brother, Creed Hawkridge, from a silver-poisoning fever six months ago when their own healers failed, but the bastard still refused to call me by anything other than 'human' or 'stray'.

“Where are you going with that heavy bag?” Celt asked, his dark eyebrows lifting beneath the brim of his cap. His gaze lingered on the thick curve of my throat before snapping back to my eyes. “The Davis pack lands aren't safe for a baseline girl with no wolf to guard her back.”

“I’m transferring to the Wolf Biology Wing at Mooncrest Academy,” I said flatly. “I just need a drop-off at the Silverpine City train terminal.”

Celt let out a short, rough bark of laughter. “The train terminal? You think the Gilbert enforcers are going to let you ride a public train across pack lines without a transit pass? They’ll pull you off the car before it leaves the station.”

He shifted his weight, pushing off the car door and stepping directly into my path. He was huge, broad enough to block out the streetlights, his body radiating a intense, territorial heat that made the damp air steam around us.

“My doors are unlocked,” Celt said, his voice dropping an octave into a gravelly purr that vibrated against my ribs. “I’m heading toward the Davis Alpha Residence to settle a border dispute. I can drop you at the Mooncrest Iron Gate instead.”

I looked at his car, then looked back up into his dark, storm-gray eyes. “That’s a four-hour drive through rogue territory, Hawkridge. What’s the price?”

Celt tilted his chin down, his gaze dropping to the heavy swell of my breasts before rising slowly back to my face. His wolf stirred beneath his skin, the silver in his irises flashing with a possessive amber tint.

“You owe me a debt for pulling your brothers out of that brawl at Mercer’s Market last month,” he murmured, stepping an inch closer until the leather of his coat brushed my arm. “Consider the ride payment in full.”

“Fine,” I said, tossing my duffel bag into his back seat without waiting for him to open the door. “Drive fast. I hate the smell of wet dog.”

Celt grunted, a dark chuckle escaping his throat as he rounded the car and slid into the driver’s seat.

Four hours later, the heavy black sedan pulled to a smooth stop outside the looming, fog-drenched perimeter of Mooncrest Academy. The iron spikes of the Mooncrest Iron Gate rose up into the night sky like black teeth, guarding the entrance to the wolf halls beyond.

I pulled my bag out of the back, slinging it over my shoulder. I stepped around to the open driver’s window, leaning my heavy elbows on the door frame to look at him.

I reached into my pocket, pulling out a small, unlabelled glass vial filled with a thick, silver-tinged liquid. I dropped it onto the passenger seat beside him.

“What’s this?” Celt asked, his long, calloused fingers picking up the bottle, tracing the glass cap.

“Wolfsbane neutralizer,” I said, my voice smooth and indifferent. “Creed’s shoulder wound is going to flare up when the full moon hits tomorrow night. Rub three drops on his scar before he shifts.”

Celt looked at the bottle, then raised his head, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the skin on my neck prickle. “You didn't have to give me this.”

“Consider it tip money for the ride, neighbor boy,” I said with a faint, roguish smirk. “Farewell. Try not to get killed in the border wars.”

I turned on my heel, my heavy boots thudding against the gravel as I walked away toward the academy gates.

Behind me, Celt’s voice cut through the fog, thick with a dark, possessive promise. “See you around, Joxie. Silverpine City isn't as big as you think.”

Inside the private office of Headmistress Birdsong at the Academy Administration House, the heavy oak doors were closed tight against the midnight cold.

Maureen Gilbert stood before the broad mahogany desk, her violet scarf twisted tightly around her hands as she stared at the high-ranking elder sitting across from her.

“Headmistress Birdsong,” Maureen said, her voice strained, breathless with anxiety. “You have to review the entry files for the incoming senior class. There’s been a mistake. A human baseline girl named Joxie Whitlock forged her transit papers to gain access to the Wolf Biology Wing!”

Miss Birdsong didn't look up from the leather ledger she was reading. She casually turned a page, her sharp, hawk-like eyes scanning the dense rows of text.

“There is no mistake, Luna Maureen,” Miss Birdsong replied softly, her voice cool and crisp as shattered glass.

“What do you mean there’s no mistake?” Maureen demanded, slamming her manicured hands onto the desk. “She is a human stray! She has no pack status! Her biological family, the Davis Pack Household, hasn't even claimed her! She doesn't belong in Mooncrest Academy!”

Miss Birdsong slowly closed the ledger with a heavy thud. She raised her gaze, her eyes cold as she looked at Maureen.

“Joxie Whitlock didn't apply under the Gilbert Pack Household sponsorship,” Miss Birdsong said, pulling a dark red document from the side drawer and sliding it across the polished wood.

Maureen frowned, snatching the paper. Her eyes scanned the official seal at the bottom—a dark, raised crest featuring a striking hawk wrapped in iron chains.

“This... this is an Alpha sponsorship,” Maureen stammered, her face turning pale as her fingers trembled against the heavy parchment. “From the Hawkridge Pack Council?”

“Not just the council,” Miss Birdsong corrected, leaning back in her high chair with her fingers intertwined. “That document was signed directly by Celt Hawkridge himself. He claimed her under the blood-debt clause. As of midnight, Joxie Whitlock is registered as the chief human medical scholar of the Hawkridge territorial line.”

Maureen’s breath hitched in her throat, her eyes widening in sheer horror as the paper slipped from her nerveless fingers, fluttering down onto the floorboards of Headmistress Birdsong’s Office.

“He... he bonded her?” Maureen whispered, her voice barely a breath.

Outside in the shadowed courtyard, the iron gates of Mooncrest Academy locked shut behind me with a heavy, echoing clang.

I pulled my coat tighter around my curves, my gaze fixing on the tall stone towers of the Wolf Halls rising into the dark sky. A quiet text alert chimed from the old phone in my pocket.

I pulled it out. The screen lit up with an unsaved number from Silverpine City.

Your father sold your mate-contract to the Hawkridge pack an hour ago, Joxie. You belong to Hawkridge Row now. Don't unpack your bags.