C5

“Is that Tuesday Gilbert?” a young wolf female shrieks, her voice echoing across the high, arched ceiling of the Silverpine City transport terminal.

“I can’t believe I’m bumping into an idol from the Lamont Media House at the pack station in the middle of the night!” another female squeals, her phone light flashing in the dark corridor. “She’s even more stunning in person. Tuesday, can we please get a photo for the pack forum?”

I lean my heavy hips against the concrete support pillar, my broad shoulders squared under my canvas jacket as a gaggle of young wolves surrounds Tuesday. Their voices are loud, cut through with the sharp, vibrating energy of unbonded yearlings. Next to me, Briggs Whitlock turns his head, watching the scene with a proud smile stretching across his face.

Tuesday doesn't reject them. She smooths her white sundress over her hips, posing with a sweet, shy expression that looks entirely practiced. But beneath her lashes, her pale eyes keep darting toward me, searching my heavy frame for a flicker of insecurity.

“Tuesday’s been trained in vocal arts and moonlight performance since she was a pup in the Gilbert Pack Estate,” Briggs explains, his voice laced with affection as he looks at her. “Lamont Media House just signed her to a talent showcase on the pack network. Those girls are probably her regional fans.”

I don't feel a drop of envy in my blood. I just give a lazy, single-word response. “Hmm.”

My phone vibrates in my front pocket. I slide it out, keeping the screen low against my hip.

Y: [Boss, the elemental science wing in Hawkridge Row is locked down!! Creed’s wolfsbane fever is spiking and the pack healers are losing their minds. We need your herbal brew right now!!]

I massage the bridge of my nose, my heavy brows drawing together in pure irritation. My fingers move fast over the key pad. [Scram.]

Y: [You can’t just leave me hanging, boss! The Alpha is going to tear the wing apart if Creed’s shoulder scar re-opens!]

A cold, mocking smile touches my lips. [Sort it out yourself.]

I tap the screen, instantly tossing the contact into my block list.

A second later, miles away in the Hawkridge territory, his frantically typed message bounces back with a systemic error: [Message failed to send because the recipient has blocked you.]

I slide the phone back into my dark jeans just as Tuesday finishes signing autographs. The crowd of yearlings trails behind her like eager pups, two of them keeping their phone cameras pointed directly at us.

I narrow my eyes, catching the lens glare. Without a word, I reach into my canvas bag, pull out a black cloth face mask, and loop it over my ears, covering my face from the bridge of my nose down to my chin.

Tuesday stops in her tracks, her blue eyes blinking in confusion at my mask. Then, a subtle sigh of relief escapes her lips. The Davis Pack Household is famous for its sharp, dominant visual genetics. Tuesday clearly doesn't want her online followers recording my face alongside hers.

“I’m so sorry about that, Briggs,” Tuesday purrs softly, her voice carrying a delicate, breathy lilt. “I didn't expect fans to recognize me outside the Gilbert Pack Lands and delay us.”

Her words sound like an apology, but the tilt of her chin is pure pack posturing, aimed right at my quiet, heavy frame.

I don't give her the satisfaction of a reaction. My eyes stay dark, cool, and completely detached as I look right through her.

“It’s fine,” Briggs says, waving a hand casually. “Let's get to the car.”

Briggs drives a modest gray sedan—mid-tier, sturdy, reinforced with basic iron plating along the doors. It isn't a high-ranking Alpha vessel, but it isn't a beat-up rogue clunker either. It proves the rumors about him being a penniless, lazy wolf were nothing more than cover stories.

After Briggs throws my heavy duffel into the trunk, he turns to Tuesday. “How did you get all the way out to the Silverpine station, Tuesday?”

Tuesday glances at me, her gaze flicking over my thick waist and dark hair before she looks back at Briggs. “The Gilbert family driver dropped me off at the boundary line.”

She steps forward, looping her delicate arm through Briggs’s elbow. She leans her weight into his side, her tone shifting into a whining, spoiled purr. “Briggs, can I talk to you for a second?”

Briggs’s eyebrows pull together at the sudden touch, but he doesn't push her off. “What is it?”

Tuesday tilts her head, her painted face lit up with practiced innocence. “I’ve been locked in the Lamont Media House studio for weeks and haven't visited Mom and Dad at the Davis Alpha Residence in ages. I feel terrible about it. Plus, Joxie just arrived from Whitlock Hollow, and she’s probably feeling completely out of her element without a wolf spirit to guide her. I was thinking of staying at the house for a few days to spend time with the family and help Joxie settle into the city.”

Briggs considers it for a brief moment, then nods. “Sounds reasonable. Mom will feel better knowing you’re there to show Joxie how the city packs operate.”

“Yay!” Tuesday chirps. She gives me a tiny, triumphant smirk over her shoulder, lets go of Briggs, and hops straight into the front passenger seat, claiming it as if she owned the vehicle.

I raise an eyebrow under my mask, a dry, bitter curve touching my lips. I don't say a word. I simply open the rear door, my heavy body slipping smoothly onto the back bench seat.

As Briggs pulls out onto the dark asphalt of the Mooncrest Pack Roads, Tuesday chatter non-stop. She rambles about the behind-the-scenes drama at Lamont Media House, her voice loud in the small cabin. Every few seconds, her eyes flash up to the rearview mirror, checking to see if I’m squirming with jealousy in the back.

I’ve already pulled my mask down. I’m leaning my head back against the leather seat, staring at my phone, completely unbothered by her chatter.

It hits Tuesday’s pride like a physical blow. She settles herself with the thought that a human baseline from the country probably doesn't even understand how high-ranking the Lamont Media House is in the wolf hierarchy.

Tuesday shifts her posture, turning her head toward the back seat. “So, Joxie... we’re the same age, which means you must be starting your final year at Mooncrest Academy, right?”

My fingers pause over my phone screen. I slowly raise my head, the dim dashboard lights catching the sharp line of my jaw and my calm, heavy eyes.

“Mm-hmm,” I hum, my voice low and smooth.

Tuesday’s eyes narrow slightly, clearly thrown by how husky and grounded my human voice sounds. She forces a sweet smile, though her knuckles turn white against her purse. “I heard from Mom that you sorted out your transfer before you left Grandmother Pearl’s cottage.”

She stresses the word ‘Mom’ with a sharp, possessive bite.

I look directly into her eyes, my lips curling into a lazy, half-smile. Tuesday’s breath catches, her eyes flinching away from my direct gaze as her easy composure cracks.

“Have you picked out a school wing yet?” Tuesday asks quickly, her tone losing its casual edge. “Do you need Dad’s influence with the pack board? I remember Mom saying your academic marks in Whitlock Hollow weren't exactly—”

“No need,” I cut in casually, my voice dropping like a stone into water. “I already picked one.”

Tuesday freezes, the rest of her sentence dying in her throat. She swallows hard, forcing a stiff, tight smile back onto her face. “Really? Which one?”

Briggs glances into the rearview mirror, his dark eyes showing genuine surprise. He doesn't stay at the Davis Alpha Residence often because of his guard duties, but he knows his parents spent weeks stressing over where to send their non-shifted, human daughter. They worried her lack of a wolf would make her an easy target at a standard pack school, but they feared a high-ranking territory academy would crush her spirit.

“I enrolled in the Wolf Biology Wing at Mooncrest Academy,” I say, leaning my head against the headrest.

Tuesday lets out a sharp, breathless laugh that sounds entirely fake. “The Wolf Biology Wing? Joxie, that wing is reserved for elite pack healers and high-ranking lineage scholars! You need a direct recommendation from a ruling Alpha or an Elder Council signature just to pass the iron gates! Dad hasn't even submitted your paperwork to Headmistress Birdsong yet!”

“I didn't ask Sterling Whitlock for a signature,” I reply flatly, my eyes drifting back down to my phone screen.

“Then who signed your transit scroll?” Tuesday demands, her voice rising an octave, stripping away all her sweet innocence. “You can’t just walk onto Gilbert Pack Lands or enter Mooncrest Academy without a sponsor! If you forged an Alpha seal, the pack enforcers will throw you into the iron cells!”

Briggs’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, his head snapping toward the mirror. “Joxie, is that true? Who sponsored your entry pass?”

Before I can answer, the heavy sedan hits a sudden dip in the road as we cross the territorial boundary line into the Moonridge Residential Quarter. The streetlights overhead flicker, casting long, violent shadows across the asphalt.

Briggs slams his foot on the brake.

The tires screech against the pavement as three massive, jet-black SUVs tear out from the shadows of Hawkridge Row, blocking the narrow road in a tight, iron-clad formation.

“What the hell?” Briggs growls, his wolf instincts flaring as his pupils dilate into narrow slits. He reaches for the silver dagger holstered at his hip. “Gilbert enforcers?”

“No,” I say calmly, unbuckling my seatbelt. “Those aren't Gilberts.”

The driver’s side door of the lead SUV slams open.

Creed Hawkridge steps out into the rain-slicked street, flanked by four heavily armed pack guards wearing dark tactical leather. The scar across Creed’s shoulder bleeds dark, fresh blood through his shirt, but his eyes are burning with a wild, uncontrollable amber light.

He marches straight up to Briggs’s car, pulling a heavy iron breach-axe from his belt and slamming the blunt end onto the hood of the sedan with a deafening CRACK.

The windshield shatters into a web of white cracks. Tuesday screams, throwing her hands over her head and cowering against the dashboard.

“Out of the car, Whitlock!” Creed roars, his voice vibrating through the metal frame of the vehicle, heavy with an Alpha’s territorial command.

Briggs kicks his door open, stepping out into the cold night air with his blade drawn, his wolf energy flaring defensively. “Creed Hawkridge! You’re crossing the Davis boundary line! What the hell do you think you’re doing stopping my car?”

Creed doesn't even look at Briggs’s drawn blade. He strides around the hood, his blazing amber eyes locking directly onto me through the rear window.

“I’m not here for you, Briggs,” Creed growls, his chest heaving as he grips his iron axe. “Celt sent us. The Hawkridge Pack Council just ratified the boundary treaty with the Davis Alpha Residence.”

Tuesday rolls down her window an inch, her face pale as snow. “What treaty? The Davis family hasn't signed anything with Hawkridge Row!”

Creed reaches into his dark coat and pulls out a heavy, blood-sealed parchment, tossing it onto the hood of Briggs’s shattered car.

“Your father, Sterling Whitlock, just traded her blood-rights to clear his debts with the Alpha,” Creed snarls, his voice echoing down the empty street. “Joxie Whitlock belongs to the Hawkridge pack now. Get out of the car, human.”

Briggs stares at the blood-seal on the paper, his face draining of color as his sword hand trembles. “He... he sold her?”

Tuesday gaps at the document, her mouth opening and closing in sheer horror. “No... no! Celt Hawkridge is the True Alpha of the Northern Quarter! He can’t take a scentless human as his territorial ward! That’s impossible!”

I slowly push the rear door open, my sturdy boots hitting the wet gravel. I stand tall, my full, heavy curves unbothered by the cold wind, looking Creed dead in his glowing eyes.

“Your brother sure moves fast when he wants something,” I say, my voice steady, carrying over the hum of the idling engines.

Creed’s wild, feverish gaze sweeps over me, a flash of dark respect cutting through his wolf rage. He lowers the iron axe to his side. “Celt is waiting at the Hawkridge Den, Joxie. He said if you don't bring that silver herbal brew with you, he’ll personally drag you into his bed to collect the debt.”

I grab my dark canvas bag from the back seat, slinging it over my broad shoulder without looking back at Briggs or Tuesday.

“Tell him to keep his trousers on,” I say, stepping past Creed toward the lead SUV. “I’m coming.”