MasukFinish the mission, Seven, or we finish your sister." My handler's voice is static in my ear. Clinical. My sister's heartbeat still echoes from this morning's audio clip, steady, for now. Across the Volkov's gilded ballroom, my three targets watch me with possessive hunger. Alexei, whose brutal hands lift my chin like I'm something precious. Dimitri, who counts my lies like other men count coins. Nikolai, whose kindness is the most dangerous weapon of all, because it's the first thing that cracked my programming. I was engineered for this. Genetically modified to be immune to their mate bond, sculpted into the perfect weapon to destroy the most dangerous werewolf mafia family in Russia. Six months to make them love me. Six months to kill them. My immunity is failing. I feel it when Nikolai's touch doesn't repulse me. When Dimitri's suspicion feels like concern. When Alexei's cruelty looks more like pain. The bond I was supposed to fake is stitching itself into my bones, real and terrifying. Now my handlers want the kill. My sister's life for theirs. But the man who created me is their uncle. This isn't a mission, it's an eighty-year revenge, and I'm the blade he sharpened to cut his own bloodline. They think they've claimed their fated Luna. I'm carrying the knife that could end them. And I'm not sure which is sharper anymore:the silver in my sleeve, or the hope in my chest that maybe, just maybe, I could belong to them instead of my creators.
Lihat lebih banyakPOV: Multiple - ONE HUNDRED YEARS AFTER ANYA'S DEATH (2187) PART ONE: The Memorial Vera Volkova, now one hundred forty-six years old and still serving as Luna after seventy years, stood before her mother's memorial on the centennial of her death. The simple stone had weathered beautifully, moss growing in the carved letters, flowers blooming around its base—left by family, pack members, even strangers who'd learned Anya's story. Here lies Anya Volkova Weapon. Luna. Mother. Human. She chose love. It was enough. "Tell me about her," requested a child's voice. Vera turned to find her great-great-granddaughter, six years old, eyes bright with curiosity. "About Great-Great-Great-Grandma Anya." Vera knelt slowly, her supernatural body was aging finally, joints stiff after over a century—and pulled the child close. "What do you want to know?" "Everything. Why is she famous? Why do people still talk about her?" "Because she changed the world by choosing to fail. She was sent to kill
POV: Anya SIXTY-FIVE TO NINETY-TWO YEARS OLD The deterioration came gradually, then all at once. At seventy, Anya needed a cane. At seventy-five, she needed help bathing. At eighty, her memory became unreliable—she'd forget conversations from hours ago, repeat stories without realizing, occasionally fail to recognize people she'd known for decades. "It's dementia," Galina confirmed gently during one of their increasingly frequent check-ups. The ancient pack doctor was failing too, two hundred eighty years old, clearly approaching her final decade. "Early stages. It'll progress." "How long?" "Impossible to predict. Could be five years. Could be twenty. But yes, eventually you'll lose yourself to it." Anya absorbed this with surprising calm. She'd survived so much, why not this too? "I want to write everything down. While I still can. So my family has it all." She spent the next year compiling memories, writing letters, recording videos. Some days her mind was sharp, and she wor
POV: Anya THIRTY-FIVE TO FORTY YEARS AFTER INFILTRATION At fifty-eight years old, Anya Volkova discovered something unexpected: being ordinary was extraordinary. She woke each morning without Council sessions to attend or territorial disputes to mediate. She painted when inspiration struck rather than scheduling creativity around diplomatic obligations. She spent hours watching her granddaughter Sophia, now five years old, learn about the world with wonder Anya had never been allowed as a child. "Grandma Anya, why do trees have leaves?" Sophia asked, examining a maple leaf with intense concentration. "To catch sunlight and make food for the tree." "But why?" "Because that's how trees survive." "But why?" The endless questions would have frustrated Anya once. Now they delighted her. Sophia's curiosity was pure, unmarred by the cynicism that came from knowing too much about the world's darkness. Anya wanted to protect that innocence as long as possible. "You're good with her,"
POV: Anya THIRTY-TWO YEARS AFTER INFILTRATION The doctor's office smelled of antiseptic and fear. Anya sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair, staring at the X-rays illuminated on the wall, trying to make sense of the shadows that apparently meant something terrible. "I'm sorry," Dr. Petrov said gently. He was human, supernatural healers couldn't help with purely human diseases. "The biopsy confirmed it. Breast cancer. Stage two. It's aggressive, but we caught it relatively early." The words felt distant, abstract. Cancer. The disease that had plagued humanity for millennia. The thing supernatural healing should have protected her from, except she wasn't supernatural anymore. She was just human. Just mortal. Just fifty-five years old and facing the mortality she'd been trying not to think about for four years. "Treatment options?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt. "Chemotherapy, starting immediately. Six cycles, every three weeks. Then we'll evaluate whether surgery i
POV: Anya The safehouse smelled like blood and desperation. Anya stood over Architect's unconscious body, feeling nothing. That should have worried her, the emptiness where emotion should be, but she'd spent too many years being empty to recognize it as wrong anymore. Except now, with her immunit
POV: Vera TWO YEARS AFTER TRANSITION - THIRTY YEARS AFTER ANYA'S INFILTRATION Vera Volkova had been Luna for two years, and she was failing. Not obviously. Not catastrophically. But she felt it—the slow erosion of confidence, the mounting mistakes, the growing certainty that she'd never be what
POV: Anya TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS AFTER INFILTRATION The day Anya woke up completely human, she didn't realize it at first. She stretched in bed, feeling the familiar aches of her fifty-one-year-old body, and reached instinctively for the bond. For twenty-eight years, that connection had been as natu
POV: Anya TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AFTER INFILTRATION The Moscow skyline had changed dramatically in twenty-five years. Where once there had been tension between supernatural and human districts, now integration was visible everywhere, mixed neighborhoods, hybrid businesses, children of different specie
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