THE TRACKER

The room was a gilded cage, and Anya had approximately thirty seconds to figure out how screwed she actually was.

Dimitri deposited her inside with all the ceremony of a cat dropping a dead mouse on a doorstep. "Get comfortable. You're going to be here a while."

"How long is 'a while'?"

"Depends on how cooperative you decide to be." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"Alexei's having Viktor run a full background check. Should have preliminary results in an hour or two. If your story holds up..."

"It will."

"...then maybe we'll discuss your living arrangements. Until then, you stay here." His ice-blue eyes tracked her movements as she walked further into the room. "The windows are reinforced and alarmed. The door locks from the outside. There's a panic button in the bathroom in case of emergencies, but I wouldn't recommend testing it unless you're actually dying."

"What constitutes an emergency?"

"Fire. Imminent death. Alien invasion." His lips quirked. "Use your judgment."

"And if I need to leave? For any reason?"

"You don't." He pushed off the doorframe. "Someone will bring you dinner in a few hours. Breakfast at eight. If you need anything else, there's an intercom by the bed."

"Wait." Anya took a step toward him. "Just... can you answer one question? Honestly?"

Dimitri tilted his head. "I can try."

"What did you mean before? About me being your mate? Is that..." She struggled for the right words. "Is that real? Or are you just trying to manipulate me?"

For a long moment, he just looked at her. Really looked, like he was seeing past the surface to something underneath.

"I wish I knew," he said finally. "The bond doesn't usually make mistakes. But you..." He moved closer. Not threatening. Curious. "You smell like mate. You feel like mate. My wolf is going insane with the need to claim you. But my brain says you're an assassin sent to kill us who just happens to check all the biological boxes. So either this is the universe's cruelest joke, or..."

"Or what?"

"Or whoever made you didn't understand what they were creating." He reached out slowly, giving her time to move away. When she didn't, his fingers brushed her cheek. Feather-light. Testing. "Tell me you don't feel it."

The heat was immediate. Spreading from the point of contact through her entire body like wildfire. Her diagnostic updated again: IMMUNITY: 94%.

Six percent total. From three brief touches.

At this rate, she'd be completely vulnerable in less than a week.

"I feel something," she admitted. "But that doesn't mean it's real. It could be the pheromones they gave me. Could be..."

"Could be a lot of things." His hand dropped. "Get some rest. You look like you need it."

He left, and she heard the distinct click of a lock engaging.

Anya was alone.

She waited thirty seconds. Listening. Then moved to the window and examined it properly.

Triple-paned ballistic glass, the kind that could stop a bullet. Small sensors in the corners, motion detection, probably. Breaking it would trigger an immediate alarm.

The door was solid wood with a magnetic lock. No handle on the inside. She could potentially override it with the right equipment, but she didn't have the right equipment. They'd taken everything when they'd found the tracker.

Well. Not everything.

She reached up and touched the spot behind her left ear. The subdermal comm unit was still there, hidden under her hairline. Military grade, undetectable by standard scanners. But she couldn't activate it, not yet. If they were monitoring her electronically, any transmission would be caught immediately.

She moved to the closet. Opened it. And stopped dead.

Clothes. An entire wardrobe of women's clothes in her exact size. Jeans, sweaters, dresses, even pajamas. All expensive brands. All perfectly fitted

.

"What the hell?" she whispered.

She checked the tags. The jeans were her waist size. The dresses had her measurements. Even the shoes in the bottom of the closet were size seven.

They'd been preparing for her.

We've been waiting a very long time, Dimitri had said. We knew someone would come eventually.

But this wasn't generic preparation. This was specific. Tailored. Like they'd known her measurements in advance.

Impossible. Her organization kept her details compartmentalized. There was no way,

Unless there was a leak.

Unless someone inside Project Seventh had sold her out.

Anya's mind raced through the possibilities. Who had access to her physical stats? Her trainers. Her handlers. The medical staff who performed her modifications. Any one of them could have...

A soft beep interrupted her thoughts. She looked around for the source.

The intercom by the bed had a small red light blinking. As she watched, a voice crackled through: "Hope you're finding everything satisfactory."

Dimitri. Of course they were monitoring her.

She walked to the intercom but didn't press the button to reply. Just stood there, arms crossed, staring at it.

"I can see you," the voice continued. "Camera in the smoke detector. Say something if you can hear me."

"Invasion of privacy much?" she said to the room at large.

"You're an assassin in our home. Privacy is a luxury you haven't earned." A pause. "The clothes fit?"

"How did you..." She stopped. "You know what, never mind. I don't want to know."

"Smart girl." Something in his tone suggested amusement. "We've been tracking supernaturally compatible females for decades. You popped up on our radar six months ago. We've been... preparing."

"That's not creepy at all."

"Says the woman who was sent to seduce and murder us." Definite amusement now. "Get changed. Dinner will be there in twenty minutes. And Anya?"

"What?"

"Don't try anything stupid. We'd really prefer not to have to restrain you."

The intercom clicked off.

Anya looked at the smoke detector with its hidden camera. Raised her middle finger.

Then went to the bathroom because spite only got you so far, and she desperately needed to think.

The bathroom was as luxurious as the bedroom, marble everywhere, a tub that could fit three people, a shower with more jets than should be legal. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and winced.

She looked like hell. Makeup smeared, hair a mess, the gauze on her collarbone already spotted with blood. The wound from the tracker removal throbbed dully.

She peeled off the gauze. The incision was small, precise, barely an inch long. Nikolai really was good with a blade. It would probably heal without even leaving a scar.

If she lived long enough to let it heal.

Anya washed her face, scrubbing away the expensive makeup until she looked more like herself. Or at least, the self she remembered before Project Seventh had started sculpting her into their perfect weapon.

The comm unit behind her ear felt heavier than it should. She could activate it right now. Send out an SOS. Her extraction team would mobilize within minutes.

But then what? They'd have to fight their way through a mansion full of werewolves to get to her. Casualties on both sides. Mission definitely blown. And she'd have to explain how she'd failed so spectacularly that she'd been captured within the first hour.

No. Better to wait. Gather information. Figure out what these three actually wanted from her.

Besides the obvious.

A knock at the bedroom door made her jump.

"Dinner," a female voice called. Russian accent, bored tone. "I'm leaving it outside."

Anya waited until she heard footsteps retreating, then emerged from the bathroom. Cracked open the bedroom door...

Which opened easily.

She froze. Stared at the unlocked door. Then at the tray of food sitting on a small table in the hallway.

It was a test. Obviously. See if she'd try to run.

But she was curious about the food.

She grabbed the tray and pulled it inside, nudging the door shut with her hip. It clicked locked again immediately.

The meal was elaborate. Borscht, still steaming. Fresh bread with butter. Some kind of meat dish that smelled incredible. A glass of wine. Even dessert, something chocolate and decadent.

Her stomach growled. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, and that had been sixteen hours ago.

Poison was a possibility. But if they'd wanted her dead, there were easier ways. She'd literally handed herself to them on a silver platter.

She picked up the spoon and tried the soup.

It was delicious.

Halfway through the meal, the intercom beeped again.

"Enjoying dinner?" Not Dimitri this time. Nikolai's warmer tones. "Our chef makes the best borscht in Moscow."

"It's good," she admitted.

"Glad to hear it. I was worried you wouldn't eat. Stubborn hunger strike thing." He paused. "Can I ask you something?"

"Can I stop you?"

"Probably not. But I'll ask anyway." Another pause. "What's your real name? Because I'm guessing it's not actually Anya."

She set down her spoon. "What makes you think that?"

"The way you hesitate half a second before responding to it. Like it's a suit you're wearing instead of your actual skin." His voice was gentle. Almost kind. "I'm not asking for intelligence purposes. I just... I'd like to know what to call you."

"Anya's fine."

"But it's not yours."

She didn't answer. Just picked up her wine and took a long sip.

"Okay," Nikolai said. "Anya it is. For now."

The intercom clicked off, and she was alone again with her thoughts and her rapidly cooling dinner.

She finished eating. The chocolate thing was almost good enough to make her forget she was a prisoner. Almost.

She'd just set the empty tray outside the door when her comm unit vibrated.

Anya froze.

One short vibration. Then nothing.

That was the check-in signal. Her handlers wanted to know her status.

If she didn't respond within six hours, they'd assume she was compromised or dead. Protocol said they'd either extract her or write her off entirely depending on the mission's importance.

Given what she'd been sent to do, she was betting on "write off."

She had six hours to decide: respond and risk detection, or stay silent and be abandoned.

She was still weighing her options when the bedroom door opened.

Alexei stood in the doorway, suit jacket gone, tie loosened, looking like he'd had a very long day of running a criminal empire.

"We need to talk," he said.

"I'm kind of busy..."

"Now."

It wasn't a request.

Anya stood slowly. "About what?"

"About this." He held up his phone. On the screen was a photo, the one from twelve years ago, the one with her old face. "Viktor's team has been digging into your background. The reconstruction surgery story doesn't hold up."

"Why not?"

"Because the medical records you'd need to justify that level of facial reconstruction don't exist. We checked every hospital in Russia for the past fifteen years. Nothing." He stepped into the room. "So either you had it done off-books, which suggests black ops or witness protection..."

"I told you, I was in..."

"Or," he continued like she hadn't spoken, "you're lying about something much bigger. And I'm betting on the bigger thing."

He moved closer. Not threatening. Just... present. Taking up space in a way that made the large room feel suddenly intimate.

"I'm going to ask you something," he said quietly. "And I want you to tell me the truth. Not because I'm threatening you. Not because you're trying to manipulate me. Just... the truth."

"What?"

"Did they send you here to die?"

The question hit like a physical blow.

"What are you talking about?"

"Your organization. Your handlers. Whoever gave you this mission." His silver eyes were intense in the low light. "They had to know we'd figure out something was wrong. You're good...very good...but you're not that good. No one is. So either they're incompetent, which I doubt, or..."

"Or they didn't expect me to survive," she finished

.

"Exactly." He was close now. Close enough that she could smell him, cedar and smoke and something wild underneath. "Which makes me wonder what you did to make them want you dead."

"I didn't do anything."

"Everyone does something eventually." He reached out slowly. Gave her time to move away. When she didn't, his hand cupped her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone. "Tell me your real name."

The heat from his touch was overwhelming. Her diagnostic flickered: IMMUNITY: 91%.

Nine percent from one conversation. From three men touching her.

The modifications were failing faster than she'd calculated. At this rate, she'd be fully bonded within days.

"I can't," she whispered.

"Can't or won't?"

"Both."

He studied her for a long moment. Then dropped his hand and stepped back.

"Your background check came back. Viktor found some interesting things. Inconsistencies. Gaps in your timeline. Places where your story stops making sense." He pulled out his phone. "But the most interesting thing he found was this."

He turned the screen toward her.

It was another photo. Older. A little girl, maybe eight years old, standing with an older woman. The woman's face was partially obscured, but the girl was unmistakable.

Anya's blood turned to ice.

"That's from a child services database," Alexei said conversationally. "Encrypted. Very hard to access. But not impossible." He zoomed in on the image. "The woman's name is redacted. The girl's listed as 'Subject A-7.' No other information. But facial recognition says that's you."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"'Subject A-7' suggests you were part of a program. Experimental. Classified." He pocketed the phone. "Want to tell me which program?"

"No."

"Didn't think so." He moved to the door. Paused with his hand on the frame. "You know what the interesting part is? The date on that photo. It's from approximately fifteen years ago. Which means the facial reconstruction you claim happened at twelve or thirteen? It happened before that photo was taken."

She didn't answer.

"Which means someone altered your face when you were eight years old or younger. Someone took a child and surgically modified her appearance." He looked back at her. "That's not protection. That's manufacturing. You were made, not trained."

"You don't know anything."

"I know enough." He started to leave, then stopped. "One more thing. Viktor tracked the signal from your tracker. It was pinging a location just outside Moscow. He sent a team.

Her heart stopped. "What?"

"They found a surveillance van. Two operators, both human. Both very surprised to see us. They're being questioned now." He smiled, cold and sharp. "So whoever sent you? They know you're compromised. And they're not coming to save you.

He left.

The door locked behind him.

And Anya stood frozen in the middle of her gilded prison, realizing that Alexei was right.

She was on her own.

Her comm unit vibrated again. The check-in signal.

This time, she didn't hesitate. She activated it with a specific tongue click against her back molars.

A voice crackled in her ear, barely audible: "Seven, report status."

She subvocalized, the words formed by muscle memory: "Compromised. Targets aware of surveillance. Require extraction."

"Stand by."

Thirty seconds of silence. Then: "Extraction denied. Mission parameters unchanged. Complete objective or you will be retired."

"I'm burned. They know..."

"Complete objective within seventy-two hours or retirement protocols will be activated. Do you understand?"

Retirement. That's what they called it when an agent became a liability.

"Understood," she whispered.

The comm unit went dead.

Anya sat on the bed, head in her hands.

Seventy-two hours to kill three werewolves who now knew she was a threat. While trapped in their fortress. While her genetic immunity failed and the mate bond pulled her toward them like gravity.

She was screwed.

The intercom beeped again.

"You should get some sleep," Nikolai's voice said. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

"Why?" she asked bitterly. "What's happening tomorrow?"

"Medical examination. Alexei wants our pack doctor to take a look at you. Figure out exactly what was done to make you immune to us. Should be fun."

He said it cheerfully. Like they were planning a picnic instead of invasive medical testing.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then we sedate you and do it anyway." Still cheerful. "But I'd really rather you cooperate. Makes everything easier."

The intercom clicked off.

Anya looked at the smoke detector with its hidden camera.

"This is insane," she said to the room at large. "You know that, right? This is completely insane."

No one answered.

She changed into the pajamas she found in the drawer, silk, of course, because these people didn't do anything by halves. Climbed into the bed that was far too comfortable for a prison. And lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how her very first mission had gone so catastrophically wrong.

The mate bond was the problem. Or the solution. She couldn't tell which anymore.

She pulled up her diagnostic display. The faint readout glowed in her vision: IMMUNITY: 91%

Still degrading. Still failing.

In her training, they'd emphasized that the bond was one-directional for her. She'd trigger their instincts while remaining immune to their pull.

They'd been wrong.

Every touch, every look, every moment in their presence was pulling her further under. Making the mission harder. Making the kill orders feel less like duty and more like...

She shut down that thought before it could finish.

She was a weapon. They were targets. The bond didn't change that.

Except it did.

And she had seventy-two hours to figure out what to do about it.