Return on Investment

I woke to the smell of coffee. Rich, dark, expensive coffee.

For an instant, I didn't know where I was. The sheets were too soft—Egyptian cotton, cool against my skin. The ceiling was too high. Then the memories crashed back in.

The sale. The car ride. The King.

I sat up slowly. My body felt heavy like I was moving through water, but at least the nausea was gone. For the first time in years, the crushing fog which usually clouded my brain had been lifted. Clear. Sharper.

"You've been asleep for thirty-six hours," a deep voice rumbled from the corner.

I jumped, pulling the duvet in and against my chin.

Dante was sitting in a leather armchair by the window, arms propping up a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He wore a charcoal gray suit, no tie, top button of his shirt undone. He looked effortlessly powerful and completely out of place in a sickroom.

"Thirty-six?" I croaked. My throat felt dry.

"Dr. Evans flushed your system," Dante said without looking at me. "Lucky you. One more year of that 'medicine,' and your liver would have failed."

His eyes were on me. Golden. Murky.

"Miller was poisoning you, Maya. Wolfsbane and diluted silver. It's a cocktail used to suppress powerful wolves in maximum-security prisons. Why was he giving it to an Omega who can't even shift?''

My heart hammered against my ribs. "I told you. He said I was sick. He said it helped."

"He lied," Dante said flatly. "And now I have to wonder what else he lied about."

He stood up and walked to the bed, tossing a heavy file onto the mattress near my feet.

"Your former Alpha is thieving," Dante said. "I bought his draught, meaning I want to take the pack's entire financial liabilities. But looking at these ledgers... does not add up. Claims the pack bankrupt but spends a fortune on non-permitted imports."

I looked at the file. It was stamped CONFIDENTIAL: SILVER RIVER ACCOUNTS.

"Why are you showing me this?" I asked.

"Because you lived in his house," Dante said, leaning against the bedpost, crossing his arms. "You were a servant. Servants hear things. Servants see things that Alphas ignore."

He was testing me. He didn't care a straight deal about my health, he cared about his money.

I reached for the file. My hands were still shaking slightly, but I opened it. Columns of numbers. Debts. Expenses.

I scanned over the pages. My mind now suddenly free of its drug-induced haze latched onto the patterns instantly. Numbers were, in fact, my good source of survival against Miller's wrath. There are not too many people who would risk drawing his attention by helping the kitchen staff balance their meager budgets so that he wouldn't fire them.

"Here," I pointed to a recurring entry. "Whatever this 'Logistics Consult' is... it's fake."

Dante raised an eyebrow. "Explain."

"Miller doesn't use consultants. He barely trusts his own Beta," I said, my voice gaining strength. "Look at the dates. Every time this 'consulting f*e' is paid, it's matching the dates of his 'hunting trips' to the border."

I flipped the page, tracing the line with my finger.

"And the amount... it's just shy of ten thousand. That's the limit for transactions that don't get tagged by the Banking Council."

Dante moved in closer, his shoulder brushing against my neck as he looked from behind me. He smelled like sandalwood and rain. For a second, I forgot to breathe.

"Structuring," he muttered. "He's laundering money from the pack accounts."

"He has a mistress in the Red Rock territory," I added quietly. "I cleaned out his office. I found receipts for a condo there." If he's hiding money, that's where it is.

Dante looked at the page for a long moment, before turning his gaze to me.

The frigid indifference had melted somewhat, and mere flicker of respect warmed it. It wasn't warmth; it was the kind of look a craftsman gives a surprisingly useful tool.

"You have a good memory," he noted.

"I had to," I replied, closing the file. "When you're invisible, people say things in front of you. You learn to listen to survive."

Dante took the file back. "Dr. Evans says that you need to rest and real food. The poison stunted your growth and your metabolism. You're very underweight now."

He walked to the door.

"Eat," he commanded. "Recover. If you can find for me Miller's hidden treasure, you might be worth the fifty million after all."

"And if I can't?" I asked, a spark of defiance flaring in my chest.

Dante paused. He didn't turn around.

"Then you're just a very expensive pet. And I don't keep pets."

The door clicked shut.

I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding. I looked at the bedside table. There was a silver tray left beside it—toast, fruits, and a glass of juice. No bitter brown liquid.

I picked up a slice of toast.

Dante thought he had bought a helpless victim. Miller thought he had sold a defective toy.

But as I took a bite of the food, feeling the energy hit my bloodstream, I realized something. My mind was sharp. My secrets were safe.

I wasn't going to be a pet. I was going to make myself indispensable. Because in this castle, being useful was the only way to stay alive.