Chapter 4

The fever hit Lachlan at four in the morning. It was not the heat of a virus or the warmth of a transformation. It was a jagged, predatory fire that clawed at his insides, radiating from the spot in his chest where the mate bond had tried to anchor itself. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the icy blue gaze of Vivienne Malone. Every time he breathed, he smelled vanilla and woodsmoke.

By six, he was standing on the balcony of a penthouse on the forty-second floor of the Obsidian Tower. The wind off the river was freezing, but his skin felt like it was simmering in lead.

"You look like hell," Dan Reyes said, stepping onto the balcony. He was carrying two cartons of coffee and a tablet. "I have seen men with silver poisoning who looked healthier than you do right now."

Lachlan did not turn around. He gripped the cold steel railing so hard the metal began to groan under his strength. "It is just the rejection. My wolf is throwing a tantrum because I told him no."

"It is not a tantrum, Lachlan. It is bond sickness," Dan said, his voice dropping the playful edge. "You rejected a fated mate in the middle of a grief cycle. Your body thinks it is dying. If you do not stabilize this, you will be too weak to fight Vance, let alone Dragomir."

Lachlan snatched a coffee, the heat of the cup barely registering against his own feverish palms. "I am not mating with a Thorne spy or a New York politician. I had a Luna. I am not replacing her."

"Nobody is asking you to replace her," Dan countered. "But we are moving into this place today. The movers will have your things out of the pack house by noon. You are officially an exile, Lachlan. We need to start acting like it."

Lachlan looked back at the penthouse. It was a masterpiece of glass, black marble, and cold, echoing spaces. It was the height of luxury, yet it felt like a cage. He had spent his entire life in the sprawling, forest-bordered estate of the Silver Moon. Now, he was perched on a needle of glass in the middle of a concrete jungle.

"Fine," Lachlan rasped. "Let the vultures have the house. We have work to do. Have you seen the reports for the Energy branch?"

Dan’s expression darkened. He handed over the tablet. "It is worse than Harlan described. Come on. You need to see this graveyard for yourself."

*****

Livingston Energy Solutions sat on the edge of the industrial district, a sprawling complex of rusted corrugated metal and smoke-stained brick. As Lachlan’s SUV pulled through the gates, he did not see the humming activity of a tech-forward energy firm. He saw groups of men leaning against derelict machinery, smoking and playing cards.

The air smelled of stagnant oil and neglect. There was a thick layer of grime on every window, and the "Livingston" sign hung precariously by a single bolt, creaking in the wind.

Lachlan stepped out of the car, his boots crunching on broken glass. The moment his feet hit the ground, the men by the loading dock went silent. They did not stand at attention. They did not offer the bared-neck submissiveness of pack members to their Alpha. They looked at him with a mixture of boredom and veiled hostility.

"Where is the floor manager?" Lachlan demanded.

A man with a protruding gut and a stained jumpsuit stepped forward, spitting a glob of tobacco onto the gravel near Lachlan’s boot. "Manager’s out. Said he had a 'family emergency' the minute he heard the disgraced prince was coming to play boss."

Dan stepped forward, his eyes flashing a warning amber. "You are speaking to the Alpha, whether he has a title in the council or not. Watch your mouth, or I will hand it back to you in pieces."

The man laughed, a wet, rattling sound. "Council says he is just a manager now. And a manager without a budget is just a guy in a suit. We haven't had a full shipment of parts in three weeks. Half the guys here are only on the clock because Vance is still cutting the checks."

Lachlan walked past the man, heading straight into the main turbine hall. It was a cavernous space that should have been the heart of his new empire. Instead, it was silent. Three of the primary generators were stripped for parts. Boxes of high-end copper wiring sat open, half-empty, as if someone had been walking out with pockets full of inventory every night.

He pulled the ledger from the foreman’s desk and began flipping through the pages. His eyes narrowed as he saw the names. “Cillian Vance. Marcus Silas. Peter Thorne.”

"Ghost workers," Lachlan whispered, his voice vibrating with a lethal edge. "Vance and Silas are using this branch to pay off the Thorne pack’s enforcers. They are laundering pack funds through my payroll to pay the very people who helped kill my wife."

Dan stood beside him, looking at the numbers. "They did not just send you here to fail, Lachlan. They sent you here to be the fall guy. When the federal auditors eventually catch wind of this corruption, your name is the one on the door. You go to prison, the branch gets shuttered, and the Thorne pack keeps the money."

Lachlan slammed the ledger shut, the sound echoing like a thunderclap in the hollow hall. The physical pain in his chest flared again, a sharp reminder of his weakened state. He leaned against the desk, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"We cannot fix this from the inside," Lachlan said. "The Council has frozen the credit. We cannot buy parts. We cannot fire these Thorne leeches without triggering a labor suit or a blood feud we are not ready for."

Dan looked at him pointedly. "There is one way. The Green Energy Initiative."

Lachlan closed his eyes. "Don't."

"Vivienne Malone’s bill provides federal oversight and independent funding," Dan pressed, stepping into Lachlan’s line of sight. "If we get that subsidy, the money comes from the government, not the Council. We can hire our own security. We can flush out the ghost workers under the guise of a federal audit. And most importantly, we get Vivienne’s godmother, Senator Hargrove, as a political shield. Even Vance isn't stupid enough to pick a fight with a sitting Senator."

"She hates me, Dan," Lachlan said. "I insulted her godmother. I insulted her career. I practically told her to go to hell."

"Then go find her and tell her you were wrong," Dan said firmly. "Swallow your pride, Lachlan. You told me you would do anything for revenge. Does that 'anything' include saying sorry to a beautiful woman?"

Lachlan looked around the rotting factory. He thought of the elders laughing over their bourbon. He thought of Seraphina’s grave, cold and lonely in the rain.

"Get the car," Lachlan said, his voice cold. "And find out where she is. I need to do this before the fever burns my brain out."

*****

The Congressional District Office was located in a restored brownstone in a much better part of the city. It was clean, efficient, and guarded by two very human, very alert security officers.

Lachlan stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, adjusting the collar of his coat. His skin felt tight, his nerves singing with the proximity of his mate. She was inside. He could feel her pulse, a distant rhythm that matched his own. It was a sensory overload that made him want to howl and run at the same time.

"Remember," Dan whispered as they approached the door.

"Diplomacy. No growling. No insults. Just the Alpha who needs a partner."

"I know how to behave, Dan," Lachlan snapped, though his hand trembled slightly as he reached for the door handle.

They walked inside, and the receptionist looked up, her eyes widening as she took in Lachlan’s height and the sheer intensity of his presence.

"I am here to see Congresswoman Malone," Lachlan said.

"Do you have an appointment, Mr...?"

"Livingston. Lachlan Livingston."

The receptionist hesitated, glancing at a closed set of double doors. "She is currently in a meeting, but she did mention that if you showed up, I should—"

The doors swung open before she could finish. Vivienne Malone stood there, looking sharp in a navy blue power suit. She looked like she hadn't slept either. There were faint shadows under her eyes, and her usual composure seemed brittle. The moment her eyes met Lachlan’s, a visible shiver ran through her. She gripped the doorframe, her knuckles turning white.

Lachlan felt the bond slam into him like a physical blow. The fever spiked, making his vision swim for a second.

"Mr. Livingston," Vivienne said, her voice strained. "I assumed you would be busy sliding into obscurity. What could you possibly want in my office?"

Lachlan took a step forward, the scent of her hitting him like a wave. It was more potent here, in her space. He had to fight the urge to reach out and touch her, to see if her skin was as hot as his.

"I am here to discuss the partnership," Lachlan said, the words feeling like shards of glass in his throat. "And to apologize. I was... out of line at the gala."

Vivienne let out a short, dry laugh, but she didn't look away. The pull between them was a tangible thing now, a vibrating cord of energy that made the very air in the lobby feel heavy.

"An apology?" she whispered, stepping out of the doorway.

"You think a simple apology fixes that performance? You were a boor, Lachlan. You were arrogant and cruel."

"I was," he admitted, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. "And I am asking for five minutes of your time to explain why I cannot afford for you to walk away."

Vivienne looked at him for a long time, her icy blue eyes searching his face. She could see the sweat on his brow, the slight tremor in his hands. She could feel the heat radiating off him, matching the strange, sudden fever that had been plaguing her since the night before.

"Five minutes," she said, turning back into her office. "And if you insult my godmother again, I will have you removed by the police. Do we have an agreement?"

Lachlan nodded, following her into the room. As the door clicked shut behind them, the bond roared to life in the small, enclosed space. The "Walk of Shame" had begun, and Lachlan realized with a jolt of terror that the business deal was the least of his problems. Being alone with her was going to be a test of his sanity.