CHAPTER 4

"What's the problem with that?" I snapped. The air in the kitchen felt too thick. My wolf was a silent, restless ghost under my skin, but my human side was starting to burn.

Harper leaned over her plate, a sharp grin cutting across her face. "Rowan, come on. Don’t you want a male who makes your blood boil? Not some pup who gives you a dry peck on the cheek, but an Alpha who pins you down, who makes you want to claw his back until—"

"Alright, that’s enough." Samuel held up a hand, though a dry chuckle escaped him. "More than a father needs to hear over breakfast."

Harper laughed, but her eyes were like flint. "Sorry, Dad. But seriously, Rowan. Are you sure Julian isn't... playing for the other team?"

My face went scorched earth. I stared at my eggs, my throat tightening. How the hell did she sniff it out that fast?

"Oh my god," she breathed, her fork clattering. "He is, isn't he?"

"No!" I barked, stabbing a piece of ham. "He’s just—"

Harper’s roar of laughter drowned me out.

"Enough, Harper," Samuel said, though his eyes held a flicker of pity. "If the boy is a gentleman, he’s a gentleman."

"Fine, fine," Harper gasped, wiping her eyes. "I just want our Rowan to feel some actual heat. You deserve a bond that’s more than just... talking about old scrolls and library dust."

"I'm perfectly fine," I muttered, shoveled the last bite into my mouth.

"Come to the den tonight," Harper said, her tone softening as she reached for my hand. "I’m off the shift. We’ll get some moon-shine, meet the girls. No books, no clinics."

I hesitated. Harper lived in the shadows—literally. She worked the high-end shifter clubs where the Lunar Syndicate blew off steam. It wasn't the seedy strip joints people imagined; it was high-stakes performance, power, and skin.

"Come onnn," she whined, dancing in her chair. She gave a sharp flick of her purple hair, her movements fluid and lethal. "Get that blood moving, baby wolf."

"I'll think about it," I said, standing up. "I have reports to file for the Unit—"

"Work, work," she groaned, snatching my plate. "Go live a little."

I headed into the living room, passing Samuel as he buried himself in the territorial news. When Harper first started at the clubs, I thought he’d lose his mind. But he’d just shrugged and said if she was going to hunt, she might as well do it in silk. As long as she stayed sharp, he didn't care.

I pulled my laptop onto my lap, my fingers hovering over the keys. My mind drifted to Harper’s talk of heat and instinct. Suddenly, my pulse spiked. I typed Mason Cross into the encrypted Syndicate database.

The results hit like a physical weight. The Unit called him a "Feral King," a butcher of the West Coast. But the public files showed a man in a sharp tailored suit standing in front of a glass fortress in the Pacific Northwest. CEO of Cross Logistics. Strategic Partner to the High Alphas.

In one photo, he was shaking hands with a high-ranking Syndicate elder. He looked civilized. Professional.

But I’d felt those hands on my wrist. I’d smelled the raw, mountain-air scent of his shift.

"What are you hunting?" Harper asked, dropping onto the sofa and snatching the laptop.

"Hey! Give it—"

"Ooooh," she whistled, scrolling through the shots of Mason. "Now this is an Alpha who could set a forest on fire. Who is he?"

"Mason Cross," I said, pulling my knees to my chest. "I had to interview him in the silver-cells yesterday. He was... heavy. Dangerous."

Harper’s eyes went dark. "Did he threaten you?"

"In a way."

She snapped the laptop shut. "That’s it. You’re definitely coming out tonight. You’ve had a week of a fake boyfriend and a monster King. We’re going to the Velvet Moon."

I let out a breath, a small laugh breaking through the tension. "Fine. I’ll go."

The bass in the club vibrated in my marrow.

Harper had basically reconstructed me. I was wearing what she called a dress, but it was really just a shimmering sheet of silver silk held together by a web of wire-thin chains across my back. My red hair fell in heavy, copper waves over my bare shoulders. My lips were painted the color of fresh kill.

Standing in the mirrored hallway, I didn't recognize the female staring back. She looked... hungry.

I sat in the VIP booth, watching the shifters move on the floor. Harper slid in next to me, her eyes bright with a few rounds of moon-shine.

"Having fun, Rowan?"

"Actually... yeah." I laughed.

But Harper suddenly went rigid. Across the lounge, a massive, thick-necked male with a face like a bulldog was staring at her. He started walking over, his heavy boots thudding against the floor.

Harper stood up, her smile turning brittle and fake. "Dean! Look at you, big guy."

"Harper," the male said, ignoring her attempt at a hug. "Back room. Now."

"Have you met my sister, Rowan?" Harper gestured to me, her voice tight. "Rowan, this is Mike Dean. He runs the floor here."

Dean’s eyes crawled over me, lingering on the silver silk over my thighs. I felt a surge of revulsion and instinctively reached for the hidden pocket in my bodice.

"Hello," I said, my voice like ice.

He grabbed Harper’s elbow. "Moving. Now."

"It’s just pack business," Harper whispered to me, giving my hand a quick squeeze. "Stay here."

I watched them disappear into the soundproofed back hallway.

Ten minutes turned into thirty.

My hand drifted to my ribs, feeling the cold steel of the small silver blade tucked into my stays. It was the only thing my mother, Elaine, had left me. Ice spine, she’d always said. I didn't know how to gut a man, but the weight of it kept me from bolting.

The door finally swung open. Dean stepped out alone. He looked ruffled, his eyes darting around the club until they landed on me. He mouthed a curse and started stomping toward my booth.

"Where is she?" I demanded, standing up.

Dean didn't answer. He just grabbed my arm with a meaty hand. "New orders, redhead. You’re coming with me."