C2

"If you had submitted to my authority, you would still be leading the frontline extraction unit," Darren said, his voice flat as he cleaned the silver-trap blade. "But your ego blinded you. Suppress your core temperature before you trigger a feral shift right here in the staging area."

He had warned Vicky hours ago to strap into her reinforced leather armor instead of a light combat tunic before the mountain chill hit the valley. She had dismissed his tactical advice as a direct insult to her status. Darren kept his eyes on the iron grate; trying to keep an arrogant wolf from getting killed was a waste of breath.

Vicky bared her fangs, blood dripping from her lower lip where her fever had cracked the skin. "Don't pretend this is about tactical discipline. You gave Chika Whitmore my lead position because you want his bloodline's favor."

"You are no longer the apex predator you pretend to be," Darren countered, his tone turning ice-cold. "Your arrogance made you soft. You brought a foreign infection into the Moonveil domain on the night of our primary territory expansion."

"You expect me to fear a little fever?" she hissed, slamming her fist against the weapon rack. "I have led hits while bleeding out from silver-tipped rounds. I executed the whole Southern Syndicate under worse conditions."

"You did that in a three-minute ambush," Darren noted with a grim nod. "This is an full-scale pack assault against a rival family. We will be fighting in the deep trenches for hours. Do you honestly think your wolf can sustain a blood-frenzy for that long?"

He stared at her with hollow eyes. "Or do you want to collapse mid-siege and let the High Council's executioners slaughter our entire vanguard on camera? If you want to throw your life away, do it on your own time."

That shattered whatever defiance Vicky had left. She slid down the stone wall, her boots slipping in the dirt as her muscles spasmed from the silver-rot. She knew the reality of her condition; a protracted pack war would have killed her before the first breach. What burned worse than the sickness was knowing that Chika—the man she despised most—was now holding her command token.

Darren checked the mechanical chronometer on his wrist. "Pray to the ancestors that the boy survives the first wave."

"Are you losing your nerve?" she mocked, coughing up dark fluid. "I thought you believed the Whitmore stray was invincible."

"Do you think Chika wanted to inherit your mess?" Darren asked, stepping close enough to clip his sidearm to his belt. "He had less than fifteen minutes to memorize the extraction routes, the blood-signals, and the high-ranking kill lists because you hid your infection."

Vicky went silent, turning her face toward the shadows of the den. Darren grabbed his tactical rifle and marched out toward the transport bays. The countdown to the raid had begun.

From the edge of the staging area, I watched the vanguard troops load their magazines under the direction of the pack commander. The Enforcer in charge pointed out the defensive gaps in the rival territory, making sure I knew exactly where the frontline would fracture. He saw my hands tightening on my daggers. "Keep the bloodlust checked, Chika. Let the adrenaline work for you, not against you."

My heart hammered against my ribs as I looked at the monitors showing the perimeter gates. "I am ready."

The heavy iron doors of the Moonveil Grand Hall opened, letting in the elite heads of the syndicates. Clive and Malik followed Lucien through the secure entrance, their eyes scanning the heavily armed crowd with dark amusement.

"Can you pick up your mate’s scent in this sea of wolves?" Clive asked, adjusting his leather collar.

"Instantly," Lucien said without looking back.

Clive stretched his neck, his eyes flashing a predatory amber. "I usually avoid these tactical briefings, but since you offered me safe passage into your territory, I will observe this hit."

"Just watch the perimeter," Lucien muttered, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. "An unprincipled rogue like you has no business tracking military movements anyway."

"You don't care about the high-ranking strategy either," Clive muttered with a smirk. "Didn't you intercept the Council's security logs last night just to make sure the Whitmore boy wouldn't get flanked?"

"Why are you both breathing my air right now?" Lucien asked, his jaw tightening as he looked at them.

"To watch your male show the Council how a real Whitmore hunts," they answered together.

Lucien went to signal his personal guard to remove them, but the tactical feed flashed live. The screens went dark as the command center took control of the audio network.

Clive scanned the command deck, his brow furrowing. "Where is your enforcer? I don't see his heat signature on the vanguard monitor."

Malik leaned over the metal railing, sniffing the air. "I can't track him either, Lucien. Did something go wrong at the armory?"

The Whitmore signature was completely missing from the tracking map. "If the Blackwell pack touched him," Lucien whispered, his voice vibrating with a low, lethal frequency.

"Attention all sectors," the automated intercom boomed through the hall. "The territorial reclamation by the Afolayan Dominion is about to commence. Leading the vanguard strike force: Chika Whitmore."

The moment my name echoed across the stone chamber, I stepped into the center light of the deployment deck, clad in black titanium weave armor with my twin crescent blades drawn. The spotlight caught the silver runes etched into my breastplate.

"Chika Whitmore? Who authorized that?" a rogue captain yelled from the upper tier. "Vicky Aston was supposed to lead this hit! My pack signed the treaty for her execution squad!"

"They replaced an Alpha-blood warrior with a Whitmore exile," another enforcer snarled, reaching for his weapon. "We didn't come to watch a subordinate take the high-value kills. Put Aston back on the line!"

Vicky had built a bloody reputation in the underground circuits, and half the mercenary packs here were banking on her brutality to clear the sector.

Malik chuckled darkly, his eyes locked on the growing unrest in the lower tiers. "Your male is about to have a mutiny on his hands before he even crosses the border, Lucien."

Lucien didn't move. He kept his chin resting on his knuckles, his gaze pinned entirely on me as I stood before the hostile assembly.

The sleek armor emphasized my lean, lethal frame, the reinforced joints gleaming like polished obsidian under the high-intensity lamps. I had pulled my hair back tightly to keep it away from my collar, a small change that made my jawline look sharper, harder, and entirely devoid of the youth I usually projected.

Lucien watched me closely, wondering if I would falter under the weight of an entire room demanding my blood. Would I look to his box for protection?

I didn't give the crowd a single glance. I raised my right blade, struck the iron shield of the vanguard commander, and let loose a low Lycan howl that vibrated through the floorboards.

The mocking inside the chamber died instantly as the raw power of the challenge hit their instincts.

Lucien stared at me, completely transfixed, as if the sound of my wolf had locked onto his own bloodline.

Every strike of my blade against the iron shield was precise, dominant, and absolute.

An hour later, the first sector was cleared, forcing a temporary tactical pause while the secondary units secured the breached walls.

Clive turned to Lucien, his expression shifting to genuine respect. "The Whitmore boy just held the northern perimeter by himself for over an hour. The kid has the stamina of an ancient Alpha."

Lucien went to acknowledge the comment when he spotted a familiar scent profile on the lower observation deck—it was Cody, sitting near the tactical screens. Next to him was Richie, an arms dealer Lucien hadn't tracked in months. They were speaking in low tones, sharing an encrypted data pad.

Lucien’s eyes darkened. How did a border scout get linked to a high-level weapon smuggler?

Backstage in the armory, I grabbed a flask of mountain water from the commander and drained it, the cold liquid burning my throat.

The commander checked my armor for structural damage, nodding in approval. "You held the line, Chika."

I wiped the blood from my chin, my skin hot from the exertion.

"The main compound is next," the commander said, clapping a heavy hand against my shoulder guard. "Finish it."

I watched him walk out toward the tactical monitors, then leaned against the concrete pillar, gripping my trembling hands. I had actually survived the first drop.

The sirens wailed again, signaling the start of the final assault. I re-entered the kill zone, my senses entirely consumed by the hunt. When my blade found the throat of the final rival lieutenant, the entire command deck erupted into a roar of approval. The sudden noise snapped me out of my battle trance.

The vanguard commander signaled to me from the trench, gesturing for me to take the trophy.

I stepped over the debris, raising the fallen captain's banner to the sky. The honor of the Afolayan Dominion was secure.

As the blast doors closed behind us, the tension finally broke. The moment I walked into the main bunker, the lower-ranking executioners slammed their fists against the tables in a unified salute. "Incredible hunt, Lead Enforcer," the commander shouted over the noise.

I wiped a streak of dark blood from my cheek. "The whole pack bled for this. We take the territory together."

The syndicates were supposed to gather for a blood-feast to celebrate the victory, but the sudden removal of Vicky meant the high chiefs had to draft new border contracts immediately. The celebration was called off, leaving the soldiers to return to their respective dens.

I stripped down to my basic combat gear and ran through the tunnels to find Lucien. Near the main exit of the hall, I spotted his tall figure through the smoke. Before I could reach him, a low-ranking mercenary blocked my path.

"You were magnificent out there," the man said, offering me a silver-encrusted dagger as a tribute. "I watched you break their vanguard."

When I didn't reach for the weapon, the man took a step closer into my personal space. "Take it. It belongs to the winner."

"He doesn't need your scrap metal," a heavy voice rumbled behind him. Lucien wrapped his arm around my shoulder, pulling my back against his chest as his scent completely overwhelmed the mercenary’s perimeter. "Move along, rogue. He’s my mate."