Hunter’s Trap

Reya’s POV 

My pulse drummed in my ears long before the footstep echoed. I was midnight-clean in leather, arrow strapped to thigh, senses razor-sharp. But I never expected it inside my own chambers.

The moonlight played tricks through torn curtains. I paused at the door; breath caught. Silence. Too silent. Guard shift ended—another rookie posted at the archway. I nodded, stepping inside.

And that’s when he struck.

He lunged from shadow—muscular, cloaked, dagger drawn. No single name but shadow and intent. I pivoted, blade slashing. He blocked with a hidden steel gauntlet. Metal clashed—ringing sharp in the hush.

“Who sent you?” I demanded, thrusting low. He dodged. Another thrust whistled past as he lunged, misjudging my speed.

He barreled into my shoulder. Pain flared. I stumbled. Floor met my palm. Never stay down.

From the low I kicked out. My foot caught his knee; bone snapped—he gasped and shifted backward, hissed. Perfect moment.

I spun, cuffs clattering to ground. My wolf scent surged. The assassin faltered—eyes widening.

“Answer—or die.” I advanced.

He spat blood. “Orders. You. By morning. From the spider.”

The spider. No one in my world ever called names aloud. Someone was amping the game.

“Orders from whom?” My voice low, sharp.

He coughed.

“Dexter Webb.”

No god in heaven. The name slammed into my chest. Rogue mastermind, exiled leader, twisted mind. Nothing about him was subtle. And now he was playing chess with my life.

The assassin straightened; dagger aimed. “Tell the king—”

I roared.

Blacking claws snapped from my fingers. I lunged. Metal slid into flesh. He hiccupped, eyes rolling. My dagger followed—throat slit. Whimper, silence.

He collapsed, ragged breath seeping out. I knelt, scanning over his wrist—brand carved deep: a thorned crown. Dexter's mark. No question who the spider was.

The door burst open. Lydia, her jaw clenched, dragging a torch that slammed the wall, scattering shadows. She was wide but steady, belt knife at her hip.

“You all right?” she panted.

“Just another night at the asylum.” I kicked the body to grunt for attention. She swallowed. I tore back cloak, blood blooming on skin. No time to bleed slow.

“Damn it,” she breathed. Rushing to unroll cloth. “We should’ve reinforced security.”

“We adapt.” My ribs shrieked under pressure, but adrenaline was a better anesthetic. I swallowed hard.

“Come,” she hissed. “Xander’s in the courtyard—he’s been calling for you.”

The courtyard was cold and silent as I arrived—not a moonlight meeting. Xander waited, cloak flowing. Guard ring tight, eyes anxious.

He strode forward the moment I stepped on cobblestones. Behind him, Lydia held a rag to my side. My blood-stained cloth.

“You found him,” his voice pitched low, urgent.

“He spoke,” I said, voice clipped. “Dexter Webb—ordering hits.”

Surprise flashed in his eyes. “They’ve been quiet for months.”

“Not anymore.”

“Who?”

“No name—just’ The Spider.’ Only he calls himself that.”

Xander pressed a finger to my lips. “You’re safe. Decided. You're mine.”

I looked at him—hard, fierce.

“Don’t make me question everything,” I growled.

He drew me close. “I won’t. But someone inside helped him. He got past every guard. Even your personal sentinel.”

A slow burn of fury churned. “They’ll pay.”

Xander signaled. Guards circled. “We’re going full lockdown. No one enters or leaves the chambers tonight.”

He slotted a hand around my waist. Not possessive—the grip was protective, anchored. My throat tightened.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, fingers grazing the wound.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” Filipino stripes of pain. “Let’s move.”

He stared at me. “This won’t be enough.”

“I don’t need your pity.”

Lydia interjected. “His blade hit bone. They’ll need to work on it.”

I slammed a hand to his chest. “I’m not broken, dammit.”

He studied me like sheathed steel. Softly: “I know.”

They escorted me inside Granite Hall. Security doubled; every portal sealed. The pack grew tight-lipped whispers: “Assassin… Dexter… Xander…”

I shook my head. Former Riverdale. I could sense their hesitation; some mirrored my doubt. I held steady—werewolf warrior.

In the chamber, Xander faced me across the table; sheathed blade between us.

“Bed rest and healing,” his eyes implored.

“I’ll train,” I said, voice cold. “Need to be ready.”

He pressed a kiss to my knuckles. “Don’t test my patience.”

Night crept in—no sleep, just vigilance. I sat by a healing fire, wrapped in bandages, coal ash-stained shirt. Needles of pain reminded me I was alive.

And dangerous.

My mind raced back to the fight in the arena. To Tristan’s smirk. To the ring planted in my bunk. Everything caught in spiral of plots and ancient blood.

Xander’s voice trailed loud in memory: “Someone inside is working with the enemy.”

Inside. Inside. My skin crawled.

They continued guard shifts, but our solitude felt like siege.

I closed my eyes. Fingers brushed the scarred ring I burned. Rheumy sting in throat. I whispered:

“I’ll not let them break me.”

Barely a vow. But real.

Guard Drian knocked quietly—slid door ajar.

“Your packmaster wants you.”

I forced a nod and followed. At the steps down, Xander met me.

He paused, flat:

“You saw him?”

Cold. Weighty. Not jaded yet. He hated him.

“He bled easy,” I said, blunt.

He watched me watch the moon flicker off steel lines.

“We will draw him out,” he said, voice even. “Tonight.”

I faced him. “What’s the plan?”

Eyes narrowed. “You’ll go out. I’ll watch from above. We’ll give him bait.”

He quirked his lips. “The hunter becomes the prey.”

My wolf leaned forward. “Let him come.”