บททั้งหมดของ Undercover Wolf: My Target, My Girlfriend: บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

On the third evening, Adrian arrived with a cloth bag.It was larger than the ones Evelyn usually brought—bulging at the seams, the mouth tied with coarse rope. He walked through the arch, set it on the ticket counter, untied the knot, and pulled out two bundles of dried flatbread, a small jar of brown paste, a pouch of dried vegetables, and a smaller iron pot. It was a size smaller than Evelyn's, but thicker at the base, its surface covered in even scorch marks—well-used.Evelyn had arrived earlier. She sat on the wooden crate by the hearth, hands on her knees, watching him lay things out on the counter one by one. She didn't stand to help. Didn't speak.Lane sat against the wall, back to the stone, knife across his knees—his hands not on the hilt."You brought a pot," Evelyn said."Yours is too shallow. The noodles boil over." Adrian set the smaller pot on the fire grate, crouched to adjust it, wedging it between the bars. "And the rim's chipped. Doesn't wash clean."Evelyn looked a

The rain came without warning.The sky was still gray in the evening, clouds low but not yet breaking. Lane sat inside the arch, knife across his knees, hand resting on the hilt. He glanced at the sky through the vent—the light had shifted from gray-white to a deeper gray, edges blurred like paper soaked through. Then he heard the first drop hit the ground. Light. Like a small, cold hand slapping the earth once. Then a second. A third. The sound thickened—from sparse to a continuous, fine white noise, spreading across the stone street like a film growing fast.He took the knife from his knee, slid it into his sheath, stood, and walked to the arch's edge to look out. Rainwater had already seeped through the gaps in the iron gate, forming thin streams on the steps, running down the edges. The street's dust had turned dark with the wet, like a layer of skin turned inside out. The flatbread sat on the counter. He glanced at it, didn't move it. He went back to the wall, sat down, face towa

Lane didn't wait the next morning.He woke before the sky had fully lightened. Gray light seeped through the vent, cold and colorless. He sat up, fastened the sheath to his side, stood, walked to the counter, and looked at the stacked oil paper—five sheets. He looked at them for a while, then turned, passed under the arch, and climbed the steps to street level. The streets were still empty. Morning fog hugged the ground like a thin, not-quite-awake blanket.He walked south for a stretch. Not aimless—toward the manor's direction. He didn't plan to reach its gate—just wanted to get to a spot where he could see that direction, confirm something was still there. He crossed two streets, stopped at an intersection, saw the manor's spire emerging from the fog, a gray tip against the sky. He stood a moment, then turned back toward the station. He didn't know why he'd done it. He didn't stop to think.In the afternoon, he went to the breakfast stall.The old man was still there, still wearing

He didn't remember falling asleep. When he woke, the moonlight had shifted from the vent to the wall—resting above Brenn's carved words in a small patch of silver-white, like a layer of pressed frost. When he sat up, his left shoulder gave a dry crack—louder than before, more distinct, like the sound of wood before it splits. This time it lingered in the air a beat longer, then faded.He lifted his left arm, rotated the shoulder. The motion itself was fine—but at a certain point in its range, roughly along the lower edge of his shoulder blade, he felt a faint pull, like a thread drawn tight beneath the skin. He reached back to touch it. His fingers met not warm skin, but something else—a thin raised line, running along the shoulder blade's lower edge, then disappearing. He traced it. The texture matched the gray line on his wrist—but wider, fainter, like something climbing up.He pushed his sleeve up and looked at his left wrist. The gray line had extended from his wrist to mid-forear

That evening, Lane didn't light a lamp.He sat against the wall inside the arch, facing the stairs. The light from the vent had shifted from gray-white to dark gray, bleeding toward deep blue. He didn't move, didn't stand to add wood, didn't touch the stacked oil paper on the counter. He just sat there, left hand on his knee, not gripping.When he heard footsteps, the sound was different from Evelyn's. Heavier. More hurried—landing with a low, pressed breath, like someone who'd run a fair distance. He didn't stand. The footsteps came down the steps, stopped outside the arch. A gray-white envelope was pushed through the arch's edge, landing on the steps—corner-first, sliding a short distance, then stopping. The footsteps turned immediately, climbed back up, didn't pause.Lane waited until the footsteps had completely faded, then stood, walked over, bent, and picked up the envelope. Brown paper—folded many times, the creases deep enough to pale the surface. No name on the front. No addr