(Rhea's POV)

The silence that lingered in the gallery after the man in the raincoat disappeared felt even more suffocating than his presence. I was still frozen in place, my eyes locked on the wooden door that had just closed with a soft yet chilling thud. It felt like that wall was now holding a massive secret behind it-and somehow, I was caught in it too.

Kaelan stood just a few steps away from me. His body was rigid, shoulders slightly raised, like he was ready to protect-or attack. His jaw tightened, his eyes sharp and fixed on the door as if he could pierce through the storm outside. The energy radiating off him reminded me of a wild predator-not just alert, but dangerous.

"Kaelan..." My voice cracked, barely audible. I swallowed before continuing. "What's really going on?"

He turned his head. For a second, his gaze softened, but the tension stayed carved on his face. "I told you, this isn't a safe place to talk."

I clenched my fingers, trying to steady the nervous tremor in my chest. "You can't keep talking like that," I shot back quickly, almost panicked. "I have a right to know. About the painting... about that mysterious man... about everything-"

"Rhea Hale."

Just those two words-quiet, but firm-were enough to cut me off. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried authority. Like if I kept pushing, he'd silence me in his own way.

I went quiet.

His gaze pinned me down. There was something in his eyes-not just hardness, but a warning. I could feel it in my pulse, that if I pushed too far, I'd be dragged into a current I couldn't even begin to understand.

Reluctantly, I nodded. "Fine. Where are we going to talk?"

"Somewhere safest, for now."

"Are we leaving now?"

Kaelan nodded. "Yeah. My car's parked across from this gallery. We'll head there."

***

The rain was still pouring when we stepped outside. The sound of it hammered against the tin roofs along the street, loud and chaotic, drowning out every thought swirling inside me. The wet pavement gleamed under the dim streetlights, puddles reflecting the shadows of two figures: me and Kaelan, walking side by side in silence.

Kaelan opened a large black umbrella he'd brought, and without asking, he tugged my hand lightly, pulling me under its shelter. The touch was brief, but enough to make my heart pound faster.

We walked close, close enough that I could catch the faint scent coming from him-a mix of rain, damp fabric, and warm masculine notes. Familiar. Somehow, that scent felt natural, binding me, calming yet unsettling all at once.

"Why were you there?" I finally asked softly, my voice almost lost to the rain. "I mean... in the gallery."

"To make sure you weren't alone," he replied flatly.

The words were simple, but each one struck deep. They should have comforted me. Instead, they stirred more questions in my head.

"Did you already know that man in the raincoat would show up at Elaria's gallery?" I asked curiously.

Kaelan shook his head. "Just a hunch."

I scoffed under my breath. "Your answers always leave me wanting more, Kaelan."

"Better that way."

Our steps carried us down the empty sidewalk. Once in a while, a car sped past, splashing water from the puddles. The flickering streetlights only deepened the sense of isolation, making the world feel like another realm.

My mind wandered again. The golden eyes from that painting staring back at me through the mist. The predator's gaze piercing my chest. The man in the raincoat standing silently at the gallery's doorway, threatening without a word. And Kaelan, with his riddled responses. It all tangled together, pressing hard against my head.

I didn't notice when my steps slowed, my thoughts blurring with the sound of rain. The world seemed to drift away, leaving only the ringing in my ears and the storm inside my mind.

Until a loud honk snapped me back.

A motorcycle shot past from the side, too close. Its headlights blinded me, water splashing up my legs. I staggered, my body swaying, too slow to pull back.

And in a split second-before my brain could even process it-a strong hand clamped onto my arm. A rough tug yanked me forward, straight into Kaelan's chest.

My body slammed against his, his chest warm despite the rain clinging to us. Just inches away from the rushing blur of the motorcycle.

I gasped, breath ragged. My heartbeat was a wild drum inside me. Kaelan, meanwhile, glared at the biker before shifting his focus back onto me.

"What were you-" My words died in my throat.

Kaelan's face was too close. Water dripped from his wet hair onto his temple, his eyes sharp, burning. That look set me on fire, making me forget how to breathe.

"Don't space out." His voice was low, deep, almost a growl. "Never space out when you're near me."

His words lit another flame inside me-a mix of anger, embarrassment, and something far more dangerous.

I couldn't answer. My voice was gone. All I could feel was his grip on my arm-tight, protective, yet making me tremble in ways I couldn't explain.

People walking by glanced briefly, but no one cared. We stayed there, trapped under the black umbrella he had lifted back up, surrounded by the pouring rain, as if the world had shrunk to just the two of us.

I tried to pull my hand free. "Please... let go of my hand," I whispered.

But Kaelan didn't. His gaze swept over my face slowly, intensely, like he was reading every line of my expression.

"I can't," he finally said, his rough voice hitting me harder than thunder. "Because every second, something out there tries to take you away from me. And I'm terrified of that."

I froze. His words pierced straight through my defenses, leaving my thoughts in shambles. Part of me wanted to laugh, call him dramatic-even insane. But another part... a deeper part... believed him. I didn't know why. All I knew was I stayed silent, my quiet the only answer I could give.

And that was far more terrifying.

***

(Kaelan's POV)

Rain covered the city like a curtain, hiding Elaria's face behind mist and faded neon. The sound of water striking asphalt blended into one tangled rhythm, like a heart forced to run. Under that black umbrella, I stood too close to the only thing that still kept me sane-and the most dangerous thing I could ever touch-Rhea.

"I can't," I said back then, when she asked me to let go of her arm. Not a poetic line, not a threat; just a shy truth, bitter, stuck on my tongue. Because with every tick of the clock, something was trying to take her away from me. My instincts knew it before my mind had the words.

I loosened my grip seconds later-slowly, like pulling a hand away from an open wound. She looked at me; in her blue eyes, a small storm I couldn't read. I tilted the umbrella, shifting my body slightly to the outer side of the sidewalk, placing myself between her and the street.

"Let's get to the car," I said. "The safest place right now."

"What's your definition of 'safe'? Is it the same as mine?" Her brows knit, lips stiff from cold and confusion. Or maybe... fear.

"Nothing between us is the same right now." I realized how harsh that sounded. "But I'll make sure it means the same thing for you: going home in one piece."

She sighed, holding back words she didn't say. We walked. Rain danced on the umbrella's canvas, stabbing the ears like tiny needles. Two blocks to the parking building, and my instincts wouldn't stop measuring shadows, weighing steps, dissecting scents-faint wolfsbane, oil, wet metal, stale coffee from a 24-hour kiosk, and one scent that constantly pulled my nerves tight: her skin. Warm. Soft. Dangerous to me in all the wrong ways.

My car was on level two-an unmarked black SUV, tinted windows, an engine that could start without a fuss. I opened the passenger door. Rhea hesitated for a split second-understandable mistrust when you're with a stranger-then got in. I shut the door, walked around the hood, and slid into the driver's seat. Key turned. Engine hummed low, steady, like a big animal holding itself back.

"Seatbelt," I said. "If not, I'll put it on you myself."

She buckled up immediately, neat and precise-like someone clinging to routine to keep her head above the storm. I tossed the umbrella behind, turned on the heater, and steered into the rain-soaked streets.

"If that 'safe place' is your house," she said, voice soft but sharp, "I'm not coming."

"No." I caught her gaze for half a second. "My house isn't walls. It's a billboard."

"Hm. Figures. You're someone famous. Your life's already stripped of privacy." She turned to the window, following the lights. "What then... the police station?"

"Worse than a billboard."

She exhaled, almost like a laugh that didn't make it out. "So where?"

"Under the arena." I broke the pause. "There are old tunnels now used for ice maintenance. One service room isn't on the public map. Damp air, bad for lungs, but good for disappearing."

She turned to me. "Of course. Totally normal to take me to a basement under an arena. Not creepy at all."

"If I wanted to hurt you," I said flatly, "I wouldn't bother with a basement."

Her small shoulders tensed for a second. Regret climbed my throat. "Sorry. Should've picked gentler words."

"Yeah. You should have." She looked back at the rain, quiet for a moment. "Am I allowed to ask now?"

"Yes. Go ahead. It's safe enough here for you to ask."

"Back at the gallery... who was that man in the raincoat? His aura was terrifying."

I steadied my breath. Truth is a sharp thing; I kept its edge from bleeding. "Not someone who happens to like art. Not someone looking for paintings for their beauty."

"Then... who?"

"A Seeker. A mouthpiece for people who like to collect things that aren't theirs."

"You mean... a hunter?"

I didn't answer. My silence was the answer.

Her eyes flickered fast. "What is he after?"

"The painting you restored. The one now displayed in Elaria's gallery."

Her frown deepened. "Which painting?"

"The one you stared at the longest."

"Why that moon painting?"

Because it holds the key they want to use to cut my throat-and the throats of everyone like me. Because it's a door, with unfinished pasts on both sides. Because in that old canvas lives a shard of moonline, never fully extinguished, peeking through layers of paint, waiting for certain blood to knock. Because your mother-Rhea Hale-once stood in the same place, choosing a path that changed the history of the pack beneath this city.

I gave the answer that wouldn't terrify her tonight. "Because people like them believe old things can still be commanded with money and violence. And old things often hold mechanisms that respond when touched by the right person."

"The right person?" She swallowed. "Like... a curator? Collector? Or-"

"-like you." The words slipped before I could stop them. Damn it! Too late to take them back.

She glared. "Excuse me?"

"Forget it." I tightened my grip on the wheel. "I just need you to trust me for the next twelve hours. After that-if you still want to curse me out, I'll listen."

"Trust you?" She gave a short, humorless laugh. "You show up in a stadium corridor, grab my hand, send cryptic messages, then appear in the gallery before opening hours, shatter my silence, refuse to explain anything, and now you're taking me to a basement. God. Who do you think I am?"

"The most stubborn person I've ever met," I muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing."

She looked away, but I caught the tension at her lips-caught between anger and fear. I let silence take the next few minutes, only wipers scraping rain and tires slicing puddles. My mind ran its own track: service door B6, keycard panel I'd overridden, analog cameras I twisted away a week ago when instinct first itched. Callum-yeah... I needed to tell Callum.

I pressed the button on the wheel, connecting to a secure channel. Two short tones. "Yeah?" Callum's voice, lazy as usual, but with an edge of steel.

"B6," I said. "Route three. Twenty minutes."

"You alone?"

"Two of us."

A pause. "Her?"

"Yes."

"You sure you don't want me to bring two more?"

"No. They'd smell." Hunters always sniff out "organizations." What we needed was silence.

"Copy. I'll sweep the perimeter, mask the signal. If you don't check in after thirty minutes, I'm breaking the entrance."

"Make it twenty-five." I cut the line. Rhea looked at me, curiosity plain on her face.

"Who is he? Why can't I understand a single thing you two just said?" she asked.

"Friend." I chose the simpler word. Beta would stick like a thorn in her mind. She wouldn't grasp what it meant anyway.

"Oh." She leaned her chin on her hand, gazing out. "A friend who knows... whatever this is."

"A friend who'll still be standing when everything falls apart."

She didn't reply. The road sloped down, leading into the arena's underground parking. Swipe card; barrier lifted. Neon lights lit damp concrete. I parked where cameras couldn't see, shut off the engine.

"If once we're inside you start feeling unsafe," I said, undoing my belt, "say it. We'll move."

"I've felt unsafe since the moment I decided to follow you." Her chin lifted. Brave. God, what a cruel world to pair beauty with courage like that.

We got out. Underground air greeted us-damp glue, old rust, machine breath. I pocketed the keys, held the umbrella, then closed it. No rain here. Corridor B6 was narrow, cold, lights flickering half-dead. Service door at the end, gray paint peeling. Keypad waiting.

I pressed my palm. "Don't freak out." I ran the override-rhythmic taps tricking the circuit into thinking the old key was used. Panel clicked. Door swung open. Room inside was bare-two metal chairs, one work table stained with oil, a half-filled tool rack, and a battered first-aid kit.

"Romantic," Rhea said dryly.

"This place is cleaner than my heart," I quipped without thinking. She stared at me like I'd confessed to eating my neighbor. "Kidding."

She exhaled. "I'll try to believe that."

I checked again-vents, grilles, blind spots. Silent. "Sit." I pointed at a chair. "I'll talk."

"You sure?" Her eyes pierced. "Because so far, you've been a hunter of half-sentences."

I pulled another chair, sat across from her. Rested arms on the table, leaned just enough to catch micro shifts in her face, but not enough to give her the wrong idea.

"There are things I can't give you right now," I said. "Not because I don't trust you. But because certain words-if they reach the wrong ears-become treasure maps that could kill half this city."

She froze a moment. "And the things you can give me?"

"My instincts," I answered. "And facts I can prove."

She tilted her chin, signaling: go on.

"In the moon painting you restored-there's something not meant for ordinary eyes." I searched for words she could digest. "Symbols. Not paint. Old carvings on the substrate. They won't appear until touched, invisible unless you're sensitive to them."

Her pupils tightened. Her small hand moved hesitantly toward her bag. She paused halfway, staring at me. "You won't take it from me?"

"If I wanted to, I would've done it in the car."

She let out a breath, pulling out something: a yellowed sheet, corners fragile. Thin symbols, not quite ink-more like scars etched on the surface. My breath shifted. At the edge of my senses, something old brushed my chest wall-a warm coldness, a contradiction only my kind understood. Werewolves.

"Don't touch it," I said, when she reached to trace the symbols with her finger. She stopped, eyes on me.

"Why?"

"Because your body will react. You had a headache last night, right? Felt like stabbing. Cold from the bone? Like electricity."

She froze. "How did you...?"

"I can smell it on you," I said.

Her face twisted-embarrassment, anger, a reluctant awe. "My... smell?"

"My instincts work through things that disgust humans."

"Who are you, really?" she asked, suspicion sharp.

"A man who isn't fully human. That's all you need to know." I lifted my hand, palm open. "May I?"

She hesitated, then handed me the sheet. The moment the old note touched my skin, the wolf in my chest opened its eyes-slow, hissing. The symbols were grim, woven with something once called prayer, but written in the accent of denial. Not truly a seal-more like a stencil. A map to place a seal on something larger.

In the back of my mind, a soundless voice-a muscle memory from nights when we hunted the one who made it first. Many died. More chose to forget.

"This isn't from the painter," I muttered. "It was slipped in later-ah... no. Inserted is more accurate. Finger grease not from oil paint, resin traces wrong for the era."

"I seriously don't understand. Can you put it in words I can?"

"Someone hid a ritual guide behind that painting." I met her gaze. "And this sheet reacts to... certain lines."

"Lines? What lines?"

I couldn't say Moonline without blowing everything open. I chose the hazier path. "Lines passed down through blood."

"Blood... family?" Rhea swallowed. "You think I'm... what? Descendant of some art cult?"

"Not a cult." I held the paper by its edge, careful not to let the symbols touch her skin. "And this isn't about art."

***

(POV Kaelan)

She stared at me for a long time, like she was weighing whether to run.

"Why did he-the man in the raincoat-come to the gallery?"

"Because he sensed something lit in the gallery ever since you started restoring it." I leaned back. "And because someone wanted this paper to touch your skin."

"For what?"

"To open something inside that painting." I shrugged. "To trigger a mechanism that's been shut off for years."

"And you don't want that to happen."

"I don't want that to happen with a gun pointed at us."

Her arms crossed, that beautiful defensive instinct. "You know too much for a hockey team captain. Things no one else even understands."

"Side talent." I glanced at the clock. Callum should've been on the perimeter by now. "Listen." I leaned in. "I'll say this once: whatever you've been feeling lately-exploding emotions, weird sensations, wounds healing faster-it's not because you're crazy. Your body's not broken. Your body remembers something that was put to sleep."

Her face drained. "You-"

"And I'm not gonna force you to remember it tonight." I cut her off quickly, locking her gaze. "If I force it, you'll hate me. Not because of the bitter truth, but because of the way it comes."

She drew in a sharp breath. "So what's your plan?"

"To keep everyone else away from this paper. To let you decide when and where you'll put your finger on the first symbol." I slid the old bundle back toward her. "And when you do, I'll be there. Not to command. To hold you when its weight hits."

"Sounds like a threat."

"It's a promise. A promise I've never made to anyone."

Silence. Outside, the water pipes rattled briefly-maybe the ice machine, maybe the rain changing the pressure. Rhea looked at the paper, then carefully tucked it back into her notebook and slipped it into her bag, her movements as careful as if she were putting a baby to sleep.

"Can you tell me one thing," she said softly, "that explains why you're like this? You-" she searched for the word, "you care too much about this. As if-"

"As if you're mine?" I gave a crooked smile. The grin felt wrong in my mouth, but honest. "You're not mine, Rhea. No one owns you. Not even me."

She stared, silent. But in her blue irises, a tremor I'd only seen when someone stood on the edge of a cliff and the wind begged them to jump.

"Then why?" she asked again, softer, almost like a breath.

Because that's how the world was made for us. Because there's a whistle only our kind hears when certain blood comes close. Because the scent of your skin wrote my name into my bones without my permission. Because I've run long enough to know: if I let you walk away tonight without a line drawn, tomorrow I'll no longer be able to stop myself from losing it-in front of the cameras, in front of the world. Because as long as that old seal in you keeps pressing down on the thread between us, I'm standing on the edge of madness.

"Because if something takes you," I finally said, "there's no space in my body to forgive myself."

She turned away. The tip of her tongue brushed her lower lip-a tiny habit I had no right to memorize, but I still did. "I still don't trust you, Kaelan."

"Good." I nodded. "Trust is a gift. Don't be cheap."

For the first time that night, a flash of softness flickered in her eyes-fast as lightning. She lowered her head, pulling her bag closer. "Do we... have to stay here longer?"

"No." I stood. "I'll grab some tea from the service dispenser. Warm tea. Tastes like cardboard, but..."

"I prefer cardboard coffee." She raised an eyebrow.

I left the room for two minutes, just enough to grab two paper cups and sugar packets that probably expired years ago. The hallway was empty, but I didn't like the way the silence shifted pitch-like the building was holding its breath too long. I came back, shut the door, locked the bolt.

"Drink a little," I said, handing her a cup.

She took it. "Thanks."

We drank the bad drinks together with the solemnity of people who had no other options. Every tiny sound was loud in the room; styrofoam scrape, breathing, the tick of a clock from who-knows-where. I recalculated escape routes, marking them in my head.

Then, my phone buzzed-almost at the same time as a faint crack in the ventilation pipe. I raised a hand, signaling silence, and opened Callum's message.

[Callum]

Three on the roof. One at the east door. One... missing. You didn't see him?

I lifted my head. Slowly, I tuned in with the other part of my hearing-our kind's hearing. Quiet. Too quiet for a place that usually hummed. Narrow rooms like this reflected movements, told you when someone passed. But now... even the rain sounded sucked away.

"Rhea." My voice was barely audible. "Move your chair behind me. Now."

Without asking why, she moved-fast and obedient for the first time. Her chair scraped. I stood in front of her, half covering her body. My nails-forced to stay human-twitched under the skin, begging to grow. The pressure in my gums-fangs pleading to push through. I held it back. Not yet. Not here. Not in front of Rhea, who knew nothing.

Something hissed in the vents, cold as iron plunged into water. From the air duct above the tool rack, a thread of smoke slipped down-thin wisps of mist that didn't belong in a damp corridor. I caught the scent instantly: wolfsbane. Mixed with something wrong-light ammonia, maybe to help it drift better. They wanted to knock out whatever was in this room. They knew the spectrum to hit.

"Down!" I shoved Rhea under the table, kicked the chair away, grabbed a wet cloth from the tool rack-an old rag.

The smoke thickened. I tore the rag, poured leftover water from the dispenser over it, slapped it against the vent, sealing off the poison for now. At the same time, the doorknob rattled-once, twice, with mocking gentleness.

I looked at Rhea under the table. "Phone." She handed it over without hesitation. My hands moved on their own, shutting it off. "Signal could be bait."

A dull thud on the door. This time not shy-steel kissing steel. The bolt screws rattled. I scanned the room; the closest things to weapons were a size-24 wrench and a steel bar for tuning the ice machine. I took both-one in each hand.

"Kaelan?" Rhea whispered, her voice tiny.

"It's fine." A lie. "If it goes bad, there's an exit behind the tool rack. I already cut the hinges halfway. If you have to run, you run. To the right, up the emergency stairs two floors, heavy door labeled TECH OBSERVATION. Callum will be there."

"I won't-"

"If I say run, you run."

She shut her mouth. Her eyes were too wide under the table. Terrified. I could hear her heartbeat-its rhythm not mine, but somehow commanding mine too.

The door stopped rattling.

Then a small voice-almost friendly-slipped through the gap.

"Kaelan Viero?"

I shifted half a step, turning to brace myself. "You're lost," I replied flatly.

"Of course." The voice was young, calm, the innocent version of poison. "We're fans. We want your autograph."

"Bring a jersey," I said. "Not wolfsbane."

A soft laugh. "Interesting. You smelled it."

"Because you stink."

Silence, filled with a smile I could picture. People like this always had polite lips when calling murder a job.

"Can we talk?" he asked, polite as a bank receptionist. "We just want the little thing. The paper. You don't need it, right?"

"I need everything she has." The words dragged themselves out before I could polish them.

"Yes," he said, still calm. "That's the problem."

Metal clicked on the other side. They were setting something against the lock-a stethoscope tool or a pressure opener. Time melted. I shifted, nudging the table with my boot-making space for Rhea to crawl toward the rack if I told her. Then I tilted my chin at the vent-the smoke had lessened; the wet rag was holding, breaking the effect.

I fired off a single-line text to Callum on the lock screen: Now. Then I killed the phone and shoved it into my pocket.

"Rhea." I crouched halfway, lowering myself so our eyes met. Hers locked on mine. "You saw the paper? The little symbols-waves, circles, slanting lines?"

She nodded fast.

"If I tell you, where do you press?"

"You don't want me touching-"

"If I tell you." My gaze sharpened, forcing her focus. "The tiny circle in the very center. The one that looks the most... blurry. Two seconds. No longer. Got it?"

She bit her lip. "That will-what?"

"Change our position."

"To hell?"

"Hopefully not."

***