(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."

***

(Kai's POV)

The door groaned. I stood. Feet grounded. The wolf in my bones clawed at my chest; my skin itched, my eyes began to burn. I took a breath-one, two-and let some of it in. My pupils stretched. More light bled into the world.

Metal complained. The latch squeaked. I counted-wrench on the left, iron bar on the right. The entry path was narrow. One person would enter first, two waiting behind. The first was usually the one reeking of confidence. Hit his knee, snap his elbow, drag him in as a shield. Simple. The blood would get messy, but... not on Rhea.

Then-click. The door cracked halfway open-enough to show a face. Not the raincoat man from the gallery. This one was younger; clean cheeks, gray eyes, a Sunday-school smile you'd believe until that same hand slipped something into your drink.

"Good evening," he said, pleasant. "We were sent to-"

I smashed the wrench against the inside hinge before he could finish. The door shrieked, rebounded. He jolted, the back of his head cracking the frame. Before the other two could slip through, I kicked the door's edge, forcing the space tighter. The iron bar drove into the first one's shin-wet crunch-he screamed, a pitch that made Rhea flinch under the table. The ones outside cursed-I heard technical words, not prayers.

"Now!" I didn't look back as I barked it. Rhea moved-fast, faster than I thought her body could. Her bag flung open, papers spilled, her hands shook. The door rattled again; another hand slipped in, gripping something that gleamed-not a gun, too calm-probably an injector.

I shattered that wrist with the wrench. A shriek ripped out. The door pushed back; force from both sides. I held it. Life shrank down to the grind of bones against wood; to the taste of iron on my tongue when my teeth scraped.

"Kaelan!" Rhea's voice-afraid. "If I-"

"Two seconds!" I roared. "Now, Rhea!"

She pressed.

The world... blinked.

Not light. Not dark. A pause in the machine of reality-a second forced to sit. The symbols on the papers hummed-not in the air, but in bone. It felt like biting aluminum. The moon painting in my mind-its golden eyes-opened a little wider. Something stretched from this damp, narrow room to the canvas in the gallery hall, a taut line pulling air between two points. I felt the tug in my ribs, like a hook sunk and gently reeled.

The door-in those two seconds-stopped pushing. The men on the other side held their breath; their voices clipped like echoes inside a bottle. I twisted, dragged Rhea out from under the table, held her against the tool rack. "Now!" I slammed the rack's back panel-the sheet metal I'd loosened this morning, its hinges hanging by two. The panel gave way, opening a narrow crawlspace into an older service corridor, wide enough for one at a time.

I shoved Rhea through first. "Right!"

"I'm not going to-"

"Now, Rhea!" I almost growled. My eyes no longer fully human-I knew it by the way light fractured into knives.

She slipped inside, scrambling fast. I turned, iron bar raised, as those two seconds evaporated-and time snapped back.

The door burst inward, faster than I'd counted. Two men slid in-the broken-legged one dragging himself, another lowering a sprayer. I smashed the iron into his jaw before the mist released; the device flew, bounced off the floor, hissing liquid across tile-wolfsbane vapor seared my nose. I staggered half a step, holding back coughs-staying in the space where its concentration thinned.

"Get the papers!" someone shouted outside.

"Too late," I said, and drove the wrench into a skull.

They weren't amateurs. Their movements were structured; one baited my strike, the other slid from the side. I changed rhythm, fought off-sync-the wolf in my bones wanted to finish it in blood, but in this small room, losing control was a death bell. I chose the dirty human path: eyes, knees, throat.

One, two, three-and the room went still. My breath tore. Iron in my chest. I grabbed the panel, slipped into the crawlspace, pulled it shut, braced it with my shoulder, breath rasping. Rhea crawled ahead, fast.

The old corridor reeked of wet stone and long mold, narrower, older, like roots forgotten. Dark pressed tight. I gave Rhea a small light-a strip clipped to my watch. I pressed it; white beam pierced ahead. "Keep going."

"Kaelan..." her voice shook, not only from fear. "What just happened? Who were they? How did they know we were here?"

"You yanked a cable under reality's desk," I answered. "For two seconds."

"How-"

"Not now." I glanced back-the room behind was alive again. "Later."

We crawled. My hand hovered behind her, not touching, but ready if she slipped. Vibrations echoed off the concrete; Callum, if he was on time, should already be arguing with two men on the fire stairs.

The corridor bent; at its end, I opened the lowest hatch-iron frame groaned. Air greeted us-cold, but freer. A narrow iron staircase climbed up. Rhea looked up, swallowed hard. "It's so high."

"Don't worry. I'm right behind you."

Step by step, our feet rang on metal. On the first landing, more sounds-heavy, muffled, the kind I knew: people fighting without wanting to be seen. Callum. A dull thud-stick to someone's ribs, maybe. His short laugh followed-the idiot always laughed at the worst times, like his body hated silence.

We reached the door marked TECH OBSERVATION. I pressed an ear-muted alarms beyond. Keypad lock. I tapped a small pattern-two short, one long. Knockback replied. Callum.

I eased it open. White light. A cramped observation room, thick glass facing the ice machine. Callum leaned in the corner, dark hoodie, cap, tired eyes. On the floor, two men groaned, bound in industrial tape-his signature. He looked over. His gaze flicked to Rhea for half a second-enough to read: fragile but unbroken-then back to me.

"You promised twenty-five minutes. You show in twenty-four," he said flat.

"Anyone missing?" I dragged in breath, shut the door. "You said one vanished."

"Still gone." Callum shrugged. "Either he ran or he's a ghost."

"Raincoat?"

Callum blinked. "You saw him?"

"At the gallery this morning."

"Yeah." Callum folded his arms. "I smelled him on the stairs, but trail cut."

Rhea stood, clutching her bag to her chest. She looked at the bodies on the floor, her face tensing. Terrified.

"Who... are they?" she asked, voice small.

"Someone hunting you," I answered.

"The hunters you mentioned before?" she asked again.

"Type that stepped out of that category," Callum muttered. "You okay, Miss...?"

"Hale," I answered for her. "Rhea Hale."

Callum nodded, as polite as he could manage. "I'm Callum. His friend." He squinted at me. "Friend... right?"

"Friend," I echoed. I knew he was checking how much I'd told her.

"Good." He looked at Rhea again. "Pretty miss looks like she needs water, Kaelan."

He handed her a small new bottle he'd brought. Rhea glanced at me as if asking: can I? I nodded once, and she grabbed it immediately. She drank a little. Color slowly returned to her face.

"What's the plan?" Callum asked, nudging one tied man with his boot-reflex check. "You keeping her here till morning? This place won't hold long."

I thought of the papers in Rhea's bag, that two-second pulse still rattling my bones. "No. They know this route now. We move."

"Where?"

"Somewhere even they hate going." I looked at him.

Callum clicked his tongue. "You can't be serious."

"Serious." I flexed my wrist, easing tension. "Backup freezer under the west block. Six degrees lower than standard. Bad for lungs, good for killing scent trails."

He glanced at Rhea, then at me. "You wanna freeze her?"

"I need them to lose us first." I looked at Rhea. "I won't let you freeze. I promise."

Rhea glared. "How many promises do you have tonight, Kaelan? And... why should I trust a stranger like you?"

"Enough for you to hate me. And... Rhea... I'm not a stranger to you," I said, honest.

"No. You think after what just happened, I'll see you the same? No, Kaelan. You're terrifying, and I can't trust a gangster like you."

I raised an eyebrow. Gangster? Really? "I'm not a gangster. I'm... yeah... just a man different from most men."

"I don't care. I can't trust you anymore."

I pointed at the bodies sprawled on the floor. "We don't have time to argue, Rhea."

"I want to go home."

"You can't. Too dangerous right now. You can't be alone."

I shot Callum a look, cueing him to back me up. Thankfully, my Beta understood.

"They already found you. They won't stop till they get what they want," Callum said. "The world chasing you now isn't the world you've been living in, Rhea," he added.

"They even know your address, and your coworkers' at Elaria Gallery. If you slip, the people closest to you-who shouldn't be victims-might end up victims," I pressed.

Rhea's eyes widened. "They're insane. Shouldn't we just go to the police?"

I shook my head. "What's happening isn't that simple, Rhea."

She fell quiet, thinking, before finally adjusting her bag. "Fine. I'll come. But on one condition."

I lifted my chin. "Name it."

"Stop talking like I don't have a choice." Her eyes-oh, those eyes-sharp, steady. The wolf in me howled to claim her right then.

"If you want me to trust you, treat me as a person-not a package," she added.

I stilled. Then nodded, deeper than politeness. "Alright."

Callum looked at me like watching a comet fall. "Thought you only knew how to say no. Turns out you can say yes, too."

"I can do more than that." I turned to the door. "We leave in five. Tie them-" I nodded at the two on the floor. "Tighter. And take their gear."

***