Three months. Three months since my world collapsed, and I was still picking up the pieces.

I folded my last clean shirt into the battered suitcase, my movements mechanical and precise. The tiny studio apartment I'd rented after leaving Luke's place felt more like a tomb than a home, but it had served its purpose—a place to lick my wounds and plan my next move.

Seraphina stirred weakly in my mind, the first time she'd made her presence known in weeks. *Are you sure about this?* Her voice was a whisper, fragile as spun glass.

"We don't have a choice," I murmured, zipping the case shut. My savings account showed a pathetic three-digit number, barely enough to cover the deposit on the cabin I'd found in neutral territory. The Silver Moon Pack had made it clear I wasn't welcome—not after their future Alpha had publicly rejected me. The whispers followed me everywhere: *Poor Sloane. Almost thirty and still unmated. What did she expect?*

The healing supplies took up most of my second bag. Wolfsbane extract, silver-lotus powder, moonstone dust—ingredients I'd collected over years of training as the pack's healer. At least they couldn't take my knowledge away from me.

The drive to rogue territory took two hours through winding mountain roads. The cabin sat at the edge of a small clearing, its weathered wood and sagging porch a far cry from the comfortable pack house I'd called home. But it was mine. No Alpha's authority, no pack hierarchy, no pitying stares.

I spent the first week scrubbing years of neglect from the floors and walls, setting up a makeshift clinic in what used to be the living room. Word spread slowly among the rogues and outcasts who lived on the fringes—there was a healer willing to treat anyone, no questions asked.

My first client was a scarred Delta who'd been cast out for challenging his Alpha. Then came a pregnant Omega whose pack had abandoned her when she refused to name the father. Each success brought another desperate soul to my door, and slowly, painfully, I began to build something new from the ashes of my old life.

But tonight was different. Tonight, everything would change.

The call came just after midnight—a frantic mind-link from Zara, a rogue she-wolf who'd become something like a friend. *Sloane, I need you. Marcus is dying. Deep in Thornwood territory, near the old oak grove. Please.*

I was already reaching for my medical bag before she finished speaking. Marcus was Zara's mate, a gentle giant who'd been exiled for refusing to participate in his pack's blood feuds. If he was hurt badly enough for Zara to risk calling me...

"I'm coming," I sent back, grabbing my silver-laced scalpels and emergency supplies.

The forest was pitch black, my flashlight cutting a narrow path through the undergrowth. Thornwood territory was dangerous even in daylight—the pack that claimed it had been wiped out years ago, leaving only territorial rogues who killed first and asked questions never.

I found them in a small clearing, Marcus's massive form crumpled against the base of an ancient oak. Blood soaked the ground beneath him, the metallic scent mixing with the earthy smell of damp leaves. Zara knelt beside him, her hands pressed against a gaping wound in his chest.

"Silver bullets," she gasped as I dropped to my knees beside them. "Three of them. I got two out, but the third..."

I could see it glinting deep in the wound, too close to his heart for comfort. "Hold the light steady," I ordered, pulling on latex gloves. My hands moved with practiced precision, silver-tipped forceps probing carefully for the bullet.

That's when I heard them—footsteps crashing through the underbrush, voices raised in anger.

"Trespassers!" The snarl came from behind us, followed by the sound of shifting bones and tearing cloth. Three wolves emerged from the shadows, their eyes glowing amber in the darkness. The largest, a scarred brute with foam flecking his muzzle, stalked forward. "This is our territory. The penalty for trespassing is death."

Zara whimpered, pressing herself protectively over Marcus's still form. I slowly stood, my silver scalpel hidden behind my back. Seraphina tried to surge forward, to shift and defend us, but she was still too weak, too broken from the rejection.

"We're just trying to save a life," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the terror clawing at my throat. "We'll leave as soon as—"

"You'll leave in pieces," the leader snarled, bunching his muscles to spring.

That's when the temperature in the clearing dropped ten degrees, and an aura of pure, overwhelming power rolled over us like a tsunami. The attacking wolves froze mid-lunge, their eyes going wide with primal terror as a voice spoke from the darkness—deep, commanding, and utterly inhuman in its authority.

"I suggest you reconsider."

The morning sun filtered through the dusty windows of my cabin clinic as I sorted through my dwindling supply of silver-lotus powder. Three weeks had passed since that terrifying night in Thornwood territory, and I still couldn't shake the memory of that commanding voice that had saved our lives. The mysterious figure had vanished before I could see his face, leaving only the lingering scent of cedar and power.

A soft knock interrupted my inventory. Through the window, I spotted a sleek black sedan parked beside my battered Honda—definitely not the usual transportation of my rogue clientele.

I opened the door to find a man who made my breath catch. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Dark hair was swept back from a face that belonged on magazine covers, but it was his eyes that held me captive—deep amber that seemed to see straight through me. The aura radiating from him was unmistakably powerful, unmistakably royal.

Lycan.

"Ms. Knight," his voice was smooth as aged whiskey, with just a hint of an accent I couldn't place. "I'm Mateo Dixon. I believe we have much to discuss."

Seraphina stirred uneasily in my mind. *Danger,* she whispered. *Too much power.*

I kept my expression neutral despite my racing heart. "I don't recall making an appointment, Mr. Dixon."

His lips curved into a smile that was both charming and predatory. "I was hoping you might spare a few minutes. I have a proposition that could benefit us both."

Every instinct screamed at me to slam the door, but curiosity won. I stepped aside, gesturing toward the small kitchen table that doubled as my consultation area. "Coffee?"

"Please." He settled into the rickety chair with fluid grace, somehow making my humble cabin feel even shabbier by comparison.

I busied myself with the coffee maker, hyperaware of his presence behind me. "So, Mr. Dixon. What brings Lycan royalty to my little corner of nowhere?"

"You know what I am." It wasn't a question.

"Hard to miss." I set a steaming mug before him, noting how his fingers—long and elegant—wrapped around the ceramic. "The aura gives it away."

He chuckled, a rich sound that sent unwelcome shivers down my spine. "Direct. I appreciate that." His amber eyes studied me over the rim of his cup. "I've been hearing interesting things about your work, Ms. Knight. A skilled healer operating independently, treating rogues and outcasts with remarkable success."

"Gossip travels fast." I sat across from him, keeping the table between us like a barrier. "What's your interest in my practice?"

"I want to invest in it." The words hung in the air like a challenge. "Your talent is being wasted in this—" he gestured around the cabin "—limited setting. With proper backing, you could establish a real clinic. State-of-the-art equipment, premium supplies, a proper facility."

I nearly choked on my coffee. "And what would you want in return?"

"Partnership." He leaned forward, his intensity making the small space feel even smaller. "Your expertise, my resources. We could create something unprecedented—a healing center that serves all supernatural beings, regardless of pack affiliation or status."

The offer was tempting, dangerously so. But I'd learned not to trust beautiful packages. "Why me? There are plenty of established healers with better credentials."

"Because you understand what it means to be an outsider." His voice softened, and for a moment, I glimpsed something vulnerable beneath the polished exterior. "You've been cast out, rejected, forced to prove your worth alone. So have I, in my own way."

Seraphina whimpered at the mention of rejection, the wound still raw after three months. I pushed the pain down, focusing on the man across from me. "What makes you think I need saving, Mr. Dixon?"

"I don't think you need saving." His smile turned genuine, transforming his entire face. "I think you need an equal partner who recognizes your value."

The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard, but I forced myself to remain skeptical. "And what's to stop you from taking over once the business is established? I've heard stories about Lycan business practices."

His expression darkened. "You'd have my word. And despite what you may have heard, my word means something."

"Words are cheap." I stood, needing distance from his overwhelming presence. "I appreciate the offer, Mr. Dixon, but I'm not interested in charity."

He rose as well, moving with that same predatory grace. "This isn't charity, Ms. Knight. It's recognition of exceptional talent." He pulled a business card from his jacket, placing it on the table. "Think about it. You could help so many more people with proper resources."

I stared at the elegant cardstock, fighting the temptation. "I work alone."

"So did I, until recently." He moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "The offer stands. When you're ready to stop punishing yourself for someone else's failures, call me."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of cedar and the weight of possibility.