The voices from the intercom cut off with a sharp click as I silenced my phone. The recording was saved, backed up to the cloud, and locked in a folder named 'Demolition.'

For a moment, I just stood there in the hallway that was supposed to be my sanctuary. My chest felt like it had been hollowed out with an excavator. The pain was physical, a sharp, twisting knot right behind my sternum where the mate bond lived. My wolf was pacing in the back of my mind, whining, confused by the scent of betrayal that clung to the air like cheap cologne. She wanted to shift, to tear the door down, to howl until Tate remembered who I was.

But I wasn't just a wolf. I was Eileen Parker. I was a Beta. And Betas didn't howl at the moon when things went wrong; we fixed the structural integrity.

I took a deep breath, forcing the air into my lungs until the burning sensation subsided. Panic was inefficient. Heartbreak was a luxury I couldn't afford right now. If I stormed in there screaming, Tate would use his Alpha voice to cow me, to make me doubt myself. He’d spin it. He’d say I was hysterical, jealous, unstable.

No. I needed more than a voice recording. I needed a paper trail so thick he’d choke on it.

Reaching into my bag, I pulled out a small silver vial—my high-grade scent blocker. I usually only used it for meetings with human clients or the high-stress negotiations with the Lycan Council where pheromones could be seen as aggression. I spritzed it on my wrists and neck. The familiar, sterile smell of ozone and nothingness washed over me, masking my unique scent of parchment and rain.

To them, I was now just a generic, scentless human contractor.

I pulled my hair back into a severe bun and put on my hard hat, which I always kept in the car. I grabbed my clipboard. I wasn't Eileen, the loving mate coming home early. I was the Inspector.

I walked further into the site, my heels clicking with purpose on the unfinished subfloor.

A man in a dusty orange vest was crouched by a stack of drywall, his head in his hands. It was Miller, the Delta foreman. I’d hired him myself because he was honest and meticulous. Now, he looked like he’d aged ten years in a week.

"Miller," I said, my voice crisp.

He jumped, scrambling to his feet. His eyes widened when he saw me, panic flashing across his face. "Beta Parker! I... we didn't expect you... the schedule said..."

"Plans change," I said, keeping my face impassive. I gestured to the hideous red walls with my pen. "Explain this. The blueprints specified 'Slate Mist' for the corridors. This looks like a crime scene."

Miller swallowed hard, wringing his hands. He looked toward the master suite doors, fear radiating off him in waves. "I know, Beta. I tried to tell them. But... the orders came from the top."

"From Alpha Tate?" I asked.

"From The Lady," Miller whispered, lowering his voice as if saying her name might summon a demon. "She said the slate was 'depressing.' She said if we didn't paint it 'Passion Red' by yesterday, she'd have Alpha Tate exile the whole crew."

My grip on the clipboard tightened until the plastic creaked. Exile. For paint. Tate was letting a mistress threaten loyal Pack members with exile over interior design choices.

"I see," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "And the materials? The shag carpet? The gold trim?"

"She ordered it all," Miller said, looking miserable. "She signed for it. Said to put it on the 'Emergency Fund' tab."

The Emergency Fund. The account I had set up for structural failures or weather damage. My personal savings.

"Do you have the invoices, Miller?"

He nodded vigorously, fumbling in his back pocket to produce a crumpled stack of receipts. I took them, scanning the lines. 'Imported Velvet - $5,000.' 'Custom Gold Leaf - $8,000.' 'Consultation Fee - M. Gray - $10,000.'

She was paying herself a consultation fee to ruin my house with my money.

"Thank you, Miller," I said, tucking the receipts into my clipboard. "Get the crew to the break area. I'll handle the rest."

Before he could argue, the double doors at the end of the hall banged open.

A woman stepped out, and the air instantly soured with an overpowering scent of synthetic vanilla and heavy musk. It was Maddison Gray. I recognized her vaguely from pack gatherings years ago—a flighty Omega who always hung around the buffet table looking for a wealthy mate.

She was wearing a fur coat. Not just any fur coat. It was a silver fox fur, floor-length, dragged carelessly over the dusty construction floor.

I recognized the coat. I had seen the invoice for 'Roofing Insulation - Premium Grade' just last week. It cost exactly as much as a custom silver fox coat.

Maddison didn't look at my face. She looked at my clipboard, then at my boots, dismissing me instantly as 'help.'

"You!" she barked, snapping her fingers at me. Her nails were long, painted the same garish red as the walls. "Don't just stand there gawking. The Alpha is thirsty."

She adjusted the coat, flashing a glimpse of lingerie underneath that cost more than Miller made in a month.

"I need a bottle of sparkling water," she demanded, waving a hand dismissively. "And make sure it's chilled. This dust is drying out my throat. And tell those idiots to stop hammering so loud; Tate and I are trying to... brainstorm."

I stared at her. She had no idea who I was. The scent blocker was working perfectly. To her, I was just a faceless bureaucrat, a servant to be ordered around in my own house.

A cold smile touched my lips. "Brainstorming," I repeated, my tone flat. "Is that what you call it?"

Maddison narrowed her eyes, finally looking at my face. She didn't see a rival. She saw insubordination. "Excuse me? Do you know who I am? I am the future Luna of this Pack. You watch your tone, or I'll have you thrown off this property before you can blink."

"Future Luna," I said, writing it down on my clipboard as if taking a note. "Interesting title. Does the current Luna know she's been replaced? Or is the position open due to... incompetence?"

Her face flushed an ugly, blotchy pink. "Who do you think you are?" she screeched, stepping closer. "I want your name! I'm going to have Tate fire you!"

"Oh, I don't think Tate can fire me," I said softly, tapping the pen against the stack of incriminating receipts. "But please, do go get him. I have a few questions about the insulation budget."

Maddison snarled, a pathetic sound for an Omega trying to play Alpha. "I'm going to make sure you never work in this town again!"

She spun on her heel, the stolen fur coat swishing dramatically, and stormed back toward the bedroom. "Tate! Tate, baby! There's some rude inspector out here refusing to get my water!"

I watched her go, my heart pounding a steady, war-drum rhythm against my ribs.

*Let him come,* my wolf growled.

I uncapped my pen. *Yes,* I thought. *Let him come.*

The hallway smelled like disaster. Not the clean, honest dust of demolition, but the sour tang of incompetence mixed with cheap perfume. I watched Maddison storm back toward the master suite, her stolen silver fox coat trailing behind her like a bridal train from hell.

"Move it!" she shrieked at two young Omega workers who were struggling with a massive crate near the doorway. "Tate wants the mood lighting up before sunset!"

I stepped closer, my clipboard acting as a shield against the urge to shift and tear her throat out. The crate was marked 'Industrial Iron Fixture - Custom.' My architect's eye did the math instantly. Based on the size and the strain on the workers' faces, that thing weighed at least four hundred pounds.

"Careful!" one of the Omegas gasped, his knees buckling. "It's slipping!"

"Just get it up there!" Maddison snapped, checking her nails. "It's for the mating rituals. It needs to hang directly over the bed. And if you drop it, I'll have Tate dock your pay for a year."

My blood ran cold. The master suite ceiling was framed with standard residential joists, designed for drywall and maybe a ceiling fan. It wasn't reinforced for a quarter-ton of iron shackles and chains. If they hung that monstrosity, it would rip through the plaster and crush whoever was in the bed below.

Ideally, that would be Tate and Maddison. But I couldn't let innocent workers get hurt installing their death trap.

The taller Omega lost his grip. The crate tilted dangerously, sliding toward Maddison’s unsuspecting ankles.

I didn't think. I moved.

Dropping the clipboard, I surged forward with Beta speed. I wasn't as fast as an Alpha, but I was faster than any human or Omega. I slammed my shoulder into the crate, catching the weight just as it tipped past the point of no return. The wood groaned, biting into my blazer, but I held it. My boots skid an inch on the subfloor, finding traction in the dust.

"Stabilize it!" I barked, my voice dropping into the command tone I used on high-rise sites. "Now!"

The Omegas scrambled, terrified, and together we shoved the crate back to a safe angle. I exhaled, brushing the sawdust off my shoulder. My muscles burned, but the adrenaline felt good. It felt like control.

Maddison stared at me, her mouth hanging open. She looked from the heavy crate to my relatively slender frame, confusion warring with her arrogance.

"You..." she stammered. "You almost dropped it on my foot!"

I picked up my clipboard, stepping into her personal space. She flinched, expecting a blow, but I just tapped the paper with my pen. "That fixture exceeds the static load capacity of a residential truss system by three hundred percent," I said, my voice cold and clinical. "You hang that without steel reinforcement, and the roof comes down. It's a structural violation. Section 4, Paragraph 2 of the Pack Safety Code."

"I don't care about codes!" Maddison hissed, recovering her composure. She crossed her arms, trying to look imposing in her lingerie and fur. "I'm the future Luna. I want the chandelier."

"Physics doesn't care about your title," I replied flatly. "And neither does the insurance company. Unless you want to explain to Alpha Tate why his new bedroom has a skylight shaped like a lawsuit, I suggest you leave it on the floor."

For a second, I thought she might actually try to fight me. Her eyes flashed a weak, muddy yellow—her wolf was surface-level, agitated but weak. But then fear flickered in her gaze. She didn't know who I was, but she recognized competence. She recognized that I wasn't afraid of her.

"Fine," she spat, turning to the trembling workers. "Leave it! Go... go polish the sconces or something! Useless, all of you!"

While she was busy berating the crew, screeching about how hard it was to find good help, I slipped past her into the temporary site office set up in what used to be the guest room.

This was where Miller kept the hard copies. The real paperwork.

I closed the door softly, drowning out Maddison’s shrill voice. The room was cluttered with blueprints and coffee cups. I moved straight to the secure laptop on the desk. Miller was good, but he used the same password for everything: 'SilverRiver1'.

The screen flickered to life. I navigated to the budget spreadsheet, my fingers flying across the keys. I needed to see where the money was really going.

I found the entries for the 'Imported Velvet' and 'Custom Gold Fixtures' almost immediately. The amounts were staggering. Five thousand here. Twelve thousand there. But it was the vendor names that made my stomach turn.

'Velvet' was listed under a vendor named *Red Tooth Supply*.

'Gold Fixtures' was paid to *Shadow Creek Logistics*.

I pulled up the vendor details. These weren't interior design firms. They were shell companies. I knew *Red Tooth Supply*. It was a front for a Rogue faction operating near the border—a group known for illegal gambling dens and trafficking stolen goods.

My breath hitched. Maddison wasn't just wasting my money on bad taste. She was laundering it.

I clicked through the transaction history. The dates aligned perfectly. Every time a 'renovation' invoice was paid, a transfer went out to these Rogue accounts. She was paying off debts. Huge ones.

"Grifting isn't enough for you, is it?" I whispered to the empty room.

She was funding the very enemies that threatened our borders. She was taking Pack funds—*my* funds—and handing them to Rogues who would happily slaughter us in our sleep. And Tate? He was either too stupid to notice or too blinded by lust to care.

This wasn't just infidelity anymore. This was treason.

I pulled a flash drive from my pocket and jammed it into the USB port. The download bar crawled across the screen—20%... 45%...

Outside, I heard heavy footsteps approaching. The floorboards creaked under a weight that was distinctly Alpha.

"Maddison?" Tate's voice boomed from the hallway, closer than I expected. "Why are the workers hiding in the kitchen?"

60%...

"Because that rude inspector woman wouldn't let them hang the shackles!" Maddison whined. "She's in the office right now! Get rid of her, Tate!"

90%...

The doorknob to the office rattled.

"Inspector?" Tate growled, his hand heavy on the latch. "Open this door."

The download hit 100%. I yanked the drive out just as the lock clicked.

The flash drive burned in my palm like a silver bullet. I slipped it into my blazer pocket just as the office door swung open, revealing Tate's imposing silhouette. His Alpha aura hit me like a physical wall—commanding, territorial, furious. But underneath the manufactured dominance, I caught something else. Fear.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" he growled, his eyes scanning the room before landing on me. His nostrils flared, searching for my scent, but the blocker held. To him, I was just another faceless contractor.

I straightened my shoulders, meeting his glare with professional indifference. "Reviewing the budget discrepancies, Alpha. There are some concerning irregularities in the vendor payments."

Maddison pushed past him, her fur coat rustling with indignation. "I told you! She's been snooping around, questioning everything, refusing to follow orders!"

"Orders?" I tilted my head, tapping my pen against the clipboard. "I wasn't aware interior decorators had authority over structural inspections."

Tate's jaw clenched. "You're out of line. This is Pack territory. My territory."

"Actually," I said, pulling out my phone with deliberate calm, "this is a construction site under federal safety regulations. Would you like me to call the Lycan Council's Building Authority? I'm sure they'd be interested in the unlicensed modifications."

Before he could respond, I stepped around them both, heading for the door that connected to what should have been the guest suite. My heart hammered against my ribs, but my hands remained steady.

"Where are you going?" Maddison shrieked behind me.

I pushed open the door and stopped dead.

The room had been transformed into a nursery. Not just any nursery—an elaborate, expensive shrine to future motherhood. Two matching cribs dominated the space, crafted from what looked like imported mahogany. The walls were painted a soft mint green with hand-stenciled golden moons. A rocking chair sat by the window, upholstered in silk that probably cost more than most Pack members made in a year.

My throat constricted. Just six months ago, when I'd brought up the possibility of pups, Tate had laughed. "Five years, sweetheart," he'd said, kissing my forehead like I was a child. "The Pack needs to be more stable first. You understand, right? Your career is taking off. We have time."

Lies. All of it.

I lifted my phone, snapping photos of the cribs, the expensive mobile hanging between them, the custom-painted murals. Each click of the camera shutter felt like a nail in his coffin.

"Stop that!" Maddison lunged for my phone, but I sidestepped her easily.

"Documentation is standard procedure," I said, continuing to photograph the evidence. "Especially when unauthorized construction exceeds the approved square footage."

I moved to the corner where a stack of unopened boxes sat. The shipping labels were still attached. 'Premium Bassinet - $3,000.' 'Silk Curtains - Custom Embroidered - $5,500.' All paid for with emergency construction funds.

My emergency construction funds.

I pulled out my phone again, this time opening my secure messaging app. My fingers moved quickly across the screen:

*Marcus - Code Blue. Need the Whitmore deed from my safe. Prepare territorial eviction notice. Evidence package incoming. - E*

I hit send just as Maddison's hand slammed down on my wrist.

"Give me that phone!" she snarled, her weak Omega strength nothing against my Beta conditioning. I didn't even need to use force—I simply twisted my wrist and she stumbled backward.

"That's assault," I observed mildly, making another note on my clipboard. "On a federal inspector. That's a felony."

"Federal inspector?" Tate stepped closer, his Alpha scent sharpening with suspicion. "Show me your credentials."

I reached into my blazer, pulling out my business card holder. But instead of credentials, I handed him my architectural license. "Eileen Parker, Licensed Structural Engineer and Territorial Planning Specialist."

His face went white. Then red. Then white again.

"You know what?" Maddison's voice rose to a shriek. "I don't care who you are! You're fired! This is my territory, my house, and I want you gone!"

I turned to face her fully, my expression glacially calm. "Interesting. You believe you have the authority to terminate contracts on this property?"

"Of course I do!" she spat, tossing her hair. "Tate is my Alpha mate! He pays for everything! This is our home!"

I hit the record button on my phone, holding it casually at my side. "So you're stating, for the record, that Alpha Tate Snyder is the sole financial backer of this construction project?"

"Obviously!" Maddison laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Who else would pay for our dream house? Some pathetic Beta architect who doesn't even know how to please her own mate?"

The recording captured every venomous word. Her admission of ignorance. Her claim of ownership. Her insults.

Perfect.

"I see," I said, stopping the recording and slipping the phone back into my pocket. "Well then, I suppose you'll want to speak with the actual financial backer about your... concerns."

Tate's scent shifted again. This time, it reeked of panic.