Evander's POV
Money smells the same everywhere: lemon polish, old wood, and fear under expensive flowers. I sit in the center of Duval's living room like it belongs to me—one ankle on a knee, jacket open, gun resting on the chair. My men fill the corners. Shadows with triggers. The staff kneel along the Persian rug, heads down, hands laced over skulls.
Maurice Duval kneels in front of me. Sweat drips off his chin onto the marble. His shirt clings like it wants out. He used to shake my hand at galas. Now he shakes for his life.
"Please," he whispers. "Mr. Voss, we can talk this out. I can explain—"
"Explain." I let the word roll. "When you betrayed me, did you explain it to yourself first? Or did you just count?"
He blinks. "I didn't—I would never—"
"You moved the shipment," I say. "You rerouted funds. You fed men who thought they could bleed me and walk away." I tilt my head. "Numbers don't lie. You do."
He crawls closer, hands out like I'm a priest. "I was forced. They threatened—"
I cut him off with a look. Safety catches click. The kneeling line whimpers and swallows it.
"I don't care why," I say. "Motive is for courtrooms. I care about consequence."
Maurice's mouth opens and closes. "Please," he tries again, voice breaking. "My daughter—"
"The pretty one who spends your money like water?" I ask. "Odette."
His face crumples. "She's all I have. She's good. Don't drag her into—"
"When I'm done with you," I say, calm as a winter lake, "your daughter is next."
The staff flinch. Someone sobs into a sleeve. I don't look away.
"You won't touch her," he says, spine arriving late. "I'll fix it. I'll—"
"You won't do anything again."
I lift the gun. He sees the end of it and finally understands.
He scrambles to bow, to bargain. "Please—"
I shoot him once, clean through the forehead. The sound cracks the room and empties it. Blood freckles the marble and finds the rug's seams. Maurice drops like a cut string, knees folding, body falling with a soft, useless thud.
Silence lands.
A maid chokes on a sob. A butler tries to pull her hand down. Both freeze.
I set the gun on my thigh and look at Rook by the windows. "After I leave," I say, "finish everyone."
No one moves. If they run, they die. If they beg, they die faster. Simple math.
Rook nods once. He doesn't ask questions. None of my men do.
Another sob breaks loose. Higher, raw. A girl. Maybe nineteen. Her fear hits the air like cheap perfume. I let my gaze touch her.
A single look.
Jax reads it. He raises his pistol and shoots her in the head. The crack burns away her scream. She falls forward, cheek on a rug that costs more than her life here. The rest go silent so hard it hurts.
I stand. Blood spatters my shoe. I wipe it on the rug; Maurice would hate that. "Clean this," I tell the valet, forgetting he won't be here. Habit is stubborn.
"Doors," I say. Rook and Silas move. Outside, engines idle. We don't linger. We erase.
I adjust my cuffs. My wolf pushes against the cage of my ribs, curious as a hand on glass. I shove it back. I don't do fate. Wolves are instincts, weapons. Not destiny. Not mates. That fairy tale died when someone lied and smiled about it.
Maurice's eyes stare at nothing. The room smells like copper and lilies. The lilies lose.
"Movement on the stairs," Silas says.
I don't turn yet. People walk toward guns for two reasons: stupidity, or belief they're invisible.
"Bring them," I say.
Silas steps into the hall. The house creaks. A shoe scuffs, silk hisses on banister.
"Pa?"
The voice drifts down the staircase. Fragile. Shaken.
Not what she says. The word means nothing to me. It's the way it hits.
My wolf slams awake. Mate.
The word detonates in my skull. My chest tightens, heat running down my spine and snapping cold at the edges.
I grind my teeth. Not now. Not ever.
I bury him the way I always do, push the beast back down into the cage. He snarls anyway, clawing for air.
I raise my hand, telling my to stop and they don't move. The entire house freezes. The staff on the floor, the blood on the rug, the gun smoke curling in the air—everything pauses, waiting.
And then I hear it. Bare feet padding against wood. Careful. Familiar with every inch of this house.
She appears at the top of the stairs. Wet hair clings to her shoulders, a towel tied tight around her. Her skin still glistens from the bath. She doesn't look at us. Her eyes don't land anywhere. They drift, unfocused, wide but unseeing.
Blind.
I realize it instantly. The way she reaches for the banister, testing, then counting her steps under her breath. The way she tilts her head, listening, instead of watching.
My wolf goes silent. Not gone—never gone—but held, waiting. Watching with me.
She reaches the bottom and stops. Her toes brush something on the floor. She frowns, bends down, her towel tugging dangerously as she feels around.
Her hand finds fabric. A slipper. She whispers again, "Pa?" Her voice cracks, trembling.
No answer.
She straightens, takes one more step, and her leg collides with something solid. Her father's body.
She gasps, immediately crouching, knees hitting the rug. Her palms press to his shirt, skimming desperately up his chest, his arms, his face. Her wet hair falls forward, sticking to her cheeks as she shakes him.
"Pa! Wake up, please—" Her voice shatters.
Her hand slips. Wet. She pauses, confused, then touches again. Blood coats her fingers. She snatches her hand back, breathing hard. The smell hits her next, metallic and sharp.
Her whole body trembles. "No…" Her voice is small, broken. "No, no, no…"
The sound claws at me. Not pity. Not guilt. Something worse. Something I don't have a name for.
She bends over him, clutching his shirt with shaking fists, crying his name over and over. She doesn't notice the guns. Doesn't notice me. Doesn't notice the way the room is holding its breath.
My men glance at me, waiting for the order. One word and they'll end her before she can breathe another syllable.
But I don't speak.
I just watch her.
Her face is pale, lashes wet, lips trembling. She's blind, fragile, and still kneeling in a towel, clutching a dead man who betrayed me. The image should mean nothing. But the bond is louder than reason.
Mate, my wolf whispers again, softer now. Certain.
I clench my jaw. I don't believe in mates. I don't believe in fate. Bonds are chains you fasten to your own throat.
So why can't I look away?
Why, for the first time in years, do I feel the cage around my wolf bending?
"So you're his daughter."