By the time the river slips past and the South Warehouse rises like a ribcage against the night, she's asleep. Odette burned herself out crying. My jacket swallows her small frame, the collar damp where her face buried into it. She hiccups once, then goes quiet.
The driver kills the engine and jumps out. Cold air hits when he opens my door. I don't move. I look at her. I make myself look.
The bond drags tight. An old chain on my throat.
No.
I slide an arm under her knees, another behind her back, and lift her bridal style. She's warm and limp and stubbornly breathing like she still expects the world to stop and listen. The gates recognize the plates and yawn open. Men bow as I pass.
"Boss."
"Alpha."
Concrete. Iron. Floodlights buzzing like insects. We climb to the second level, the door with two locks and a dead zone around it. Inside, the room is plain but clean. Safer than anything else here.
I lay her on the bed. Her fingers catch my shirt even in sleep. It takes effort to unhook them, one by one.
She mumbles into the sheet, voice raw. "Pa… please. Don't go. Wake up."
My face does not change. It never does. My chest does things I don't allow.
I tuck the blanket around her shoulders. A useless act. Her brows pinch like pain is stitched under her skin. I turn to leave.
She snags my wrist.
The grab is clumsy, more sound than sight. She couldn't track me earlier. Blind, but reaching anyway. The wolf in me pushes hard against my ribs.
Mine.
I don't say it. I put my palm to her hair, slow and careful. "It's fine. Sleep. Everything will be fine."
A lie. But she exhales, and her grip eases. I free myself and breathe like I'm learning again.
The door eases open. One of the warehouse maids stands there—Mara, small, steady, eyes lowered.
"Change her," I say. "Warm clothes. Food when she wakes. If she asks for anything reasonable, give it. But she doesn't leave this building. No phone, no computer, no sharp edges, no glass. If she tries the door, call me first."
"Yes, sir."
"Keep quiet about me. If she asks who brought her, then you may tell her."
"Yes."
I step into the hall. Rook is already there, hands clasped behind him, the posture of a soldier who grew up in my shadow. He dips his head. "Alpha. Do we head back tonight or tomorrow Lady Faye? The Queen has called six times. She asked me twice whether you were ignoring her on purpose."
"I was," I say. "We leave tonight."
His brows tick up. He expected me to camp here. "Tonight?"
"Convoy at the south exit in ten. Cameras—triple rotation. Cover every blind angle. Extra eyes on the east stairwell. Lock the roof. No one in or out without your face on them. Put thermal on the west wall and a drone above the vent stack."
"Yes, sir." He hesitates. "With respect… why tighten the net? No one knows she's here. We burned the route."
"That's why," I say. "Ghosts make noise when you're not listening."
He lets the confusion sit and nods instead. "The car is ready."
I start, then pause. "The house?"
"Clean," he says immediately. "Every shell and drop. Sprinklers took care of the smoke. Cameras scrubbed. Fire crews will write it off as electrical. We were gone before the sirens turned the corner."
"Bodies?"
"Two removed by their own people. The traitor—" He stops. He never says names in halls. "Your shot was clean."
My jaw tightens and releases. Necessary is not cruel. Necessary is necessary.
"No male wolves near her door," I say. "Mara and two older women on rotation. Restrain only if she tries to harm herself. No sedatives unless I approve."
"Yes, Alpha."
He lingers. "My mother—"
"I'll call from the car."
We move. The warehouse breathes metal and oil around us. Men peel out of my path. Somewhere above, a compressor coughs awake. I want distance not because I hate this place but because proximity does things I do not tolerate. Her scent is in the hall, a faint ribbon of salt and warm skin, and my bones lean toward it like idiots. I am not an idiot. I know exactly what lies do to packs: they rot decisions from the inside. The only way to hold a line is to step back from it.
Wolves don't mate with humans. The Elders hammered that rule into bone. The bond scent on Odette is wrong. Either the moon erred or someone is playing with old laws. Distance is clarity. I need the cold air of home, Mother's pressure where I can see it, my brother's smirk where I can cut it down to size. Mostly, I need a place where her heartbeat isn't in the walls.
We step into floodlight. Wet pavement gleams. Rook opens the car door. I stop with my hand on the frame.
"If she asks for her father, don't answer. Tell her to save her tears. She'll need them later."
Rook's mouth tightens. He nods. He knows better than to comment.
I slide into the back seat. Leather. Cold. Engines rumble awake one by one. Rook closes my door and signals the lead.
I call Mother.
She answers at once. "Evander. Where are you? Your father is asking questions."
"Handling something," I say.
"Come home."
"I'm on my way."
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Did you eat?"
"Later."
"Drive safe."
The line dies. I study my reflection in the black screen until my own eyes look unfamiliar. We roll through the gate. The convoy falls into formation, headlights stacking like beads on wet black string.
The wolf paces inside my ribs. I push my head back against the leather and close my eyes. For one breath I let the picture stay: a small hand clutching my wrist like a lifeline, a blind girl turning toward heat and refusing to let go. The Elders would call it weakness. My father would polish it into a weapon. Let them.
I did not leave her on that floor alone with a silence that would never answer back.
I took her because leverage lasts longer than bodies. Because witnesses open doors maps don't show. Because I want to know who bought her father and why they thought they could spend a life so close to my border without paying tax to wolves.
And because the bond dragged its chain and I am not a saint.
The highway eats the city. Pines shoulder the road. The moon skims the windshield like a blade. Rook's voice crackles in my ear. "Security is set. Roof locked. Cameras live. The women are with her."
"Good," I say.
"She woke once. Asked for water. Mara gave her chamomile. She's sleeping again."
A pause opens. I step around it. "Fine."
"Alpha," Rook says, careful, "did you smell anyone else on the girl? A second signature?"
"No."
"Then why—"
"Because I said so." The edge in my voice shuts the question.
"Yes, sir."
The mountains rise. Home is ahead. The Elders will measure my pulse when I cross the threshold. Mother will look for blood. My brother will grin like a knife. I'll grin back. There is work to do. Tonight is for distance and decisions; tomorrow is for questions and debts.
Tomorrow, she gets a room with rules and time. Tomorrow, I ask until answers bleed. Tonight, I leave before the ground turns to quicksand.
I open my eyes to the road. I do not think about a girl sleeping in my jacket in a room built for war, breathing like I made a promise I don't believe in.
Not again.
Not tonight.