Lyra's POV
Pain wasn't a living thing. Living things died. This didn't.
It chewed. For three days, it had been grinding my hip bones into dust. My blood didn't boil—it spoiled. Turned into acid.
Feral Madness.
The doctors' polite little label. Real name: Rotting from the inside.
"Critical." Dr. Lee's voice. Distorted. Underwater. "Sedation. Now."
"No sedation." My voice. Gravel in a grinder. "Get out."
I leaned on the mahogany desk. The wood didn't groan. I heard the fibers snap.
"Damon." Lee stood his ground. Stupid man. Brave man. "Seventy-two hours. The serum failed. You don't calm down, you don't see thirty."
Thirty. I was twenty-nine. An old man in a dead body.
"Out!"
My arm moved. The heavy crystal decanter, the reports, the unsealed contracts—airborne. The decanter hit the wall. Glass dust. The smell of fifty-year-old scotch. Peat and smoke.
My inner beast slammed against my ribs. Mate. Need.
"Shut up," I snarled at the empty air. The door had already clicked shut. Lee and Ken, gone.
Just me. And the parasite.
I looked at my hands. Trembling. I was the Alpha Prime of the Storm Pack. King of Obsidian City. I owned judges, senators, and the port authority.
And I couldn't stop my own marrow from cooking itself.
My legs gave out. I stumbled toward the balcony. Reinforced glass. Bulletproof. I pressed my forehead against it. Cold.
Gone, I told the thing inside. She burned. Blackwood estate. Ash and bone. No Mate. Just us.
The wolf didn't listen. Claws scraped the back of my sternum. If I shifted now, the man died. I'd be a Rogue. A rabid dog for my own Enforcers to put down.
Ends here? Damon Storm, dead by suicide?
Crack.
A sharp sound. I looked at the glass beneath my palm. Spiderwebbed.
Air. Need air.
I ripped the slider open. The wind at the top of the tower hit me. Ice. Knives. Good.
I gripped the railing. Below, the city was a smear of neon and misery. Millions of insects down there. Sleeping. Eating. Breeding. Ignorant.
I closed my eyes. Waited for the black.
Then, the air changed.
Not wind. A drift. Rising from below.
My nostrils flared.
Not exhaust. Not ozone.
Warmth.
Peppermint. Sage. Bone broth, simmered for hours. And something else. Something... clean. Sun-dried cotton. Milk.
Quiet.
My internal noise cut out.
The wolf froze. Mid-snarl. Ears up.
The acid in my veins cooled. The red haze on the edges of my vision peeled back. My pulse, a jackhammer seconds ago, stopped. Then slowed. Thud. Thud.
I inhaled. Drank it in.
It coated my throat. A balm on raw nerves. Better than the scotch. Better than blood.
I leaned over the railing. Darkness.
"Who...?"
Directly underneath. Apartment 40-A. Empty for months. I kept it that way. No noise. No neighbors.
Someone was there.
I could taste the scene. A stove. Steam. A hand stirring a spoon.
Who?
Wait. She?
My wolf purred. Actually purred. A vibration in my skull. The beast curled up, chin on paws, watching the floorboards.
Close, it rumbled. Mine.
I stood there. Breathing. The madness locked itself away.
Steps behind me. Ken.
"Alpha? Security is prep—"
He choked. Stared. I was standing straight. Hands loose on the railing. Neck veins gone.
"Cancel it." My voice. Low. Human.
Ken blinked. "Sir? You're... stable?"
"Better." I turned. Power flooded back. "Ken. Who is in 40-A?"
Ken tapped his tablet. Fingers shaking. He preferred the rage; he understood the rage. The calm scared him.
"Lease signed yesterday. Single mother. Three children."
"Children?" My nose wrinkled. Loud. Sticky. Useless.
"Yes. File downloading now."
"Desk," I ordered. I walked back inside. Crunch of glass under my boots. "And Ken?"
"Alpha?"
"Soup. Peppermint."
The Triplets' POV
"Target acquired," Leo whispered.
"Target is dumb," Aries muttered.
"Target is scanning," Cyra corrected. Her fingers didn't touch the keys; they punched the air above the holographic projection on the floor.
New apartment. Living room. Mommy in the shower—pipes groaning. Twelve minutes.
Our "fort"—cushions, three blankets, a tactical perimeter.
"He's pinging Mommy's file," Cyra said. Blue light reflected in her eyes. "Source IP: Storm Tower. Penthouse. User: K. Miller."
"The neighbor." Leo adjusted his glasses. Fake lenses. He just liked the frame. "Mommy called him rude."
"Looked at us like bugs," Aries said. He was upside down, feet on the couch. "I should bite his ankle."
"No biting," Leo said. "Not yet. He sees the real file, we move. Again."
Aries flopped down. "I like this carpet. It tastes like wool."
"Let Cyra work."
Cyra chewed her lip. "He's bypassing the first wall. Corporate retrieval bot. Fast."
"Block him," Leo said.
"Suspicious," Cyra shook her head. "Block him, he digs deeper. Feed him."
"The decoy?"
"Loading Protocol: Broke Socialite." Cyra grinned. Missing front tooth.
Type. Enter.
Identity: Lyra Vane.
Status: Widowed.
Job: None.
Debt: Terminal.
Bio: Former trophy wife. Likes: Botox, shopping, small dogs.
"Mommy's gonna kill us," Leo noted.
"She won't see it," Cyra promised. "He will. And... let's give him a housewarming gift."
"The Virus?" Aries sat up.
"The Pig," Cyra corrected.
Enter key.
Green bar. Full.
PAYLOAD DELIVERED.
"Clean up!" Leo hissed. "Water stopped!"
Three seconds. Keyboard vanished. Laptop under the Lego bin. Aries grabbed a plush dinosaur. Cyra switched the feed to My Little Pony.
Mommy walked out. Towel on her hair. Pyjamas—flannel, worn thin at the elbows. Smelled like soap and exhaustion. Not the Shadow Lord. Just Mom.
"What are you doing?" Suspicious eyes.
"Ponies!" We said.
She sniffed. Good nose. But the peppermint tea masked the ozone of the cooling processors.
"Bed," she sighed. "School tomorrow."
"School is for minions," Aries grumbled.
"Be nice," Mommy said. "Rule one?"
"Don't start it," Aries recited.
"Rule two?"
"Finish it," Leo smiled.
"March."
We marched. Cyra looked at the ceiling one last time.
Damon's POV
Screen flickered.
I sat at the new desk. Ken had dragged it in. The soup bowl was empty. Tasted like dishwater compared to the scent from below. But the air... the air was enough.
"File, sir," Ken said. "Lyra Vane. Thirty-four. East Coast transfer."
I leaned in. Who was she? Which witch coven? Which pack?
File open.
Name: Lyra Vane.
Photo: Blurry. Duck-face. Too much filler. Holding a rat-dog.
I stared.
Bio: Looking for a sugar daddy! No uggos! <3
My eye twitched.
"Gold digger?"
"Appears so," Ken shifted his weight. "Credit score 450. Six maxed cards. Lawsuit pending. Miami plastic surgeon."
Cold.
Disappointment didn't wash over me. It pinned me to the chair. Heavy. Cold.
This? This vapid creature calmed the Alpha Prime?
"Mistake," I muttered. "The scent..."
"Sir?"
SQUEAL.
High pitch. Audio tear.
OINK.
I flinched. Ken jumped.
The 80-inch monitor flashed pink. The file vanished. A pixelated pig. Tutu. Macarena.
OINK-OINK! SQUEAAAAL!
Circus music. Distorted. Loud.
"What tells...?" I roared.
"Virus!" Ken tapped his tablet. "It's eating the bot! Eating the firewall!"
"Kill it!"
"Locked out!"
The pig twirled. Speech bubble:
NOSY NEIGHBORS GET STYES.
I stared.
Fury. First instinct. Kill. Send a squad. Kick the door.
Then... a sound.
My throat. Rusty. Scraped.
A chuckle.
I was laughing.
"Nosy neighbors get styes." I read it. Absurd.
Not a gold digger. Code. Sophisticated. Wrapped in crayon.
"Pull the plug," I said.
"Sir?"
"Network. Kill it."
Ken dove under the desk. Snap.
Black screen. Silence.
Scent remained. Faint. Teasing.
I walked to the balcony. Looked down.
"Lyra Vane." Name tasted different now. Like a lie.
Hacker friend? Hacker kid?
My wolf paced. She plays.
"Yes," I whispered. "Fun."
"Ken."
"Sir?" He popped up. Dust on his suit.
"Leave the server off. Maintenance check tomorrow."
"And the... eviction?"
I paused. No pain. Just the mint. And the image of a dancing pig.
"No."
I grabbed my jacket. Leather.
"In fact," I walked to the door. "Introduction."
"Sir? It's 11 PM."
"Perfect."
I needed to see the face behind the pig. Breathe the air. Before the noise came back.