Wren POV
Sera Voss had a gift for making humiliation feel like manners.
She did not yell. She did not name you directly. She just arranged things so carefully that everyone in the room understood exactly what she meant without her ever having to say it out loud. It was a skill. Wren had spent two years watching her use it and she could admit, in the privacy of her own head, that it was impressive in the way that a very sharp knife was impressive. Useful. Precise. Dangerous if pointed at you.
Today it was pointed at Wren.
The pack women's meeting was held in the main sitting room. Twelve she-wolves, all mid to high ranking, all seated in a neat arrangement around Sera like she was already Luna. Wren stood in the corner behind the refreshment table with a teapot and strict instructions to keep the cups filled and stay out of the way.
She kept the cups filled and stayed out of the way.
Sera stood at the front of the room looking effortless. Blonde, poised, the kind of beautiful that had clearly been maintained and practiced. She talked about the Alpha Summit. About the mating announcement. About what it would mean for the pack's standing among the twelve territories. Her voice was warm and confident and everything about her said this is already mine.
Wren poured tea and thought about her packed bag under her floorboard.
Sixty days. Just sixty more.
"The pack house will need to reflect the highest standard during summit week," Sera said, moving smoothly down her list. "Every detail matters. The way we present ourselves to visiting Alphas tells them everything about who we are." She paused. Let her eyes move across the room. "That includes the serving staff."
Her gaze landed on Wren for exactly one second.
Just one. That was all she needed. The message landed in the room like a stone in still water every she-wolf in the space felt the ripple. A few of them glanced at Wren. One of the older ones pressed her lips together like she was trying not to smile.
Wren smiled and picked up the teapot.
She had gotten very good at this specific smile. It did not reach her eyes. It did not need to. It was just a shape her mouth made while her actual face stayed perfectly blank behind it. She moved to the nearest cup and poured without a tremor in her hand.
Sera had already moved on, talking about floral arrangements.
Wren poured tea for forty more minutes and did not exist.
She was good at not existing.
The meeting ended. Pack members filed out in groups, talking. No one said anything to Wren directly. She cleaned up the refreshment table, stacked the cups, folded the cloth, and carried the tray back to the kitchen alone.
Daya was waiting for her in the hallway outside.
"You had the face," Daya said immediately.
"I did not have the face."
"You absolutely had the face. The one where you are imagining something violent."
Wren walked. Daya fell into step beside her.
"I was thinking about pouring the tea on her head," Wren said.
Daya nodded seriously. "Which time?"
"The second time she said highest standard."
"Understandable. I would have done it the first time personally but I respect the restraint." Daya glanced sideways. "She looked at you."
"I know."
"The whole room looked at you when she looked at you."
"I know."
"You kept pouring."
"There was still tea in the pot."
Daya was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "sixty days," the way she sometimes did when she did not have anything else useful to offer. Just the number. Just the reminder that there was an end point.
"Sixty days," Wren agreed.
They walked the long way back through the side grounds because the main path meant passing the training yard and Wren had no interest in being anyone's entertainment today. The afternoon air was cool. Quiet. For a few minutes it was almost peaceful.
Then her wrist warmed.
Not the faint flicker from the kitchen at three in the morning. This was longer. Steadier. A soft gold pulse that ran from her wrist up her forearm before it faded. She pressed her hand over it without thinking and stopped walking.
Daya stopped beside her. "What?"
Wren looked down at her wrist. Nothing visible now. Just skin. But the warmth was still fading slowly, like something pulling away rather than disappearing.
"It happened again," she said quietly.
Daya knew about the glow. Wren had told her that morning in a rush, still half-convinced she had imagined it. But standing here now with the warmth still fading from her arm she was not half-convinced anymore.
Daya looked at her wrist and then looked up at the training yard visible over the side fence. Visible, and close.
"We were walking toward the yard," Daya said slowly.
Wren did not answer.
"Wren."
"I know."
"That is a bond response. That is what a bond response feels like."
"I know," Wren said again. She started walking. "I do not want to talk about it right now."
Daya followed. She did not push. That was one of the things Wren loved about her most. She knew when to wait.
They got back to the pack house. Wren went down the corridor to her room, Daya peeling off toward her own. Wren pushed her door open and went straight to the corner of the room where the loose floorboard was. She needed to see the bag. She needed the solid reality of it under her hands. Sixty days. Packed bag. Real plan. She was not a girl with a mysterious bond glow and parents who might not have been who she was told. She was a girl with a plan and she just had to hold on.
She lifted the floorboard.
She stopped.
The bag was there. But it was wrong. The strap was on the left side. She always left it on the right. The front pocket zipper was open a half inch. She always closed it fully. The folded map on top was turned around.
Wren did not move.
Someone had been in her bag. Not roughly carefully. Deliberately. The kind of careful that meant they had found what they were looking for and put everything back so she would not notice.
Almost so she would not notice.
She lifted the bag out slowly and checked the inside pocket where she kept her mother's pendant.
The pendant was still there. She exhaled.
But the fifty-three dollars was gone.
Every single coin. Gone.
And tucked in their place, folded once, was a single piece of paper. No name. No signature. Just four words written in small, clean handwriting.
You are not leaving.