Chapter 7

Elara POV

The herbal broth had settled my stomach, but nothing could settle the cold, hard knot in my chest. Hours later, I sat in a dimly lit, neutral-territory restaurant in SoHo, the crisp white tablecloth a stark contrast to the dirty reality of my life. I had agreed to this dinner with Julian for one reason: to sever the rotting tie between us once and for all.

"I knew you had it in you, Elara," Julian was saying, his perfectly trained smile flashing as he poured me a glass of expensive Merlot. "The Aegis Summit. That's the inner circle. We can finally make some real moves."

He was talking about we, but all my senses were hijacked by the scent clinging to his collar. It wasn't the cheap perfume from the Dark Moon bar. It was an aggressive, suffocating blend of expensive designer fragrance and the sharp, acidic tang of jealousy. It was a scent I knew intimately from Pack galas. It belonged to Cassandra Thorne, the "princess" of the rival Thorne Pack. To any wolf, it was a blatant territorial claim.

"I even heard from a... reliable source," Julian leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "that the Thorne Pack is planning a massive power play at the Summit. If we play our cards right with Alpha Kaelen, we could be indispensable."

A wave of pure nausea washed over me, entirely unrelated to the Plan B. He wasn't just cheating; he was colluding with the enemy. He was a traitor.

"Excuse me," I interrupted, my voice eerily calm. "I need to use the restroom."

I locked myself in the cold, marble-lined bathroom. My hands weren't shaking anymore. I pulled out my old, cracked phone-the personal device I had successfully hidden from Kaelen-and opened my messages. As a wolfless Omega, I couldn't use the Mind-Link, but human technology had its uses. I typed a quick text to Cassandra, feigning innocence about a dress recommendation for the Summit.

My phone buzzed almost instantly. Darling, I'd love to help, but the moon phase is dreadful tonight. A migraine is killing me. I'm bedridden in my den.

My blood ran ice cold. Dahlia had literally shown me a gossip blog this afternoon featuring photos of Cassandra Thorne arriving at a high-profile human charity gala just an hour ago.

I had my proof. The knife was in my hand; I just needed to twist it.

I walked back to the table and sat down, placing the sleek, new phone Kaelen had given me face-up on the tablecloth. "I hope Cassandra is alright," I said casually, watching Julian's face. "I just heard her migraine is acting up terribly tonight."

Julian's perfect smile faltered. The color drained from his face. "Oh? I... I wouldn't know."

Right on cue, the screen of Kaelen's phone lit up. It was a message from an unknown number, but the preview text was unmistakable. It was a photo attachment, followed by: Can't wait to claim all of my little Omega traitor...

In the exact same second, Julian's phone, resting face-down next to his wine glass, vibrated violently.

Panic, raw and ugly, shattered Julian's composed facade. He snatched his phone, his eyes darting around the restaurant like a cornered rat. "Elara, I'm so sorry," he stammered, already standing up and throwing a hundred-dollar bill on the table. "Gamma Ronan just called an emergency patrol. I have to go. Let me get you an Uber."

He practically shoved me into the yellow cab waiting outside in the drizzling rain before sprinting down the block.

"Just wait here a moment, please," I told the driver.

I pulled out my old phone and opened an app I hadn't looked at in months-a location-sharing feature from the early, stupid days of our relationship. I watched the little blue dot representing Julian move rapidly across the digital map of Manhattan. It didn't head toward his apartment. It didn't head toward Blackwood territory. It moved straight to the Upper East Side, stopping dead at a luxury high-rise registered under Thorne Pack assets.

The final nail in the coffin. Three years of my life, reduced to a pathetic lie. I had been betrayed by my boyfriend, mocked by a woman I thought was at least an acquaintance, and sold out to the very Pack that had destroyed my mother.

A bone-deep chill settled into my marrow, but I didn't shed a single tear. The Elara who would have cried over Julian Kane died in that Uber.

By the time I reached my crumbling Brooklyn apartment building, I was entirely numb. I kicked aside a dead potted plant by my door and fumbled with my keys.

The heavy, obsidian phone in my pocket vibrated.

I pulled it out. A single text from Kaelen Blackwood. Not a question, but a chilling statement of fact: You are home.

He had been watching. He knew exactly where I went, who I saw, and probably exactly how my heart had just been ripped out. A hysterical, exhausted laugh bubbled in my throat. I didn't type a reply. Instead, I hit the emoji keyboard and sent a sticker of a sad, crying kitten.

Three seconds later, the phone vibrated again.

Open the door.

My heart stopped. The air in my lungs froze. I slowly turned my head and crept toward the door, pressing my eye against the scratched peephole.

Standing in the dim, flickering light of my pathetic hallway, looking like a lethal predator who had just tracked his wounded prey to its den, was Kaelen Blackwood.