Chapter 4

Gemma POV

Half an hour after the phone call, I sat in a dimly-lit human cafe on the outskirts of the city. The overwhelming scent of roasted espresso beans and burnt sugar was a welcome shield, easily masking my scent from any Blackwood patrols.

Clark slid into the booth opposite me, his eyes darting toward the door before settling on my pale face. He reached into his jacket and slid a faded, magnetic keycard across the scratched wooden table.

"Grandfather is livid," Clark murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "He said to tell you: *Go get what is yours. Prove a Hart is never just furniture.*"

I picked up the keycard, my thumb tracing the worn plastic. "Thank you, Clark. For everything."

"Be careful, Gemma," he warned, his jaw tightening. "Dallas thinks you are property. And he destroys what he cannot control."

By mid-afternoon, I pulled my beat-up sedan up the overgrown driveway of Hart Manor in Long Island. The ancient stone estate was a shadow of its former glory, much like my fallen Pack. Mrs. Danvers, our loyal housekeeper, met me at the door. She didn't say a word, just pulled me into a fierce, silent embrace that nearly broke the dam of tears I had been holding back.

I found my grandfather, Arthur Hart, in the dusty library. He sat in his heavy wheelchair by the cold fireplace, but his Alpha aura still crackled in the air, sharp and unyielding. His piercing eyes immediately caught my pale skin and the slight tremor in my hands-the undeniable, agonizing signs of Bond-Rejection Sickness.

"You tried to love a stone, little wolf," Arthur rasped, his voice thick with suppressed fury. "The Moon Goddess's bond cannot warm it. Now, it is time to make that stone shatter for you."

He pointed a gnarled finger toward the far bookshelf. "Behind the Dumas. Code is your birthday."

I walked over, moved the fake leather-bound book, and punched *0712* into the cold steel keypad of the hidden safe. The heavy door clicked open. Inside lay my passport, my original birth certificate, and a thick manila folder.

I pulled the folder out, my fingers tracing the printed title: *Algorithm 405 & 406*.

It was the logistics and defense network code I had written back in college. Dallas had once patted my head and dismissed it as a "cute academic project." He had absolutely no idea that my code was the very foundation of Blackwood Global and his Pack's entire security grid.

Arthur wheeled closer, pressing a heavy, black titanium card into my palm. The Hart Pack trust fund.

"This is ammunition for the war," he said, his eyes burning with a fierce, protective fire. "Go. Make him pay for his arrogance."

I stepped out of the manor just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, desolate shadows across the overgrown lawn. The cool evening breeze kissed my cheeks, but the fire in my veins burned hotter than ever. I was no longer the pathetic, wolfless Omega begging for scraps of affection.

I walked over to my car and laid the passport, the patent documents, and the black titanium card side-by-side on the rusted hood. My hands were completely steady now.

I pulled out my phone, snapped a clear photo of the items, and attached it to a message to Clark.

*Got them.*

I hit send. The screen went dark for only a second before it vibrated in my palm. Clark's reply was a single word.

*Showtime.*