Chapter 3

Sloane POV

The crisp air of the company parking lot did nothing to cool the fire burning in my veins. I marched past rows of sensible sedans, the glossy plane ticket crumpled in my fist. Finn was leaning against his car, his massive frame hunched, looking entirely out of place among the mundane human vehicles.

"Are you out of your mind?" I shoved the ticket hard against his chest. "Asheville? You humiliate me in front of your Warrior flavor of the week, ignore me for days, and then demand I fly across the country with you?"

Finn didn't snap back. Instead, he looked up, and the sheer desperation in his eyes made me falter. His scent-usually a chaotic mix of rain and grass-was sour with panic and the raw, feral distress of a dying Inner Wolf.

"Delilah is mating Hunter Strickland," Finn choked out, the words scraping his throat like glass. "The Mating Ceremony is in Asheville."

I stared at him, appalled. "And you want to go? Finn, that's suicide. Hunter is an Alpha. He'll kill you for just stepping onto Crimson Fang territory."

"I have to see it, Sloane!" Finn suddenly grabbed my shoulders, his grip bruising. "My wolf is tearing me apart from the inside. He still thinks she's ours. If I don't see her marked by another Alpha, if I don't witness the bond snapping with my own eyes... I'm going to lose my mind. I'll go feral. I'll become a Rogue."

A cold dread washed over me. Becoming a Rogue wasn't just losing a pack; it was losing your humanity. It was a death sentence.

"Then take one of your Warrior friends," I whispered, trying to pull away. "Take Amber."

"I can't," he pleaded, his voice breaking. "Any wolf I bring will just trigger my territorial instincts. I need you. You're *wolfless*. You're safe. You're the only thing that grounds me, Sloane. Please. I'm begging you."

He knew exactly what he was doing. He was weaponizing my ten years of pathetic, one-sided loyalty. He was using my biological defect as a tool to keep himself sane. I felt sick to my stomach, disgusted by him, but even more disgusted by myself as that deeply ingrained, toxic need to protect him flared to life.

"This is it, Finn," I said, my voice hollow, the words tasting like ash. "This is the last time I clean up your mess."

*

Seven weeks later, the sterile, human scent of the Asheville Regional Airport was doing nothing to calm my racing heart.

I sat on a cold metal bench in the arrivals area, my suitcase tucked between my legs. It had been over an hour. Finn was completely MIA. My calls went straight to voicemail, and my texts remained unread. As a *wolfless*, I was deaf and blind to the pack's Mind-Link network. For all I knew, Finn had already gotten himself killed.

Anger and a deep, humiliating sense of abandonment warred in my chest. I was about to drag my suitcase to the taxi stand and book the first flight back to New York when a low, predatory growl vibrated through the concrete floor.

It wasn't a wolf. It was an engine.

A sleek, aggressive black Ford Mustang Shelby GT500 slid to a halt at the curb directly in front of me. The tinted passenger window rolled down with a smooth hum.

The air around me instantly changed. The mundane smell of exhaust and cheap coffee was obliterated by a suffocating, intoxicating wave of petrichor, gunpowder, and pure, unadulterated male dominance. My breath hitched. Even without an Inner Wolf, every cell in my body screamed that an apex predator had just entered my space.

I slowly stood up, my knuckles turning white on my suitcase handle.

The man behind the wheel leaned over. He had dark hair, a jawline that looked carved from granite, and eyes that missed absolutely nothing. He was older than Finn, larger, and radiated a lethal stillness that made my knees feel weak.

"Sloane." His voice was a dark, rumbling baritone that sent a bizarre, electric shiver straight down my spine.

I took a step back, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Who are you? Where is Finn?"

The man's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk, his eyes trailing over my sensible clothes and the nervous grip I had on my luggage.

"I guess you can call me the wrong brother."