Chapter 41
I throw the phone across the room.
It hits the wall. Cracks. Falls.
Iris reaches for me but I am already moving, already grabbing my jacket, my keys, the knife I keep strapped to my ankle because Declan taught me to never go anywhere unarmed.
"Sloane, wait—"
"No." The word comes out wrong. Too flat. Too calm. "Not waiting."
Tobias steps between me and the door. He is older, slower, but his eyes are steady and he does not move when I bare my teeth at him.
"You walk out that door in this state, you are dead before sunrise," he says. "That video was sent to provoke exactly this reaction."
"Then it worked." I try to push past him but he catches my wrist. His grip is iron. "Let go."
"Your father once told me that a Carrigan alpha's greatest weapon is not their strength." Tobias does not release me. "It is their ability to think when everyone else is drowning in instinct."
I yank my arm free. The watch slides down, catches on my wrist bone. 11:47 PM. Always 11:47.
"My father is dead," I say. "So are my brothers. So is my mother. Everyone I have ever loved ends up bleeding out while I survive." My voice cracks on the last word. "I am not losing him too."
Iris picks up the broken phone. The screen is shattered but still glowing. She taps something, frowns, taps again.
"This video," she says slowly. "The metadata says it was recorded six hours ago."
Six hours. Before Declan even left.
The room tilts.
"That is impossible," I say. "The message said he is already dead. Present tense."
"Exactly." Iris turns the phone toward me. "Whoever sent this wants you to believe Declan is dead right now. But the timestamp does not match. This footage is old."
Tobias crosses to the window. Pulls back the curtain. The street below is empty except for a black sedan parked three houses down, engine running, exhaust curling in the cold air.
"We have company," he says.
I move to the window. The sedan's windows are tinted but I can see the outline of two figures in the front seats. Watching. Waiting.
"How long have they been there?"
"Since you started the integration trial." Tobias lets the curtain fall. "They want to know if you survived. And now that you have, they want to see what you will do next."
My wolf stirs. Not afraid. Hungry.
"Then let us give them a show."
The plan is simple. Stupid, maybe, but simple.
Iris will leave through the front door, get in her car, drive away. Normal. Routine. The sedan will follow her because that is what surveillance teams do—they track movement, report patterns, wait for orders.
While they are gone, Tobias and I will find out where Declan actually is.
"You are assuming they will take the bait," Iris says. She is pulling on her coat, checking her pockets for her keys. "What if they stay?"
"They will not." I am watching the sedan through a gap in the curtains. "Garrett does not waste resources. If you leave, they follow. That is how he operates."
Iris pauses at the door. "You sound very certain about how Garrett Voss thinks."
"I have been studying him for three months." Since the night I found out he was the one who ordered the hit on my pack. Since I learned his name and his face and the way he smiles when he is about to ruin someone's life. "I know exactly how he thinks."
She leaves.
I count to thirty. The sedan's brake lights flare red, then it pulls away from the curb, following Iris's taillights down the street.
Tobias is already at his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard. He does not look up when I cross to stand behind him.
"Declan's phone last pinged a cell tower forty minutes outside the city," he says. "Industrial district. Lots of abandoned warehouses, minimal security cameras."
"Perfect place for an ambush."
"Or a trap." Tobias pulls up a satellite image. The area is a maze of buildings and empty lots, everything gray and decaying. "If I were Garrett, I would use Declan as bait. Get you to come running, take you both out at once."
"Yeah, no." I lean closer to the screen. "That is not Garrett's style. He does not get his hands dirty. He sends people to do his killing."
"Then who sent the video?"
That is the question, is it not.
I pull out my own phone—the burner I keep for emergencies—and dial the number Declan called from before he left. It rings four times. Goes to voicemail.
His voice: "You have reached Declan Thorne. Leave a message."
Formal. Measured. Every word perfectly enunciated.
I hang up. Try again.
Same result.
"His phone is off," I say. "Or destroyed."
Tobias closes the laptop. "We need backup. I can call—"
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intend. "No one else. This stays between us."
"Sloane—"
"I mean it." I am already moving toward the door, grabbing the keys to Tobias's truck because my car is too recognizable. "You can come with me or you can stay here. But I am going."
He stands. Slowly. His joints crack.
"Your father would have my head for letting you do this," he says.
"My father is not here."
Tobias picks up his own jacket. "No. But you are. And that is going to have to be enough."
The industrial district smells like rust and old oil and something else—something organic and rotting that makes my wolf recoil.
Tobias parks the truck three blocks away from the coordinates. We walk the rest, keeping to the shadows, moving like we were taught. Like we are pack.
The warehouse is exactly what I expected. Concrete walls, broken windows, a loading dock with the door hanging off its hinges. No lights. No movement.
Too quiet.
"This is wrong," Tobias whispers. "We should leave."
But I am already climbing the loading dock stairs, already pushing through the broken door, already inside before he can stop me.
The interior is vast and empty. Moonlight streams through the broken windows, casting everything in silver and shadow. I can see old machinery, rusted and forgotten. Pallets stacked against the far wall. A metal staircase leading to a second floor.
No Declan.
No bodies.
No blood.
"Sloane." Tobias is behind me, his voice tight. "Look."
He is pointing at the floor. I follow his gaze and see it—a phone, screen cracked, lying in the center of the room like an offering.
Declan's phone.
I cross to it. Pick it up. The screen flickers to life, battery at two percent.
One new message.
I open it.
The message is a photo. Declan, alive, hands zip-tied behind his back, kneeling on concrete. His face is bruised but his eyes are clear, focused, looking directly at the camera.
Below the photo: Rooftop. Come alone or he dies.
I look up. The metal staircase. The second floor. The roof access.
"Not my circus," I say, but the words taste like ash.
Tobias grabs my arm. "You cannot go up there. This is exactly what they want."
"I know." I pull free. "But what choice do I have?"
"You walk away. You call the police. You—"
"He would not walk away if it were me." The truth of it sits heavy in my chest. "You know he would not."
Tobias's expression crumples. He knows I am right.
"Then I am coming with you," he says.
"No." I hand him the phone. "You stay here. If I am not back in ten minutes, you call everyone. Iris. The pack. The police. Everyone."
"Sloane—"
But I am already moving, already climbing the stairs, my boots ringing against metal. The sound echoes through the empty warehouse, too loud, announcing my presence to anyone listening.
The second floor is darker. Narrower. A hallway lined with offices, doors hanging open, everything stripped and abandoned.
At the end of the hall: a ladder. Above it, a hatch leading to the roof.
I climb.
The hatch opens with a screech of rusted hinges. Cold air hits my face, sharp and clean after the stale rot of the warehouse.
The roof is flat, covered in gravel and old tar paper. And there, twenty feet away, kneeling exactly as he was in the photo—
Declan.
He is alive. Bruised, bleeding from a cut above his eye, but alive.
Relief hits me so hard I almost stumble.
"Sloane, do not—" he starts, but a voice cuts him off.
"She never listens, does she?"
I turn.
Garrett Voss steps out from behind an air conditioning unit, hands in his pockets, smiling that smile that makes my skin crawl. He is wearing a suit. Expensive. Tailored. Like he is here for a business meeting, not a murder.
"Sloane Carrigan," he says, drawing out my name like he is tasting it. "I have been looking forward to meeting you."
I do not move. Do not speak. My wolf is snarling, pushing against my skin, wanting blood.
"You are probably wondering why I went through all this trouble," Garrett continues. He walks closer, casual, like we are old friends. "The video. The phone. The dramatic rooftop confrontation."
"You like theatrics," I say. My voice is steady. Controlled. "You like making people dance."
"I like efficiency." He stops five feet away. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. "And you, Sloane, have become inefficient. You were supposed to die with your pack. Instead, you survived. Worse, you thrived. You completed the integration trial. You have silver eyes now, just like your father."
He knows about the trial. About my eyes.
Which means he has someone inside Tobias's network.
"That is not the whole truth," I say, echoing Declan's phrase. "You did not bring me here just to monologue about efficiency."
Garrett's smile widens. "No. I brought you here to make you an offer."
Behind him, Declan is shaking his head, mouthing something I cannot read.
"I am listening," I say.
"Join me." Garrett spreads his hands. "Your pack is gone. Your family is dead. You have nothing left except revenge, and revenge is exhausting, is it not? All that anger. All that pain. I can give you something better. Purpose. Power. A place in the new order I am building."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then Declan Thorne dies." Garrett pulls a gun from his jacket. Small. Silver. He does not point it at me. He points it at Declan. "Right here. Right now. And you get to watch."
My wolf surges. I feel my eyes shift, silver bleeding into my vision.
"You are going to kill him anyway," I say. "That is what you do. You make promises you have no intention of keeping."
"True." Garrett tilts his head. "But I am giving you a choice. That is more than your father got."
The mention of my father makes something snap inside me.
I move.
Fast. Faster than Garrett expects. My hand closes around his wrist, twisting, forcing the gun away from Declan. He tries to pull free but I am stronger now, the integration trial left me stronger, and I hear bones crack under my grip.
Garrett screams.
The gun falls.
I catch it.
Point it at his head.
"You want to talk about my father?" My finger tightens on the trigger. "Let us talk about how you ordered his death. How you sent your people to slaughter my entire pack while they slept. How you made me watch."
"Sloane, do not—" Declan's voice, urgent, but I cannot look at him. Cannot look away from Garrett's face.
"I did not give that order," Garrett says. He is breathing hard, cradling his broken wrist. "That is not the whole truth, Sloane. I did not kill your pack."
"Liar."
"I am many things, but I am not a liar." He meets my eyes. "Your pack was killed by someone else. Someone who wanted you to think it was me. Someone who needed you angry and focused on the wrong enemy."
The world tilts.
"Who?" The word comes out broken.
Garrett smiles through his pain. "That is the question, is it not?"
Behind me, I hear footsteps on the roof. Multiple sets. Heavy boots on gravel.
I turn.
Six figures emerge from the shadows, all armed, all wearing tactical gear. They fan out, surrounding us, weapons raised.
And at the center, stepping forward with a gun pointed directly at my chest—
Iris.
"I am sorry, Sloane," she says, and her voice is steady, calm, completely devoid of emotion. "But this has gone on long enough."
The gun in my hand suddenly feels very heavy.
"Iris, what—"
"Put the weapon down," she says. "Slowly. Or I will shoot Declan first, then you."
I look at Declan. His eyes are wide, shocked, but there is something else there too. Something that looks like recognition.
He knew.
He knew and he did not tell me.
"How long?" I ask. My voice does not sound like mine. "How long have you been working for him?"
Iris does not answer. She just adjusts her aim, finger tightening on the trigger, and I realize with perfect, crystalline clarity that she is not bluffing.
She will kill us both.
I start to lower the gun, but Declan moves—fast, violent, throwing himself sideways into the nearest tactical operative. They go down in a tangle of limbs and the operative's gun goes off, the shot impossibly loud, and suddenly everyone is moving, shouting, and I am diving for cover behind the air conditioning unit as bullets tear through the space where I was standing.
Garrett is running for the roof access.
Iris is shouting orders.
Declan is fighting two operatives at once, his hands still zip-tied, using his body as a weapon.
I raise the gun. Aim at Iris.
She sees me. Swings her weapon toward Declan.
"Drop it or he dies," she says.
And I realize, with sick certainty, that she means it.
I drop the gun.
It clatters on the gravel.
Iris smiles. "Good girl."
She pulls the trigger anyway.
The shot hits Declan in the chest and he goes down, hard, blood spreading across his shirt in a dark bloom, and I am screaming, running toward him, but hands grab me from behind, dragging me back, and someone is shouting my name but I cannot hear them over the sound of my own voice, raw and broken, as Declan's eyes find mine one last time before they—