Chapter 42

The hands dragging me backward belong to two operatives in tactical gear and I twist, snarling, my wolf surging so close to the surface that my vision bleeds gold at the edges. One of them grunts when my elbow connects with his ribs but they do not let go, hauling me away from Declan's body—his body, Christ, his body lying there in a spreading pool of blood—and I am screaming words that do not sound like words anymore, just raw sound torn from somewhere deep in my chest.

"Sedate her," Iris says.

Not my circus. Not my—

The thought dies as I see the needle coming toward my arm and I thrash harder, wild, feral, but there are too many hands and the sting of the injection burns and then everything starts to blur at the edges like someone smeared Vaseline across my vision.

"No." My voice sounds far away. "No, you—"

Declan's eyes are still open. Staring at nothing.

The world tilts sideways and I realize I am on my knees, gravel biting through my jeans, and someone is talking but the words are underwater sounds, distorted and meaningless. My hands are being zip-tied behind my back. The plastic cuts into my wrists. I do not care.

"—stable for transport," someone says.

Transport. The word catches in my brain like a fishhook.

I force my eyes to focus. Garrett is gone—disappeared through the roof access during the chaos. Two operatives are bent over Declan, one pressing gauze to his chest while the other checks his pulse. Checking his pulse means he still has one. Means he is not—

"He is alive," Iris says, crouching in front of me. "For now."

I try to lunge at her but my body will not cooperate, muscles turned to water by whatever she injected. I manage to lean forward enough to spit at her feet.

She does not even flinch. "I expected better from you, Sloane. After everything."

"You shot him." The words come out slurred. "You—"

"I shot him where it would not kill him immediately." She tilts her head, studying me like I am something under glass. "The bullet missed his heart by two inches. He has maybe an hour if he gets medical attention. Less if he does not."

The sedative is pulling me under but I fight it, clawing my way back to consciousness through sheer rage. "Why?"

"Because you needed to understand that I am serious." Iris stands, brushing gravel from her knees. "And because Declan Thorne has been lying to you since the moment you met."

"Liar."

"Am I?" She nods to one of the operatives. "Show her."

The operative pulls out a tablet, taps the screen, holds it in front of my face. Security footage. Black and white, timestamp in the corner reading three weeks ago. The location tag says it is from a building downtown—the Meridian, Garrett's corporate headquarters.

The footage shows Declan walking into a conference room. Sitting down across from someone whose back is to the camera. They talk for eleven minutes. Then Declan slides a folder across the table and leaves.

The person turns slightly, reaching for the folder.

Iris.

"No." But my voice has no strength behind it.

"He has been reporting to me for a month," Iris says. "Every move you made. Every plan. Every moment of weakness." She pauses. "Every time you let him into your bed."

The sedative is winning. My head drops forward, too heavy to hold up anymore. "You are lying."

"The footage does not lie." Iris's voice is almost gentle. "He was my asset, Sloane. He was always my asset. And you made it so easy for him."

I want to scream that she is wrong, that Declan would not—but then I remember. The way he always seemed to know where I would be. The questions he asked that felt too specific. The night I told him about the pack and he touched his left wrist, that tell Iris just confirmed he has when he lies.

That is not the whole truth, he always said.

Because he was the one hiding it.

"Why?" I force the word out through numb lips.

"Because Garrett Voss is not the only one who wants you, Sloane Carrigan." Iris crouches again, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something expensive and cold. "You are worth more than you know. And Declan understood that from the beginning."

She stands. Nods to the operatives. "Get Thorne stabilized and into the van. Sloane comes with me."

"Where—" I cannot finish the sentence.

"Somewhere you cannot run." Iris turns away. "Somewhere you will finally learn the whole truth about the night your pack died."

---

The van smells like metal and blood and the chemical tang of medical supplies. I am on a bench seat, hands still zip-tied, the sedative making everything feel like I am moving through honey. Across from me, Declan is on a stretcher, an operative working on his chest wound with quick, efficient movements. An IV bag hangs from a hook above him, clear fluid dripping into his arm.

His eyes are closed. His face is gray.

He is alive. Barely.

I should feel relief. Instead I feel nothing, a vast empty space where my emotions used to be, scraped clean by betrayal and shock and whatever Iris pumped into my veins.

The operative—young, maybe twenty-five, with a tactical medic patch on his vest—glances at me. "He is stable. For now."

"I did not ask."

"You were staring."

Yeah, no. I look away, focusing on the van's ceiling. Water stains in the corner. A dent in the metal. Anything but Declan's face.

"He kept saying your name," the medic says. "When we were loading him. Kept trying to—"

"I do not care."

But my voice cracks on the last word and the medic goes quiet, returning his attention to Declan's wound. The van hits a pothole and Declan's body shifts on the stretcher, a low groan escaping his throat. Still unconscious. Still dying by inches.

I close my eyes. Try to find my wolf, that steady presence that has kept me alive through everything, but she is distant, muffled by the drugs, and I am alone in my own head with nothing but the memory of Declan's eyes finding mine as the bullet hit him.

He knew. He knew Iris was going to shoot him and he looked at me anyway, like he was trying to tell me something, and I was too stupid to understand.

Or maybe he was just saying goodbye.

The van turns sharply and I slide sideways on the bench, my shoulder hitting the wall. The impact sends a jolt through my system, clearing some of the fog. Not much. Enough.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

The medic does not answer.

"I said—"

"I heard you." He does not look up from Declan's chest. "I do not know. They do not tell us that part."

"Who is 'they'?"

"People who pay better than you can afford to ask questions about."

Fair enough.

I watch him work for a moment—the way his hands move with practiced precision, checking Declan's vitals, adjusting the IV drip. He has done this before. Many times.

"How many people have you saved in the back of this van?" I ask.

"Enough."

"How many have you lost?"

His hands pause for just a second. Then he continues working. "Enough."

The van slows. Stops. Voices outside, muffled through the metal walls. The back doors open and Iris climbs in, followed by two more operatives. She looks at Declan, then at me.

"We are here," she says.

"Where is here?"

"Somewhere Garrett cannot reach you." She nods to the operatives. "Bring them both."

They unload Declan first, the medic and another operative carrying the stretcher down a ramp into what looks like an underground parking garage. Concrete pillars. Fluorescent lights. The smell of exhaust and damp.

Then hands grip my arms, hauling me to my feet. My legs do not want to support my weight but the operatives do not care, half-dragging me down the ramp and through a steel door that opens with a keycard swipe.

The hallway beyond is clinical. White walls. Tile floor. Doors with small windows set at eye level. It looks like a hospital but feels like a prison.

"What is this place?" I ask.

Iris does not answer. She leads us down the hallway, her heels clicking on the tile, until we reach a door at the end. Another keycard swipe. The door opens into a large room—medical equipment along one wall, a hospital bed in the center, monitors and machines I do not recognize.

"Put him there," Iris says, pointing to the bed.

The operatives transfer Declan from the stretcher, surprisingly gentle, and the medic immediately starts hooking him up to the monitors. His heartbeat appears on a screen, a steady beep that should be reassuring but just sounds like a countdown.

"And her?" one of the operatives asks, still gripping my arm.

Iris looks at me for a long moment. Then she pulls a knife from her belt and steps forward.

I tense, ready to fight even though I can barely stand, but she just cuts the zip-ties. My hands fall free, wrists raw and bleeding where the plastic cut in.

"You are not going anywhere," she says. "So you might as well be comfortable."

"Comfortable." I laugh, the sound harsh and broken. "You shot him. You—"

"I shot him because you needed to see that I am not your friend, Sloane. I never was." She slides the knife back into its sheath. "But I am not your enemy either. Not really."

"Then what are you?"

"Someone trying to keep you alive long enough to matter." She turns to the operatives. "Leave us. Wait outside."

They hesitate. She gives them a look that could strip paint and they leave, the door closing behind them with a heavy click.

Now it is just me, Iris, and Declan's unconscious body hooked up to machines that beep and hiss in the silence.

"Sit," Iris says, pointing to a chair against the wall.

"I would rather—"

"Sit. Or I will have them sedate you again and you will miss everything I am about to tell you."

I sit. Not because she told me to. Because my legs are shaking and I do not trust them anymore.

Iris pulls up another chair, positioning it so she is between me and Declan. Blocking my view of him. Forcing me to look at her.

"Five years ago," she says, "your pack was slaughtered. Thirty-seven wolves dead in one night. You survived because you were not there—you were at a party three towns over, drunk and angry because your father grounded you for failing calculus."

My nails dig into my palms. "I know the story."

"You know a story." Iris leans forward. "You know that Garrett Voss gave the order. That his wolves came in the night and tore your family apart. That you have spent five years planning revenge."

"It is not a plan. It is a promise."

"Except Garrett did not give that order."

The words hit like a physical blow. "Liar."

"I have proof." She pulls out her phone, taps the screen, holds it out to me. "Audio recording. Garrett talking to his second-in-command the night before the attack. Listen."

I do not want to. But I take the phone anyway, press it to my ear.

Garrett's voice, unmistakable: "—told you already, Marcus. The Carrigan pack is off-limits. We have an agreement with them. Anyone who touches them answers to me."

Another voice, rougher: "Even if they are moving into our territory?"

"Even then. We negotiate. We do not slaughter." A pause. "Is that clear?"

"Crystal."

The recording ends.

I stare at the phone. "This could be fake."

"It could be," Iris agrees. "But it is not. I have three other recordings from that week. All of them show Garrett explicitly forbidding any action against your pack." She takes the phone back. "Someone else killed your family, Sloane. And they made sure you would blame Garrett for it."

"Who?"

"That is what we are trying to find out." She glances at Declan. "That is what he was trying to find out."

"He was spying on me."

"He was protecting you." Iris's voice is sharp. "Do you think it was coincidence that he showed up in your life exactly when Garrett started making moves? That he was always there when you needed him?"

"He was using me."

"He was keeping you alive." She stands, pacing to the window—one-way glass looking out into the hallway. "Someone wants you and Garrett at each other's throats. Someone benefits from you two destroying each other. And Declan figured that out three months ago."

My head is spinning and I do not know if it is the sedative or the information. "Then why did he not tell me?"

"Because you would not have believed him." Iris turns back to face me. "You were so focused on revenge that you could not see anything else. He tried to slow you down, tried to make you question, but you were already committed." She pauses. "And because he was falling in love with you, which made him sloppy."

"He does not—"

"He took a bullet for you tonight, Sloane. He threw himself at my operative knowing I would shoot. That is not the behavior of someone running an op."

I look at Declan's unconscious form, the rise and fall of his chest barely visible under the bandages. "If you are not my enemy, why did you shoot him at all?"

"Because I needed you to stop trusting him long enough to listen to me." Iris sits again, closer this time. "And because whoever killed your pack is still out there. Still watching. Still waiting for you to make your move against Garrett so they can—"

The lights go out.

Emergency lighting kicks in a second later, bathing everything in red. An alarm starts blaring, loud and insistent.

Iris is on her feet instantly, gun drawn. "Stay here."

"Like hell—"

The door explodes inward, the lock mechanism sparking and smoking. Three figures in black tactical gear pour through, weapons raised, and Iris fires twice before they return fire and she goes down, blood spraying from her shoulder.

I am moving before I think, diving for her gun as it skitters across the floor, my fingers closing around the grip just as one of the figures turns toward me.

"Sloane Carrigan," a voice says through a modulator. Male. Familiar somehow. "You are coming with us."

I raise the gun. "Yeah, no."

He laughs. Actually laughs. "You are exactly what they said you would be."

"Who is 'they'?"

"You will find out soon enough." He gestures to the other two. "Grab her. Kill the others."

The other two move toward me and I fire, the recoil jarring my drugged arms, but the shot goes wide and then they are on me, hands grabbing, and I am fighting but my body will not cooperate, still sluggish from the sedative, and someone hits me hard across the face and I taste blood.

Behind them, one of the monitors starts screaming. Declan's heart rate spiking, the beeps coming faster and faster until they blur into one continuous tone.

Flatline.

"No!" I thrash harder, desperate, but they are dragging me toward the door and the last thing I see before they pull me into the hallway is Declan's body convulsing on the bed, the medic nowhere in sight, and Iris trying to crawl toward him with one arm while blood pools beneath her.

Then I am in the hallway and someone is pressing something against my face—cloth, chemical smell—and the world is going dark again but not before I hear the voice say:

"Your father sends his regards."

My father is dead.

My father has been dead for five years.

Unless—