The motel room smelled like mildew and cheap disinfectant. I'd been here three days. Maybe four. Time had stopped meaning much after the bond broke.
I sat on the edge of the sagging mattress, staring at the water stain on the ceiling. My chest felt hollow. Not empty—hollow, like someone had scooped out everything that mattered and left a cavity behind. My wolf was still silent. Not dormant. Silent. The difference was a weight I carried in my ribs with every breath.
I hadn't eaten since yesterday. Maybe the day before. There was a convenience store sandwich on the nightstand, still wrapped, the bread curling at the edges. I'd bought it because I knew I should eat. I just couldn't make myself care.
A knock at the door made me flinch.
I grabbed the kitchen knife I'd been keeping under the pillow—a pathetic defense, but it was all I had—and crossed to the door in bare feet. Pressed my ear against the wood. Listened.
Another knock. Steady. Patient.
"Monica." The voice was deep, rough, unmistakable. "I'm not here to force anything. I have information you need."
My hand tightened on the knife handle. Cedarwood and night rain seeped through the gap under the door, and that flicker in my chest—the one that had pulsed to life three nights ago in the clearing—stirred again. Faint. Fragile. Enough to make my breath catch.
I opened the door.
Oliver Mason stood in the dim hallway, both hands raised, palms out. He was dressed simply—dark jeans, a fitted shirt—but his aura pressed against my senses like a physical thing. Gold eyes locked on mine, then dropped to the knife in my hand. He didn't smile. Didn't move.
"I know who Lola Peters is," he said quietly. "And I know what her mother did to mine."
I stared at him. The knife felt heavy. Useless. "What are you talking about?"
"Not here." His gaze flicked past me into the room, taking in the unmade bed, the uneaten sandwich, the clothes I'd been wearing for three days. Something shifted in his expression—not pity, but something close. "There's a bar ten minutes from here. Neutral ground. I'll buy you a drink and explain everything."
"I don't want—"
"You want revenge," he interrupted. His voice was still quiet, but there was steel underneath. "So do I. And our enemies are the same family."
I should have slammed the door in his face. Should have told him to leave me alone, that I didn't want anything to do with mates or bonds or Lycan Princes. But the word *revenge* hooked into something raw and furious in my chest, and I found myself nodding.
"Ten minutes," I said. "Then you talk."
---
The bar was small, tucked into the corner of a strip mall at the edge of Silverfang territory. Dim lighting. Scarred wooden tables. The kind of place where no one asked questions. Oliver chose a booth in the back, away from the handful of other patrons, and ordered two whiskeys without asking what I wanted.
When the bartender set the glasses down and walked away, Oliver slid one toward me and said, "My name is Oliver Mason. Lycan Prince of the Blackveil Court."
I picked up the glass. Didn't drink. Just held it, feeling the weight. "I know who you are."
"Then you know my father is Winston Mason. Lycan King." His jaw tightened. "And you know Isabela Peters is about to be crowned his Luna."
The name hit me like a slap. "Lola's mother."
"Yes." Oliver leaned forward, forearms on the table. "Isabela seduced my father twenty years ago. Destroyed his bond with my mother, Queen Natalia. Fractured the Lycan Court. She's been clawing her way to the throne ever since, and now she's finally getting her coronation." His voice dropped, rough with barely controlled fury. "The same pattern of predation her daughter used on you."
I set the glass down hard. Whiskey sloshed over the rim. "Lola didn't seduce Noah. They're fated mates."
"Are they?" Oliver's gold eyes were steady, unblinking. "You spent seven years with Noah Kelly. Did his wolf ever react to you the way it reacted to her?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. The truth sat bitter on my tongue: No. Noah's wolf had tolerated me. Accepted me as useful. But the raw, desperate need I'd seen in his eyes when he looked at Lola—I'd never had that.
"Lola Peters uses scent-suppressants," Oliver said quietly. "I have a contact in the Ironclaw Pack who confirmed it. She's been manipulating her scent for months."
My breath caught. "That's illegal."
"It's also effective." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim folder, spreading documents across the table between us. Lycan Charter provisions. Court records. Photographs of Isabela at Winston's side, her hand possessive on his arm. "The Peters women are parasites. They find powerful men, latch on, and drain them. My mother barely survived. You—" His gaze lifted to mine, and something in it made my chest tighten. "You're still surviving."
I stared at the documents. My hands were shaking again. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I need your help." Oliver tapped one of the documents—a section of the Lycan Charter highlighted in yellow. "There's a bloodline clause. If I can produce a verified Lycan-blood heir, I can invoke succession rights and strip my father of the crown. But I need leverage. Testimony. Evidence of the Peters family's corruption." He leaned back, watching me. "You have seven years of evidence. You know Noah's pack structure. His allies. His weaknesses. And you have every reason to want Lola destroyed."
The fury in my chest—the cold, bright thing that had been building since the bond broke—flared hot. "You want me to help you take down your father."
"I want us to destroy the people who ruined our lives." His voice was flat. Final. "Together."
I picked up the whiskey glass. Drained it in one swallow. The burn felt good. Clarifying. I set the glass down and met his eyes. "I have conditions."
"Name them."
"I will not be marked. I will not be caged. And I will not be paraded around as your political prop." Each word came out hard, sharp. "I'll give you testimony. Access to everything I memorized about Ironclaw Pack records. But I do this as your ally. Not your mate."
Oliver didn't hesitate. "Agreed."
"I'm serious—"
"So am I." He extended his hand across the table. "You set the terms. I'll follow them. All of them."
I stared at his hand. The scent of cedarwood and night rain was overwhelming in the small booth, pressing against my senses, making it hard to think. The flicker in my chest pulsed stronger. Insistent.
I reached out and gripped his hand.
The spark that shot up my arm was violent. Electric. It cascaded through my entire body, lighting up every nerve ending, and for a split second I felt my wolf—not awake, but *there*, just beneath the surface, reaching for him with desperate, clawing need.
Oliver's fingers tightened on mine. His pupils dilated, gold bleeding into black, and his breath came out rough. "Monica—"
I didn't let go. Held on, even though every instinct screamed at me to pull back, to run, to protect myself. "Our enemies are the same family," I said, voice steady despite the way my heart was pounding. "So let's destroy them."
His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Deal."
We sat there, hands locked across the table, the bond between us pulling tighter with every second. The air in the booth felt too thick. Too warm. I could see his pulse jumping in his throat. Could feel my own heartbeat syncing to his.
Finally, I pulled my hand back. The loss of contact felt like tearing skin.
Oliver exhaled slowly and reached for his own whiskey, draining it in one swallow. When he set the glass down, his hand was shaking.
"We start with the coronation," he said, voice rough. "Three weeks. That's when Winston crowns Isabela as Luna. We'll need everything you have on Lola by then."
I nodded. My palm still tingled where his skin had touched mine. "I'll get it."
"Good." He stood, tossed cash on the table for the drinks. Paused. Looked down at me with an expression I couldn't read. "You're stronger than you think, Monica Perry."
I watched him walk out of the bar, his scent lingering long after the door closed behind him.
And for the first time since the bond broke, the hollow space in my chest didn't feel quite so empty.
