Corbin POV:
"She what?"
I didn't look up from the quarterly reports spread across my desk. The numbers were disappointing, but predictable. The real problem was never on the page.
My Beta, Blake Knight, stood before me, his posture rigid. He was the best, but today he seemed unsettled.
"The Hancocks, Alpha. Their car was ambushed by Rogues on the old forest road, inside our territory lines."
I finally looked up. "Hancocks? They wouldn't dare ask for our help."
Hancock Pack was a joke. Weak leadership, weaker bloodlines. Their only value was the buffer territory they provided.
"They didn't," Blake confirmed. "That's the strange part. They escaped. On their own. Our patrol saw the aftermath—the skid marks, the blood. They said the driving was... professional. Aggressive. Not like any pack warrior they've ever seen."
My fingers stilled on the report. I tapped a single, rhythmic beat against the polished oak of my desk. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Oh?" The word was quiet, but it carried weight in the silent office. "Find out who the driver was."
"Yes, Alpha." Blake hesitated. "There's one other thing. The search for 'The Surgeon.' Still nothing. It's like he, or she, doesn't exist."
My jaw tightened. The tapping stopped. My gaze sharpened, and I could feel the air in the room grow heavy with my displeasure.
"Keep looking," I commanded, my voice dropping to a low growl. "Double the bounty. Triple it. I don't care what it costs. My grandfather is running out of time."
Blake bowed his head. "At once, Alpha."
He left, closing the heavy doors behind him, leaving me alone with the silence and the scent of my own frustration. My grandfather, the great Edmund Gilmore, was fading. The best doctors in the werewolf world were useless, calling it a rare wasting sickness.
I knew it was poison. I just couldn't prove it.
And my only hope was a ghost, a legend whispered in the shadows of the underworld: The Surgeon. A healer who could supposedly bring back the dead, for the right price.
And I was prepared to pay any price.
Arla POV:
The neutral market was a chaotic symphony of sights and smells. It was a place that belonged to no pack, a festering, vibrant hub where Rogues, outcasts, and merchants from a dozen territories mingled. It was the perfect place to disappear.
I kept the hood of my simple gray sweatshirt pulled low, hiding my face and my conspicuous silver hair. I moved through the crowd, my senses on high alert, cataloging every face, every whispered conversation.
I was here for a reason. My plan required specific ingredients—herbs that were rare, tools that were specialized. Revenge was a dish best served cold, but its preparation was a meticulous, fiery process.
At a stall piled high with dried herbs and strange roots, I paused. The vendor was haggling with a pair of burly wolves, but I wasn't listening to them. I was listening to the men behind me.
"...the bounty is insane. Alpha Gilmore must be desperate."
"For 'The Surgeon'? I heard. Enough gold to buy a small pack. But no one knows who he is. Or she."
"They say The Surgeon can cure anything. Even a silver wound."
My fingers tightened on a bundle of dried wolfsbane I was examining. So, the great Corbin Gilmore was looking for me. That was... interesting. It was a complication, but it was also an opportunity. A desperate Alpha would accept help from anyone. Even a ghost.
I paid the vendor, my movements economical, my face hidden in shadow. I took the small paper-wrapped package and turned to leave, melting back into the flow of the crowd.
"Arla? Is that really you?"
The voice was a physical blow. It was sickly sweet, familiar, and it made the contents of my stomach turn to acid.
I froze. Slowly, I turned.
Foster Dean stood there, a look of manufactured surprise on his handsome face. He was flanked by a couple of his sycophant friends, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and amusement. He immediately shifted into his well-practiced role of the heartbroken lover.
He took a step forward, his hand reaching for mine. "You're back. I've been looking for you, I worried..."
The moment his fingers touched my sleeve, I moved. Five years of brutal survival training ignited in my muscles. I caught his wrist, twisted it sharply against the joint, and wrenched his arm behind his back in one fluid motion. He yelped, his knees buckling as I applied just enough pressure to make the bones creak. His friends stumbled back, eyes wide.
"Don't touch me," I whispered, my lips close to his ear, my voice a shard of ice. "You lost that right the day you sold me out."
I released him with a shove, and he staggered into his friends. He looked at me, his face a blotchy mask of shock and pain. I didn't even have to try. Five years in exile, and a grown man's joint gave way like dry twigs. Good to know.
The charming smile on Foster's face had completely vanished. Humiliation was a language he understood.
He recovered quickly, rubbing his wrist, his expression morphing into one of profound hurt. "Arla, I know you're still angry about what happened. But it was all a misunderstanding..."
A laugh escaped my lips. It was a harsh, ugly sound, devoid of any humor. "A misunderstanding? You mean the misunderstanding where you stole the ceremonial tributes, framed me for it, and let me get exiled for five years?"
His face went white.
The people around us, who had been pretending not to listen, were now openly staring. Whispers started to ripple through the crowd.
I closed the distance between us, stepping into his personal space. I lowered my voice, making it a venomous whisper only he could hear. "Foster, the game is just beginning."
My fingertips, cold as ice, brushed against the silver tie clip he wore, the one bearing his family's crest. "Everything you and your family value," I murmured, my eyes locking with his, "I'm going to take it all back. Piece by piece."
The raw, undiluted promise of violence in my eyes made him flinch. He actually trembled.
I held his gaze for a second longer, letting him drown in it.
Then I turned and walked away, disappearing into the anonymity of the crowd before he could form a reply.
Behind me, I heard one of his friends ask, his voice laced with doubt, "Dude... is what she said... true?"
"Of course not!" Foster's voice was too loud, too defensive. "The woman is insane!"
I smiled. Let them underestimate me. It would make what came next so much easier.
