The message had come from a contact saved in Lucian's communicator as "Little Fool Pig." The crystal-image showed Vesper sitting in the waiting hall of a Healer's Den, hair fallen loose from its pins, the kohl beneath one eye faintly smudged, yet still smiling wide into the lens and flashing a peace sign. Her words beneath it read: Take your time on the way here, run safe. I'll be waiting for you.
That was when I realized. I let out a self-deprecating smile. So, that was the reason Lucian had left in such a haste. The urgency in his movements, the way he hadn't even bothered to check his pockets before the door slammed behind him. All of it had been for her. Somewhere deep in my chest my wolf went very still, the way she did when something inside us had quietly stopped fighting. I summoned a courier-runner to carry his communicator to the Greywood front on the river-dens, where Lucian kept his trade office. Afterward, I went straight to work.
Since I'd come of age, I had been working the Ironclaw Pack's lawful holdings, the neutral grounds and trade dens that had to endure the eyes of accountants and human auditors alike. My father, Lucian Ironclaw, wanted to toughen me up, so he made me start at the very bottom, the lowest-ranked worker in one of the pack's neutral-ground dens, learning the ledgers, the suppliers, the quiet choreography of a business built to withstand scrutiny from every direction. I was frail-born, the youngest, and no one had handed me anything for my bloodline. Years of hard work and proving myself paid off. I was now the trusted keeper of the pack's flagship den, a position I had earned through my own abilities, not my name. Every Beta-elder who walked through the door knew the distinction. As soon as I arrived at the office that morning, my assistant walked up to me and handed me a file. "Good morning, ma'am. Here's a document that needs your approval. All the processes are complete; we just need your signature to finalize it."
I took the file and scanned its contents. It was a joint arrangement with the Greywood Pack, a supply-chain pact routed through one of their import dens. Yet, for some reason, I couldn't recall ever hearing about this particular deal.
"Is everything all right, ma'am? Should we go ahead?" my assistant asked, noticing my hesitation.
"No!" My response was sharp and immediate, causing her to look startled. But she quickly recovered her composure and hesitated before adding, "Didn't you say that unless it's a very important arrangement, the first choice should always be the Greywood Pack?"
I had indeed given such instructions, back when I was still naively optimistic about my future with Lucian. At the time, I thought our packs would eventually be bound as one, and whether his dens earned more or mine did hardly seemed to matter. I trusted him so completely that I didn't bother scrutinizing pacts that carried the Greywood name. My thumb found the edge of the promise-band at my wrist, pressing once against the cool metal before I stilled my hand and laid it flat against the desk. The faint scent of bruised bergamot rose from memory alone, and I shut it out. "Let's pass on this one. But from now on, we'll make sure to choose the best option. The pack's interests come first," I said, and signed the document with a line so clean it could have been drawn with a claw.
The workday flew by, and when I finally finished, I was starving. I had planned to try the new den that had just opened across the territory, a place with no pack ties, no borderland strings, just good food on neutral ground. But when I arrived, I found it packed with people, the line spilling past the entrance and onto the walkway. Just as I was about to leave, I heard a familiar voice calling me.
"Ms. Ironclaw, over here!"
