The underground club smells like money and secrets—a particular combination of aged whiskey, expensive perfume, and the metallic tang of blood that never quite washes out of concrete. I've been in worse places. I've been in better ones too, but those don't exist anymore.

I sit across from Corvus in a booth that exists in perpetual shadow, the kind of shadow that makes time feel negotiable. My back is to the wall. Always. It's not paranoia if they're actually out to kill you.

"You're late," I say, not looking up from the glass of water in front of me. I don't drink before a job. Alcohol dulls the edges, and my edges are the only thing keeping me alive.

"Punctuality is a courtesy extended to people who matter." Corvus slides into the booth with the kind of fluid grace that makes my wolf prickle with unease. There's something wrong about him—something that exists just outside the spectrum of normal predator. "You matter, Kira. But not enough to keep me waiting."

I finally look at him.

Silver eyes. Dark skin that seems to absorb the club's already-dim lighting. He's dressed in a three-piece suit that probably costs more than my apartment, every thread perfectly placed, every button aligned. He's the kind of beautiful that makes your teeth ache—the beauty of something dangerous that hasn't decided whether to kill you yet.

"Then I guess we understand each other." I lean back, letting the worn leather of the booth take my weight. My hand stays visible on the table. Always visible. "You have a job. I'm listening."

Corvus smiles. It's not a warm expression.

"Direct. I appreciate that about you." He pulls a folder from his jacket—actual paper, which is either retro or paranoid. Probably both. "I have a target. Wealthy, powerful, well-protected. The usual complications."

I don't reach for the folder yet. "Price?"

"Two million."

That's not a job. That's a declaration of war. Two million means either the target is nearly impossible to reach, or they're so important that their death will create ripples. Probably both.

"Who?" I ask.

Corvus opens the folder himself, sliding a photograph across the table with one elegant finger.

The world stops.

Not metaphorically. Not in the way people say things stop when they're shocked. The actual world stops—my breathing, my heartbeat, the ambient noise of the club. Even the bass seems to pause, waiting for me to fall apart.

It's a photograph of a man. Tall, brutally handsome in the way that speaks of centuries of command and violence. Dark hair with silver at the temples. Amber eyes that even in a still image seem to hold the weight of kingdoms.

But I know those eyes.

I know the set of those shoulders.

I know the scar that cuts through his left eyebrow because I was there when he got it.

"Darius Thorne," Corvus says softly. "Alpha of the Thorne pack. Ring any bells?"

The rage comes first—a tsunami of it, red and ancient and so consuming that for a moment I can't see past it. My hands clench into fists. The glass of water in front of me cracks, a spiderweb fracture spreading across its surface.

"Easy," Corvus murmurs, but there's amusement in his voice. "You're drawing attention."

He's right. The bartender has glanced over. One of the servers has paused mid-stride. I force myself to breathe—in through my nose, out through my mouth. Controlled. Professional. The mercenary armor slides back into place like a second skin, but underneath, something primal is clawing at my ribcage.

"The Thorne pack," I repeat, my voice steady despite the earthquake happening inside my chest. "That's a bold ask."

"Is it?" Corvus leans back, studying me with those unsettling silver eyes. "I was under the impression you had... history with them."

There it is. The moment where he shows his cards.

I don't move. I've learned that movement is confession, and I don't confess to anything. "Everyone has history with someone, Corvus. Doesn't make it personal."

"Doesn't it?" He reaches across the table and taps the photograph with one manicured finger. "Seven years ago, the Thorne pack massacred your family. Your mother, your father, your entire bloodline—everyone except you and a very young girl who's now integrated into that same pack. Thriving, actually. Have you seen her lately? Mara is quite happy with her new life."

The rage surges again, and this time I let it burn through me because at least rage is something I understand. At least rage doesn't feel like drowning.

Mara.

My baby sister. Twelve years old when the world burned. I've spent seven years not thinking about her, not letting myself wonder if she survived, not allowing myself to hope or hurt or anything that might compromise the mission. And now Corvus is sitting here, telling me she's alive and thriving in the pack that murdered everyone I loved.

"That's not possible," I say, but it's a reflex. My mind is already calculating, already connecting pieces I've been deliberately ignoring.

"Oh, it's very possible. In fact, it's documented." Corvus pulls out another photograph. This one shows a girl—young woman, really—with familiar sharp features softened by time and something else. Something like happiness. She's laughing at something off-camera, her arm linked through the arm of a tall male with kind eyes and dark skin. "She was rescued by the pack. Raised as one of their own. She's even in love with one of their wolves."

I want to break something. I want to break everything. I want to break Corvus's perfect face and use the shards to carve the truth out of his chest.

Instead, I reach for the photograph.

My hand is steady. That's the thing about being a killer—you get very good at compartmentalization. You can hold a photograph of your sister smiling in the arms of your enemy and not let your face crack.

"This doesn't change the job," I say quietly.

Corvus's smile widens. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"Why?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "Why hire me? You could hire anyone. You could hire fifty someones. Why me?"

"Because I know what you are," Corvus says. "A wolf without a pack. A killer without a cause—or rather, with a cause so personal that you've been running from it for seven years. A woman so desperate for vengeance that she's willing to work for a crime lord just to stay sharp. You're a weapon, Kira. And weapons don't develop feelings. Weapons don't hesitate."

He pauses, letting that sink in.

"Or do they?"

"Weapons do exactly what they're programmed to do," I say flatly. "Nothing more. Nothing less."

"Precisely." Corvus closes the folder. "Darius Thorne is dying. The pack is deteriorating. Something is wrong at the core of their structure—a curse, if you believe in such things. Kill him, and the entire Thorne pack collapses. Kill him, and you get your vengeance. Kill him, and you get paid two million dollars. Kill him, and you get to save your sister from a life built on the grave of your family."

The last part is manipulation, and we both know it. But it lands anyway, burrowing into the soft places I've spent seven years trying to harden.

"I'll need access," I say, because accepting the job is the only way to end this meeting, and I need this meeting to end before I do something stupid. "Intel on the pack structure, security protocols, his schedule."

"All will be provided." Corvus stands, smoothing his jacket. "You have two weeks. After that, the contract goes to someone else, and I suspect they'll be less... emotionally invested in the outcome."

"Emotional investment is a liability," I say.

"Exactly." He leans down, and for a moment his face is close enough that I can smell him—something like silver and smoke, but wrong. Corrupted. "Which is why I'm betting on you to prove that you're not capable of it. Prove that you're the weapon I think you are, Kira Vex. Prove that you can look your sister in the eye and pull the trigger anyway."

He walks away before I can respond.

I sit in the booth for a long time after he leaves, staring at the photograph of Darius Thorne. The rage has cooled into something more dangerous—something crystalline and focused. Something that feels a lot like purpose.

Seven years.

Seven years of running, of training, of becoming something lethal enough that the world would never dare to hurt me again. Seven years of pretending that the screams didn't haunt me, that the blood didn't stain the inside of my skull, that I didn't wake up some nights tasting ash and grief.

Seven years of waiting for this.

The photograph feels heavy in my hand, and I realize I'm gripping it hard enough to tear. I make myself let go. Controlled. Professional.

I stand and walk toward the exit, moving through the club with the kind of grace that makes people instinctively get out of my way. My hand trails along the bar as I pass, and the bartender doesn't meet my eyes. Smart man.

The night air hits me like a slap when I step outside. It's cold—early autumn in the city, the kind of cold that cuts through layers and reminds you that you're still alive. My wolf shifts restlessly beneath my skin, agitated and hungry.

I pull out my phone and dial.

"Yeah?" Kess answers on the second ring. She's my handler, my contact, the closest thing I have to a friend. She's also a psychopath with excellent organizational skills, which makes her ideal for the job.

"I took the contract," I say.

There's a pause. "Which one?"

"The one that's going to change everything."

I can hear her smile through the phone. "Send me the details. I'll start pulling together what you need."

"Kess? It's the Thorne pack."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Oh, honey," she finally says. "Are you sure?"

"No," I admit. "But I'm doing it anyway."

I hang up before she can say anything else.

The city sprawls around me, all neon and shadow and the constant hum of people trying to survive. Somewhere out there, Darius Thorne is probably sleeping in some fortress of a mansion, surrounded by his pack, completely unaware that his death is coming.

Completely unaware that I'm coming.

I pull the photograph out of my pocket again, studying the amber eyes in the dim light of a street lamp. Seven years ago, I was a different person. I had a family. I had a pack. I had things to lose.

That person died in the screams.

The person who exists now is sharper, colder, more focused. The person who exists now is exactly what Corvus said—a weapon without hesitation, without mercy, without the soft places that get you killed.

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number: Welcome to the game, little wolf. Try not to disappoint me.

I delete it and keep walking.

The night smells like possibility and ash. It smells like the end of something and the beginning of something else. It smells like blood.

My blood or his, I haven't decided yet.

But two weeks from now, one of us will be dead.

And for the first time in seven years, I know exactly which ending I want.