The uniform doesn't fit right, but that's the point.

It's cut loose enough to hide the knife strapped to my ribs, the gun at my ankle, the garrote wire coiled in my boot heel like a viper waiting for the right moment to strike. The Thorne pack house staff wear charcoal gray—professional, invisible, the kind of clothing designed to make you blend into the woodwork. I've become very good at blending into woodwork.

My forged credentials are immaculate. Three years of service history at a pack house in Vancouver, references that check out because Corvus owns the people who answer those phones, a background so clean it squeaks. Kira Vex doesn't exist on paper. The woman who walked into the kitchen at dawn with her hair pinned up and her scars hidden under long sleeves—she's someone else entirely.

Someone harmless.

Someone disposable.

"You're the new hire?"

The head chef doesn't look up from her prep work, but her nose twitches. Shifters. They're always sniffing, always reading the air for lies. I've wrapped myself in layers of deception so thick it should be impenetrable—glamour spray to mask my natural scent, practiced movements, a smile that never reaches my eyes.

"Started this morning," I say, my voice carefully modulated. Friendly but distant. The kind of person people forget within five minutes of meeting. "Where do you want me?"

She points with her knife. "Pantry inventory. Then floors. The alpha's been in a mood, and the carpets in the east wing are looking dingy."

The alpha.

My wolf goes absolutely still at the words, like a predator catching a scent downwind. I force myself to breathe through my nose, slow and steady, the way I've trained myself to do for seven years. Don't react. Don't show. Don't let the animal underneath your skin claw its way out just because someone mentioned the man you're supposed to murder.

"Got it," I say.

The pantry is a cathedral of organization—everything labeled, everything counted, everything in its place. It's the kind of space that should calm me. Instead, I move through it like I'm swimming through honey, my awareness fractured between the inventory sheets in my hand and the absolute certainty that he's close.

I can feel him.

It's not metaphorical. It's not some poetic bullshit about soulmates and destiny. It's a physical sensation, like my skin is tuned to a frequency only he broadcasts on. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to move toward that signal, to find him, to—

No.

I shove the sensation down into the same dark box where I keep my screams.

The floors take most of the day. Mindless work, repetitive motion, the kind of task that lets my brain work while my hands stay busy. I map the pack house as I move through it. Main corridors, secondary passages, the location of the security cameras (three blind spots in the east wing, two near the kitchens), the patterns of guard rotation. Every detail is a piece of a puzzle I'm building toward his death.

That's what I tell myself, anyway.

It's almost convincing until I round a corner on the second floor and nearly collide with him.

The impact doesn't happen—he stops just short of me, his reflexes apparently good enough to avoid mowing down a member of his own household staff—but the space between us feels like it's vibrating. I can smell him now, not masked by distance or walls: cedarwood and wildfire, rich and intoxicating, with something underneath that makes my hindbrain want to roll over and show him my throat.

Absolutely not.

"Careful," he says, and his voice is the kind of deep that travels through your bones.

I keep my eyes on the floor, on the mop in my hands, on anything that isn't his face. "Sorry, sir. I wasn't watching where I was going."

"New staff?"

"Started this morning." I'm proud of how steady my voice is. How bored. How completely unthreatening.

He's studying me. I can feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing, pressing against my skin. The fluorescent lights overhead feel too bright, too harsh, like they're going to expose every lie I'm wearing.

"What's your name?"

"Kira." It slips out before I can stop it, before I can remember that the papers said Katherine. Kira is too close to true, too much of myself. But the alpha doesn't seem to notice the hesitation. He's still watching me with those amber eyes that seem to see everything.

"Well, Kira, you're doing good work." He steps to the side, giving me space to pass. "Keep it up."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and push past him with the mop cart. The scent of cedarwood and wildfire follows me down the hallway, clinging to my clothes, my hair, my skin. I can feel his eyes on my back until I turn the corner.

My hands are shaking.

This is a problem.

---

The next encounter happens in the library.

I'm supposed to be dusting, which is absurd because the library is already immaculate, but apparently the alpha's second-in-command—a red-haired asshole named Silas who smells like copper and ash—requested additional cleaning. I suspect he just wanted the room vacated, which tells me something useful: they're hiding something in here. Something they don't want staff seeing.

I'm photographing the contents of a locked cabinet with a camera the size of a thumbnail when the door opens.

"Shit," I mutter, shoving the camera into my pocket and spinning around with a dust rag in my hand. The picture of innocence. The picture of boredom.

It's not Silas.

Darius Thorne is standing in the doorway like he owns the space, which, technically, he does. He owns everything here—the pack house, the grounds, the people who work for him. He probably owns the air molecules, too. He's changed since this morning; now he's wearing clothes that fit him properly, dark slacks and a charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and I can see the corded muscle of his forearms, the way his hands move with absolute certainty as he closes the door behind him.

"You again," he says, and there's something in his tone that makes my wolf perk up, attentive.

"Just doing my job, sir." I turn back to the shelf, trying to ignore the way my pulse is hammering in my throat. "I can come back if you need the space."

"No." He moves into the room, and I can hear the soft pad of his footsteps on the hardwood. "Stay. I just needed to grab something."

He walks toward the far end of the library, and I force myself to keep dusting, keep moving, keep pretending that my nervous system isn't lighting up like a Christmas tree. My wolf is pacing, agitated, desperate. She wants to turn around. She wants to scent-mark him. She wants to—

Focus.

I dust the same shelf three times, which is stupid and obvious, but the alternative is looking at him, and looking at him is dangerous. He's wearing that scent like a second skin, and it's making my head fuzzy, making it hard to remember why I'm here.

The assassination. Right. That's why I'm here.

"You're very thorough," he says.

I don't jump. I've trained myself not to jump. But my hand tightens on the dust rag, and my breath catches slightly. He's closer now, closer than he should be. I can feel the heat radiating off him like he's a living furnace.

"Just doing what I'm paid for," I say.

"Most people don't bother with the same shelf multiple times."

Fuck.

I turn to face him, keeping my expression neutral, my eyes carefully blank. He's close enough that I can see the faint scars on his jawline, the way his amber eyes seem to glow in the afternoon light. Close enough that I can feel the pull of the bond like a hook in my chest, dragging me toward him.

"Habit," I say. "I like things done right."

Something flickers across his face—recognition, maybe, or confusion. His nostrils flare slightly, like he's catching a scent, and I realize with cold dread that the glamour spray might be wearing off. I haven't reapplied since this morning, and the day has been long.

"What's your background?" he asks.

The question is casual, but his body language isn't. He's leaning toward me slightly, his shoulders relaxed but his entire frame coiled with attention.

"Worked at a couple of pack houses," I say, which is true. I have worked at pack houses. I've also burned at least two of them down. "Wanted a change of scenery."

"And you found it here."

It's not a question. He's studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve, like there's something about me that doesn't quite fit the narrative of his own household. If he figures out what I am—what I'm here to do—this all falls apart.

More importantly, if he figures out what I am to him, everything falls apart.

The mate bond is a lot of things, but subtle isn't one of them. Most alphas can recognize their mate within seconds of proximity. The fact that he hasn't identified me yet is either a stroke of incredible luck or a sign that the bond is muted somehow, masked by the curse he's carrying.

Either way, I'm not about to test my luck by staying within arm's reach of him.

"I like the work," I say, taking a small step back. "The pack seems well-run."

His eyes follow me, and there's something almost wounded in the way he's looking at me, like I've hurt him by moving away. It's a look that makes my chest ache in ways I don't want to examine.

"It's getting better," he says quietly. "Recently, things have been... improving."

There's a weight to the words that suggests they mean something more than surface-level pack management. I want to ask what he means. I want to stay in this library with him until the sun sets and the shadows grow long and—

I need to leave.

"I should finish the dusting," I say.

"Of course." He moves aside, but not far enough. As I pass him, my arm brushes against his, and the contact is like touching a live wire. Heat shoots up my shoulder, down my spine, pooling in my lower belly. My wolf howls, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.

He goes completely still.

I can feel his attention snap to me like a predator locking onto prey. I don't wait to see if he's figured it out. I just keep moving, keep my pace steady and unhurried, and get the hell out of the library before I do something catastrophically stupid like turn around and kiss him.

---

The pattern repeats over the next week.

Encounters in hallways. Conversations that feel like foreplay. Moments where his hand brushes mine and the entire world narrows down to the point of contact. Each time, I tell myself it's the last time. Each time, I lie.

I'm mapping his schedule with the precision of a hunter. He wakes early—usually around 5 AM—and spends time in his office before the pack wakes. He's in the library most afternoons, usually between two and four. He takes his meals in the dining hall with his inner circle, and he has a private gym in the basement where he trains alone.

The basement is where I'll do it.

It's private, isolated, with only one entrance and exit. I can rig the security cameras to loop, disable the alarm system, and be gone before anyone realizes what happened. It's the perfect kill zone.

I've been planning it for eight days, and I hate myself for it.

"You're distracted," Mara says.

We're in the staff quarters, ostensibly alone, but I still keep my voice low. My sister is sitting on the edge of the bed in the small room I've been assigned, and she's looking at me with those warm brown eyes that are too perceptive for her own good. She smells like honey and sage, like home and betrayal, and I want to throw her out of my room and pull her into my arms in equal measure.

"I'm fine," I say.

"You're not. You've been weird since you got here. Weirder than normal, I mean." She tilts her head, studying me. "What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on. I'm just adjusting."

"To what? To working in the pack house? You've done that before." She pauses, and I can see the moment realization hits her. "Oh my god. It's Darius, isn't it?"

"No."

"It's totally Darius."

"Mara—"

"Have you guys—"

"No. Jesus." I stand up, moving away from her, needing distance and space and probably a drink. "There's nothing happening. He's the alpha. I'm staff. It's professional."

"You're terrible at lying," she says cheerfully. "You always have been. Your face gets all tight and your eyes go cold, like you're shutting down."

I hate that she's right. I hate that she knows me well enough to see through my bullshit, even after seven years of separation. I hate that she's here, thriving, integrated into this pack, proving that the sacrifice I made—the years I spent alone, covered in blood and regret—might have been pointless.

"There's nothing happening," I repeat, and this time I mean it. There can't be anything happening. I'm here to kill him.

Except I'm not sure I am anymore.

The realization hits me like a physical blow. I sit back down on the bed, hard, and Mara's expression softens. She reaches out and takes my hand, and her touch is warm and alive and everything I've denied myself for seven years.

"You're mates," she says quietly.

It's not a question. She can probably smell it on me now, the way the bond is slowly overwriting my carefully constructed glamour. Mates have a scent signature that other shifters can identify—a blending of two souls into one unmistakable perfume.

"Yes," I admit, because there's no point in lying to her. "But it doesn't matter."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm here to kill him."

The words hang in the air between us like a blade. Mara's hand goes slack in mine, and I watch the color drain from her face.

"What?"

"Corvus hired me. Seven years ago, he found me, and he offered me money and power and the name of the man responsible for the massacre. He said killing Darius would give me justice. Would give us justice."

"Kira—"

"It's why I left. It's why I've been gone so long. I needed to become someone capable of this. Someone strong enough to walk into the lion's den and come out the other side." I squeeze her hand, even though I don't deserve to. "It was supposed to be simple. Walk in, do the job, walk out. No one was supposed to get hurt."

"Except Darius."

"Except Darius," I agree.

She's quiet for a long moment, and then she says, "Darius didn't massacre our family."

The words hit me like a punch. "What?"

"He wasn't even alpha then. He inherited the title seven years ago, right after... right after it happened. He inherited the curse at the same time, and he's been trying to break it ever since." She stands up, agitated now, pacing the small room. "Kira, the man who killed our family died fifteen years ago. He was the old alpha, and Darius killed him for what he'd done. He's been trying to undo the damage ever since."

I feel like the ground is shifting beneath me. The foundation of my entire existence, the thing that's kept me moving forward through seven years of blood and pain, is suddenly cracking.

"Corvus told me—"

"Corvus lied to you." Mara stops in front of me, and there are tears in her eyes. "I don't know why, but he lied. Darius is trying to fix this pack, not destroy it. And he's... he's suffering, Kira. I can see it. He's suffering, and you're his mate, and you're supposed to be his salvation, and instead you're planning to murder him."

I stand up, needing to move, needing to do something with the rage and confusion and heartbreak that's suddenly flooding through me. My hands are shaking. My wolf is howling, caught between the pull of the bond and the weight of seven years of vengeance.

"I need to think," I say.

"Kira—"

"I need to think."

I leave the room before she can say anything else, before she can convince me or condemn me or ask me to make a choice between my sister and my mission. I move through the pack house corridors like a ghost, my mind fracturing into pieces.

The basement.

I need to get to the basement. I need to disable the cameras and check the alarm system and confirm that the kill zone is still viable. I need to do something concrete, something that makes sense, something that isn't falling apart.

The basement door is locked, but I have keys. I have access to everything in this house because I'm invisible. I'm staff. I'm nobody.

I'm descending the stairs when I hear his voice.

"You shouldn't be down here."

Darius is standing in the gym, shirtless, sweat dripping down his chest, his muscles still pumped from whatever workout he's been doing. He's looking at me with those amber eyes that seem to see straight through my lies, and I can smell him—cedarwood and wildfire and something wild that's calling to every predatory instinct I have.

"I was cleaning," I say.

"Liar."

He moves toward me, and I don't back away. I should back away. I should run. Instead, I stand there and watch him approach like a rabbit watching a wolf.

"You smell like her," he says quietly. "Like honey and sage. You've been talking to Mara."

"How do you—"

"She told me you were her sister." He's close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. "She told me about the massacre, about what you've been through. She told me about Corvus."

My heart stops.

"She didn't tell me everything," he continues. "I can see the parts she left out in your eyes. I can smell the poison in your blood, the way you're carrying death like a second skin."

He reaches out and touches my face, his hand gentle despite the raw power radiating off him. His thumb traces my cheekbone, and I can feel my walls crumbling, brick by brick.

"I'm not going to stop you," he says, and his voice is soft and broken. "If this is what you need, if killing me will give you peace, then I won't fight. But I want you to know—I want you to understand—that I've been waiting for you. My wolf has been waiting for you. And if you take this from us, it will destroy everything I've been trying to build."

I should kill him.

It would be so easy. My knife is in my boot. My hands know exactly what to do. One strike, one moment, and seven years of planning would finally mean something.

Instead, I do something far more dangerous.

I kiss him.

It's not gentle. It's not a moment of weakness or surrender. It's a collision of everything I've been suppressing—the bond, the desire, the desperate need to be known by someone who sees me. His hands come up to my waist, pulling me closer, and I can taste cedarwood and wildfire on his tongue, can feel the barely restrained power in his body.

When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I whisper.

"I know," he says. "Neither do I."

Behind me, I can hear the echo of my sister's words, the weight of Corvus's manipulation, the ghost of seven years spent preparing for this moment. And in front of me, I can feel the pull of the bond, the possibility of something I never thought I deserved.

I have a choice to make.

And I have no idea which path will destroy me more.