Sage's POV By my third week at Blackthorn University, I had learned two useful things: the coffee in the student union could strip paint, and Blaire Sinclair preferred an audience. The bucket above the east corridor door gave her one. Ice water crashed over my head the moment I stepped inside, soaking my sweater and knocking my glasses crooked. I caught the doorframe before my knees hit the floor, but the hallway had already erupted. Students laughed while phones rose around me, their cameras aimed in my direction as naturally as flowers turning toward sunlight. The video would be online before my first class. At Blackthorn, humiliation only counted if everyone could replay it. Blaire stood across the hall in a fitted blazer and knee-high boots, looking pleased with herself. As the daughter of one of Nightfall's highest-ranking Betas, she had grown up believing every room belonged to her and everyone in it had a proper place. Mine, apparently, was dripping on the floor. "Like my surprise, Omega?" she asked. "I thought you could use a bath. You smell strange." I pushed my glasses into place. Beneath the lockers, the shadows shifted toward her boots, stretching against the fluorescent light as though they had heard the insult. My stomach tightened. I blinked, and they were still again. "Nothing to say?" Blaire crossed the hallway and caught my jaw between her fingers. Her manicured nails pressed into my skin. "Or are those braces getting in the way?" My canines ached behind the metal brackets. One bite, something inside me whispered. One bite, and she'll never touch you again. My mother's voice followed before I could listen. Keep your head down, Sage. Don't fight back, and never show anyone what you can do. The trouble was, neither of us knew exactly what I could do. My wolf still hadn't awakened, even though my eighteenth birthday was less than a month away. I should have been weaker than every shifted werewolf in that hallway, yet strange things happened whenever I became frightened or angry. Lights flickered. Shadows moved. Once, three windows had shattered without anyone touching them. After that, my mother and I had packed our lives into two suitcases and left another city without saying goodbye. Blaire tightened her grip. "Still pretending you're better than us?" "I don't think about you enough to pretend anything." A few people laughed before catching themselves. Blaire's smile slipped, and she shoved me hard enough that my books scattered across the tile. I landed on one knee. Cold water ran from my sleeves and gathered beneath my palm while a student nearby leaned closer to get a better angle. "You're not one of us," Blaire said, lowering her voice. "You and your mother are charity cases. Naomi got on her knees and begged Alpha Kael to let you into Nightfall." That was the story people had settled on because we were new, poor, and too unimportant for anyone to question it. I rose slowly. "My mother never begged him." "She probably did more than beg. Women like her usually do." Heat spread through my chest. The nearest overhead light buzzed, then went dark. No one seemed to notice. They were too busy watching me. She saved your Luna. The words reached the back of my teeth before I swallowed them. I could still see Naomi kneeling in the mud at Nightfall's eastern border three weeks earlier, her hands covered in blood as she kept Luna Amara alive after a rogue attack. My mother had spent her life saving people; she was a doctor, and when someone was bleeding in front of her, rank and pack politics stopped mattering. Afterward, Alpha Kael had offered us protection and a place in Nightfall. He had also ordered us not to discuss what had happened, though he had never explained why saving his wife needed to remain a secret. Blaire didn't deserve the truth, and I couldn't afford to give it to her. I gathered my books and stepped around her. "Where do you think you're going?" "Professor Whitmore's lecture." I had already heard the sharp rhythm of her heels approaching from the next corridor. "You remember Professor Whitmore, don't you? She let you retake last week's midterm." Blaire's face tightened. "The one you failed twice," I added. Professor Whitmore rounded the corner, and Blaire disappeared into the crowd before she could be caught beside the bucket. Her friends followed with the speed of people who understood that loyalty had limits. I made it to the restroom before my hands began to shake. The mirror showed wet hair plastered to my cheeks, a ruined sweater, and glasses that refused to sit straight. I was wringing water from one sleeve when the door opened and a tall girl with dark hair walked in. She took one look at me. "Blaire?" I nodded. "I'd say she'll get bored eventually, but I don't like lying to strangers." She opened her bag, pulled out a folded black hoodie, and handed it to me. "Put this on before you freeze." The label alone probably cost more than everything I was wearing. "I can't take that." "You're borrowing it." She pressed it into my hands. "I'm Sloane, by the way." "Sage." "I know. Everyone knows." Her expression softened slightly. "For what it's worth, most of what they know is garbage." Twenty minutes later, we were sitting at the least popular table in the cafeteria. Sloane ate her fries as if lending expensive clothes to half-drowned strangers was a normal part of her day, while I waited for her to ask for something in return. She never did. By the time afternoon classes ended, the hoodie had warmed me, and Sloane had become the first person at Blackthorn who spoke to me without wanting an audience. We were turning into the west corridor when I walked straight into someone. My books slipped from my arms. Papers skated across the floor, and I caught my glasses before they followed. "Sorry," I said, looking up. The apology died in my throat. He was tall enough to block the overhead light, with damp black hair, tattoos disappearing beneath the sleeves of a racing jacket, and silver snakebite piercings in his lower lip. Red lettering stretched across his chest. WILDFIRE RACING. His eyes met mine, and the noise around us blurred. Then his scent reached me-cedar, smoke, and rain striking hot pavement. My pulse stumbled as warmth moved beneath my skin, sharp and unfamiliar, and every sensible instinct I had told me to step away. Instead, I stood there staring. He stared back. Something flashed in his eyes, and his pupils widened. He should have walked around me, but his fingers closed around my jaw, tilting my face toward the light as though he needed to make sure I was real. The touch sent a current down my spine. His thumb rested near the corner of my mouth. His breathing changed, barely enough for anyone else to hear, and his grip tightened for one brief second. Then his face closed. Whatever he had felt, he buried it so quickly I might have imagined it. "Watch where you're going." He released me and continued down the corridor. Students moved out of his path without being asked. Sloane crouched to help me gather my papers. "Please tell me you know who that was." "No." "That was Zane Wilder, future Alpha of Nightfall and captain of Wildfire Racing." She glanced after him. "Half this campus is in love with him. The other half is afraid of him." I picked up the last notebook. "Which half are you in?" "The half with enough sense to stay out of his way." She handed me a worksheet. "Blaire has spent two years trying to get his attention, and he's never looked at her the way he just looked at you." "He told me to watch where I was going." "After holding your face like he was about to either kiss you or interrogate you." Heat climbed into my cheeks. "You're imagining things." "I'm really not." Sloane caught my arm before we separated. "Stay away from him, Sage." That was exactly what I intended to do. Unfortunately, good intentions didn't pay medical bills. The hiring card outside Student Services was small enough that I nearly missed it. WILDFIRE RACING GARAGE ASSISTANT-EVENINGS COMPETITIVE PAY. IMMEDIATE START. My mother had worked four double shifts at Blackthorn General in the last two weeks, even though the medication she claimed was helping left her too weak to climb the stairs without resting. We had barely finished unpacking, the hospital was already sending bills, and my savings wouldn't cover both rent and her next prescription. I applied from my phone before I could talk myself out of it. Less than an hour later, someone called and asked whether I could start that evening. The speed should have bothered me. At the time, it felt like luck. The Wildfire garage was brighter and cleaner than the small repair shop where I had worked evenings during one of our stays in another city. I had mostly handled inventory, cleaned tools, and entered service records, but the mechanics had taught me enough to recognize basic problems and know when not to touch something I wasn't qualified to repair. Race cars waited beneath the lights, low and sleek, while crew members moved between steel workbenches and diagnostic stations. A gray-haired man met me near Engine Seven. He was short, somewhere in his fifties, and wore a Wildfire mechanic's shirt with the name patch obscured by grease. A pale scar crossed the back of his left hand. "You're the new assistant?" "Sage Bennett." He handed me a tablet displaying a digital checklist. "Visual inspection and data entry. Record what you see and report anything unusual to me. You don't adjust anything, and you don't sign off on the car." That fit the position I had applied for, so I got to work. I checked fluid levels, tire pressure, electrical connections, and visible wear while the man moved between the nearby stations. When I reached the rear brake assembly, I noticed that one of the line fittings wasn't seated properly. Fresh tool marks scored the metal around it. I checked the diagram on the tablet, then called the man over. "The brake line on Engine Seven is loose. It could lose pressure on the track." He crouched beside me and examined it. "Good catch. Put it in the log. I'll handle the repair." I entered the time, car number, and exact location of the fault into the maintenance system, then added my name. Before leaving, I watched him wheel his tools toward Engine Seven. By the time I reached campus the next morning, every phone in my lecture hall was showing the same video. Zane's car tore around the practice track, failed to slow before the turn, and shot toward the barrier. The footage cut off at impact, but the caption beneath it said he had survived. A second update appeared a minute later. BRAKE FAILURE SUSPECTED. WILDFIRE RACING OPENS INTERNAL INVESTIGATION. My hands went cold. I opened the employee portal and searched for the report I had filed the night before. It wasn't there. No loose fitting. No warning. No signature. I checked the access history next. The system still showed my temporary badge entering the Engine Seven work zone, but there was no record of the gray-haired mechanic accessing the same station after me. The repair I had reported had vanished. The evidence that I had been near Zane Wilder's car had not.

Sage's POV Professor Aldren was halfway through a formula when three members of Nightfall security entered the lecture hall. They didn't knock. The silver wolf insignia on their jackets was enough to make Professor Aldren lower his marker and step away from the board. At Blackthorn University, school rules applied right up until Alpha authority walked through the door. The man in front scanned the rows. "Sage Bennett." Every head turned. I had spent the last twenty minutes refreshing Wildfire's employee portal, hoping my missing report would somehow return. It hadn't. The only thing still attached to my name was the temporary badge record placing me inside Engine Seven's work zone. I closed my laptop. "Am I under arrest?" "We need you to answer some questions." That wasn't an answer, but when he motioned for me to stand, nobody in the room objected. Professor Aldren looked uncomfortable. The student beside me moved her backpack so I could pass, careful not to meet my eyes. Whispers followed me down the steps. "Is this about Zane's crash?" "She just started here. What could she have done?" "I heard she was at the garage last night." By the time I reached the door, phones were already appearing beneath desks. Blackthorn could turn a glance into a scandal before lunch. Nightfall security escorting the new Omega out of class would keep them entertained for at least a week. The guard reached for my arm. "I can walk." His grip tightened anyway. "Let her." The order came from the doorway. Zane stood at the far end of the corridor, one forearm wrapped in a clean white bandage. A dark bruise climbed above the collar of his T-shirt, and there was a shallow cut near his temple that hadn't been there yesterday. He looked as if he had slept badly, if at all. The guard released me at once. Zane's gaze traveled over my face, paused at the collar of Sloane's hoodie, then returned to my eyes. Something in his expression shifted when our scents crossed the distance between us, but it vanished beneath cold control. "Bring her to the garage," he said, then turned away without waiting to see whether I followed. Apparently, my ability to walk applied only when I was walking after him. - The Wildfire garage no longer felt like the place where I had been handed a lucky job. The main doors were closed, and only a handful of people had been allowed inside: several crew members, two Nightfall officials, the security detail, and a broad-shouldered woman in a navy suit who introduced herself as Investigator Hale. No curious students crowded the walls, yet the room still seemed full. Everyone there belonged to Zane's world. I was the only person who didn't. Engine Seven sat beneath the fluorescent lights with its damaged front end stripped down. The sight of it made my stomach turn. On a nearby monitor, the practice footage had been paused a second before impact. Zane leaned against a workbench. The position might have looked casual if his jaw hadn't been clenched. Investigator Hale picked up a tablet. "You entered the Engine Seven bay at seven forty-three last night using a temporary employee badge." "Yes." "You left at eight seventeen." "Yes." "There is no inspection report under your name and no maintenance request concerning the brake line." "I know. Someone deleted it." A crew member near the tool cabinets scoffed. Zane didn't look away from me. Hale turned the tablet around. My badge number appeared beside the access time. Below it was Engine Seven's inspection history, clean and complete, with no sign I had ever filed a warning. "Deleting an entry requires senior access," she said. "You were issued login credentials yesterday afternoon. Did you share them with anyone?" "No." "Did anyone watch you enter your password?" "Not that I noticed." Zane pushed away from the workbench. "Convenient." "I didn't say it was." His eyes narrowed as he crossed the space between us. Up close, I could smell antiseptic beneath the cedar and smoke, along with something metallic that might have been dried blood. "You were the last person recorded near my car," he said. "Your report doesn't exist, and the brake line you claim you found nearly put me through a concrete barrier." "I didn't claim I found it. I found it." His hand closed around my throat. It happened so quickly that my back struck the edge of the workbench before I understood he had moved. He didn't squeeze hard enough to cut off my air, but he didn't need to. The strength in his fingers made the promise perfectly clear. Everyone went quiet. The contact sent the same current through me that I had felt in the corridor. Heat spread beneath my skin in a sharp, traitorous rush, and something seemed to pull tight between us. Zane felt it too. His pupils widened, and his thumb shifted against my pulse as if the beat had startled him. For one second, the fury in his face gave way to confusion. Then it came back harder. "Why?" he asked quietly. "Give me one reason I shouldn't believe you did this." "Because I reported it." My voice came out rough. "I entered the fault into your system and told the mechanic supervising me." His grip loosened. I pushed his hand away and stepped sideways, rubbing my throat. The nearest lights gave a faint flicker. I stared at the floor until they steadied. Zane noticed. I could feel him watching me, but Investigator Hale spoke before he could ask. "Who supervised you?" "I don't know his name. His patch was covered with grease." A man in a Wildfire shirt moved forward from the other side of Engine Seven. He was tall and solidly built, with close-cropped brown hair and the irritated expression of someone pulled away from important work. "I'm Marcus Vale," he said. "Head mechanic. I supervise new garage staff, and I wasn't here when you arrived last night." I studied him. "You're not the man I spoke to." "No," he agreed. "I've never seen you before." The certainty in his voice made the back of my neck prickle. "The man was shorter," I said, turning to Hale. "Mid-fifties, gray hair. He had a pale scar across the back of his left hand, and he wore a Wildfire mechanic's shirt. He knew I was the new assistant, knew which checklist to give me, and told me to inspect Engine Seven." Marcus frowned. "Nobody fitting that description works for Wildfire." "He was here." "Then how did he get inside?" the crew member by the cabinets asked. "How did he know you were coming?" "I don't know." "Or there was no mystery mechanic." Zane's gaze stayed fixed on me, so intense that looking away felt like surrender. Investigator Hale tapped the tablet. "Your application notes that you requested immediate work due to financial hardship. Your mother has significant medical expenses." My face warmed. "That isn't a crime." "No, but it can be a motive. The Wilder family has enemies, and offers have been made for information about Zane's movements." "If someone paid me to sabotage his car, I wouldn't have logged in with my own badge, reported the loose line under my own name, and left myself on every camera in the building." "You might have panicked," Zane said. "Then I'm either clever enough to erase a protected report from your system or stupid enough to announce my own crime. Which version have you decided on?" A sound suspiciously like a choked laugh came from somewhere near the office. Marcus covered it with a cough. Zane didn't look amused. I took a breath and made myself continue. "Someone knew I was starting last night. They knew which car you would drive this morning, and they knew how to remove my report while leaving my access record intact." Hale's expression remained guarded, but she was listening. "They didn't just damage your brakes," I said. "They built a trail that ended with me." The side door slammed open. A dark-haired guy hurried in with a laptop tucked beneath one arm. I recognized Crew Vance from campus, although we had never spoken. Zane's best friend, future Beta, and the one person regularly photographed beside him who never looked as if he wanted to punch the camera. "Sorry," Crew said, slightly out of breath. "Theo made me run the file twice before he'd let me bring it over." He set the laptop on the workbench and turned it toward Zane. "The footage does show Sage near Engine Seven," he said. "She leaves at eight seventeen, and nobody appears on camera afterward. That part looks straightforward." My stomach dropped. "But it isn't." Crew dragged a timeline across the screen. "Seven minutes of the feed were overwritten with a freeze-frame loop. See the clock in the diagnostic display? It jumps, but nothing else in the image moves. Theo only caught it because the compression changes here." He enlarged a section of the video. I couldn't see the difference until he pointed it out, and then it became impossible to miss. "Someone altered the footage after she left," Crew said. "That doesn't prove she had nothing to do with it, but it means she may not have been the last person near the car." The crew member who had accused me folded his arms. "Or she had help." "She might have," Crew said calmly. "She might also be exactly what she says she is-the easiest person to blame. We don't know yet." It was the first fair thing anyone had said since security entered my classroom. Zane watched the frozen footage, his face unreadable. Then he looked at me. "Insufficient evidence isn't innocence." "I never said it was." Investigator Hale collected the tablet. "Until the audit is complete, her garage credentials should be revoked. We can suspend her from Wildfire and place her provisional pack status under review." "Revoke her access to the cars," Zane said. "She still works here." Hale paused. "You want a sabotage suspect inside your garage?" "I want her where I can see her." The answer came too quickly, as though he had made the decision before anyone asked the question. Crew glanced at him, then at me. A flicker of curiosity crossed his face, but he wisely kept it to himself. Zane stopped in front of me. "From now on, you report directly to me. You don't touch a car unless Marcus authorizes it, and you don't leave the garage during a shift without telling me." I stared at him. "You think I tried to kill you, so your solution is to keep me close?" "My solution is to see what you touch, where you go, and who contacts you." "You have security for that." "I trusted this garage yesterday." His eyes moved briefly toward Engine Seven. "Today I don't." That was almost reasonable. The rest was not. "What exactly am I supposed to do?" "Everything that keeps you away from an engine. Coffee. Deliveries. Files. Equipment. Any task too small to waste a crew member's time on." "You're turning me into your personal errand girl." "I'm keeping a suspect under observation." "You make attempted murder sound a lot like an unpaid internship." Crew looked down, but not before I caught the beginning of a smile. Zane stepped closer. "The position is paid." "Then I quit." Silence spread through the garage. Zane's expression barely changed, yet the air around him seemed to tighten. "No." I almost laughed. "That isn't how quitting works." I picked up my bag and turned toward the door. His hand closed around my wrist before I had taken two steps. The current struck again, stronger this time. Zane went still behind me. His fingers tightened, not painfully, but with the instinctive certainty of someone stopping a thing he hadn't intended to let go. When I looked back, his eyes were fixed on the place where his skin touched mine. He released me abruptly. "Your mother works at Blackthorn General," he said. The last trace of humor disappeared from the room. "What does she have to do with this?" "Her contract is new, just like your membership in Nightfall. Both are provisional." Cold settled in my stomach. "Alpha Kael offered us protection." "And a sabotage investigation involving his son would be enough to put that protection under review." Zane lowered his voice. "I can have your mother suspended from the hospital before the end of the day. I can make sure the council examines every document attached to both your names." "You'd punish a doctor for something you can't prove I did?" "I'd make sure you didn't disappear before I found the truth." His tone was controlled, almost matter-of-fact, which made the threat worse. He had found the one person I couldn't afford to gamble with, and we both knew it. Zane held my gaze. "Still want to tell me no, Omega?"

Sage's POV I wanted to tell Zane no again. Instead, I pictured my mother at the kitchen table in her hospital scrubs, rubbing the exhaustion from her eyes before another double shift. Losing my job was one thing. Risking hers was another. "What time do you want me here tomorrow?" I asked. "Four." "I'll be here." I pulled the strap of my bag higher onto my shoulder. "But once I leave this garage, my time is still mine." Zane's expression suggested he disagreed. I walked out before he could turn that disagreement into another order. Sloane was waiting on the steps outside the science building with my abandoned notebook under one arm and two paper cups in her hands. She stood when she saw me crossing the quad. "For what it's worth, you're still the least convincing assassin I've ever met." I accepted the cup she offered. "How many assassins have you met?" "Enough to recognize poor planning." The hot chocolate was too sweet and mostly lukewarm, but it helped settle something inside me. We sat on the steps while students crossed the lawn below us, most of them too busy with their own lives to notice mine had nearly been dismantled before lunch. "So?" Sloane prompted. "Are you cleared?" "Not exactly. Someone replaced seven minutes of security footage, which is apparently enough to keep me from being punished but not enough to make anyone apologize." "And Zane?" "He decided the safest place for a suspected saboteur is directly beside him." She stared at me. "That cannot be the official plan." "I report to him tomorrow at four. I'll be handling coffee, deliveries, and any other task considered too unimportant for someone useful." "So he thinks you tried to kill him, and his response is making you his personal assistant?" "Criminal surveillance requires caffeine." Sloane laughed, but the sound faded when she saw I wasn't joking. "You don't have to let him do this." "He threatened my mother's hospital contract." Her face hardened. "That arrogant-" "I know." "You should come home with me tonight. We'll order something terrible, and you can help me think of ways to poison his coffee without technically committing murder." "I have a shift at the Meridian." Sloane stopped peeling the cardboard sleeve from her cup. "Tonight?" "The agency paid half in advance, and I already used it for Mom's prescription. If I cancel, I have to pay it back and cover a no-show fee." "The Vance party is tonight." Her tone had gone careful. "Blaire is on the student committee." I looked down at my borrowed hoodie. "I'll stay in the service area." "That strategy worked beautifully in the east corridor." She had a point. Unfortunately, points didn't refill prescriptions. "I'll be careful," I promised. Sloane watched me for a moment before taking out her phone. "Text me when you're done." Unlike Zane's demands, hers sounded like concern rather than a claim of ownership. "I will." - The Meridian Club occupied the top floor of a glass building just beyond campus. It belonged to the Vance family, but Blackthorn's racing committee had taken over for the evening, filling it with pulsing music, colored lights, and enough expensive cologne to leave a permanent coating on the walls. I had worked two events there before. The staff were organized, the tips were good, and nobody had asked me to wear anything that could fit inside a sandwich bag. Tonight was different. The coordinator handed me a small bundle of black fabric. I held it up. "Where's the rest of it?" "That is the rest of it." Around us, the other servers were buttoning white shirts and fastening black aprons. My outfit had a short skirt, a fitted top, and no practical relationship with food service. "There's been a mistake. I'm assigned to table service." She checked the tablet in her hand. "Sage Bennett?" "Yes." "You were moved to interactive hosting this afternoon." "By whom?" "The event committee." She pushed the clothes toward me again. "If you have a complaint, take it up with your agency tomorrow. We open in ten minutes." I could refuse, walk out, and explain to the pharmacy why the money I had already spent was no longer mine. Instead, I took the outfit and went to change. Blaire found me before I had carried my second tray. She stood near the center of the room with champagne in one hand and several friends gathered around her. Her dress probably cost more than our monthly rent, and her pleased smile answered my question about who had changed my assignment. "Well," she said, looking me over. "That suits your status much better." I adjusted the tray against my hip. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing about your personality and that glass." Her friends went quiet. Blaire's smile sharpened. "Careful, Omega. People might think you've forgotten your place." "People think whatever you tell them to. It saves them the effort." I walked away before she could answer. For the next hour, I managed to avoid her. The work itself was simple enough, even if the outfit made every trip across the room feel like a public performance. Most guests barely noticed me. The ranked students did, but people like them tended to look through service staff until they wanted something. Eventually, Blaire called me over to the edge of the dance floor. Several small bills lay scattered around her shoes. "You dropped your tip," she said. Phones appeared in the hands of two girls beside her. I looked at the money, then at Blaire. I needed every dollar I could earn, but I wasn't going to crawl for hers. "Keep it. You seem to need the attention more than I need the cash." I turned away. The spray struck the back of my neck. A cold mist coated my skin and shoulders, releasing a sickly sweetness that turned my stomach. Beneath it was something warmer and unmistakably artificial. Synthetic Omega pheromones. They were restricted on most pack campuses, although that never stopped students with money and poor judgment from finding them. The cheap versions mimicked the scent of an unbonded Omega nearing heat. They couldn't take away anyone's choices, but they made bad ones easier to excuse. I spun around. Blaire lowered the small bottle, smiling. "What did you do?" "Relax. I upgraded your tips." She slipped the bottle into her purse. "You can thank me later." I set my tray down and headed for the staff corridor. If I could wash it off before it soaked into the fabric, I might still finish my shift. A man wearing an event badge stepped through a doorway and blocked my path. "Sage Bennett?" "I'm busy." "They're ready for you in Blindfold Kiss." "I'm not part of the game." He consulted the tablet in his hand. "You're on the hostess list." "Someone changed my assignment. I'm staff." "So are half the hostesses." His attention moved to the room behind him. "They're waiting." Blindfold Kiss was one of Blackthorn's favorite party games, especially among ranked wolves with more confidence than restraint. The men entered blindfolded and relied on scent to choose a partner; the women wore colored wristbands to show they had volunteered. At least, that was the official version. At Blackthorn, rules tended to become flexible whenever a ranked wolf wanted something and an Omega was the one saying no. "I don't have a wristband," I said. The man caught my shoulder. "The committee already cleared you." "I said I'm not participating." I twisted out of his grip, but the door opened behind me. A second staff member stepped into the corridor, leaving nowhere to go except forward. The first man shoved me through. The door closed, and the lock clicked. Low red lights ran along the floor, barely bright enough to reveal couches against the walls and figures moving through the darkness. Music vibrated through the ceiling. Several men wore black blindfolds, while girls laughed and moved between them, perfume and alcohol thickening the air. The sweetness on my skin drew attention almost immediately. One man turned his head toward me. Then another. I backed toward the door and tried the handle. "Let me out." It didn't move. A girl brushed past me with a giggle, disappearing into someone's arms. Across the room, a couple sank onto a couch. This was entertainment to them, an excuse to let instinct make decisions they could laugh about tomorrow. I struck the door with my palm. The music outside swallowed the sound. "Problem?" a male voice asked behind me. I turned. A broad figure stood several feet away, blindfolded and smiling. "I'm staff. I was put in here by mistake." "Sure you were." "I'm not playing." His nostrils flared. "You smell like you are." He reached for me. I slapped his hand aside and moved left, only for another man to block my path. "Easy," the second one said. "If you didn't want to be caught, you shouldn't have come inside." "I didn't come inside. I was pushed." Neither of them seemed interested in the distinction. I ducked beneath the second man's arm and hurried toward the far side of the room. Someone laughed as I passed. The red light made it hard to judge distances, and without enough time to adjust, every couch and body became another obstacle. A hand caught the back of my top. I drove my elbow behind me. The man grunted and released the fabric, but another arm closed around my waist before I could take two steps. "Got you." I brought my heel down on his foot. His grip loosened, and I wrenched sideways, raking my nails across his wrist. He swore, reaching for me again. Something cold moved through the darkness. It slid over his hand where it gripped my waist, thin and weightless as smoke. The man jerked away with a curse, shaking his fingers as if something had burned him. For a second, the shadows beneath us seemed to curl around my ankles. Then the red lights flickered, and whatever I had seen disappeared. I didn't wait to understand it. I ran. Fear had sharpened my scent beneath the chemical sweetness, and several heads turned as I crossed the room. One man reached for me and missed. Another caught my wrist, but I twisted free, leaving a bracelet in his hand. I was almost at the side exit when a thick arm locked around my waist and hauled me backward. "Stop fighting." "Let go of me!" I struck at him, but he caught my forearm. His grip tightened until pain shot toward my elbow. Then he vanished. A sharp crack sounded beside me, followed by a grunt and the heavy impact of a body hitting the floor. The man who had been holding me landed near the couch, one hand pressed to his jaw. Another figure stood in his place. Tall. Broad shoulders beneath a black racing jacket. A blindfold covered his eyes, but silver rings glinted in his lower lip. Before I could move, his arms closed around me. The difference was immediate. He held me firmly, yet his body had turned toward the rest of the room, placing himself between me and anyone who might try to reach us. Cedar, smoke, and rain striking hot pavement cut through the synthetic perfume. My heart stumbled. Zane Wilder. He had no idea who he was holding. His head lowered toward my neck. The cheap pheromones should have hidden everything familiar, but the moment his hand spread across my waist, that strange current tore through us again. Zane went rigid. A low growl rolled through his chest, too deep to belong entirely to him. His arms tightened as another man approached. "She's mine." Rank flooded the words. Every wolf in the room felt it, and the laughter died. I should have told him he was wrong. I should have shoved him away and found the nearest exit, because less than an hour ago I had promised myself that no part of my life belonged to Zane Wilder. Instead, I stood frozen against him while his fingers flexed at my waist, as though he was as startled by the contact as I was. He moved backward, taking me with him until the backs of my knees met a couch. We went down together, his body curved over mine and his blindfold still firmly in place. His mouth hovered close enough for his breath to touch my lips. He didn't know my face. The perfume had buried my scent, and the darkness had hidden everything else. But when his thumb brushed my jaw, his body recognized something his mind had not. In the dark, his lips found mine.