Thaila The rain in Perth never used to touch me. That was the whole point of the penthouse. 42nd floor, Bellerose Tower, St Georges Terrace. Floor-to-ceiling glass that made the Swan River look like a silver ribbon you owned. Triple-glazed. Soundproofed. Weather-proofed. Life-proofed. Tonight, the glass was leaking. Not water. Cold. It came through the seal where the frame had shifted last winter and Dad said he'd fix it when the markets bounced back. He never fixed it. I stood in the living room in my mother's old cashmere robe - real cashmere, from before - and watched the city lights smear through the rain. One of the downlights above the marble island was flickering. It had been flickering for three weeks. No one came to replace it because we stopped paying the building manager's private maintenance fee. My name is Thalia-Vesper Bellerose-Winchcombe. That's what it says on my birth certificate, on my driver's licence, on the trust that has exactly $4,112 left in it. My mother thought hyphenating three names would make me sound like an heiress forever. Forever ended on a Tuesday. The intercom buzzed. I jumped. We don't get buzzed. No one comes up without being announced by concierge, and concierge stopped announcing us after Dad told him to fuck off in the lobby in front of the Crown execs. I pressed the intercom. Screen black. Rain on lens. "Hello?" No answer. Just breathing. Then the front door - the solid oak, imported from Lyon, with the brass handle shaped like a lion - knocked. Three times. Slow. Knock. Knock. Knock. I didn't move. My bare feet stuck to the marble. The heating had been on low since March because of the gas bill. "Miss Bellerose-Winchcombe?" A man's voice, polite, Australian, like a tradie. "We know you're home. Your little white Porsche is in the bay. Nice car. Shame about the bald tires." My Porsche. Alistair's birthday present last year, leased. I wrapped the robe tighter. Alistair wasn't here. Nine days. Since he left a note on the Smeg fridge that said .THALIA GONE TO SYDNEY TO FIX. DON'T ANSWER DOOR. He underlined DON'T three times. The knock came again, harder. "Thalia-Vesper? We can do this nice or we can do this like we did with Alistair's office. Your dad owes Mr. K a lot of money. Mr. K sent us in the rain, so now we're wet and a bit annoyed." I opened the door with a crack, chain on. Two men. Clean. Black waterproof jackets, black caps, no logos. The kind of men who could be your Uber driver or your executioner. The taller one held a manila envelope, dry inside his jacket. The shorter one had a small metal toolbox. "See, she is home," the taller one smiled. "Hi, Princess. I'm Bren. This is Mik. We work for Mr. K." "My father isn't here," I whispered. "He's in Bali," Bren said, still smiling. "Hiding in a villa in Canggu that Mr. K also owns. Funny, hey? Your dad is not good at hiding." He pushed the door gently. The chain strained. "You shouldn't open for strangers, Princess. But you did. So now we have to come in. It's raining." I slammed the door. Too slow. Mik's boot was already in the gap, and then his shoulder, and then they were inside, dripping on the $30,000 rug from Afghanistan. Bren looked around the penthouse, the fading luxury. "Wow. It used to be nice up here, eh? My boss said you had a chef. What happened to the chef?" "Left," I said. My voice cracked. Mik opened his toolbox. Inside, not tools. A hammer. A small blowtorch. A zip-lock bag and a bottle of cheap vodka. And a single Polaroid camera. "Mr. K likes photos," Bren explained. "For his album. Before and after." He tossed the envelope onto the marble island. Papers slid out. Loan agreements, with my father's signature, frantic. And one paper with my name on it. A personal guarantee. Thalia-Vesper Bellerose-Winchcombe, guarantor for Alistair Bellerose-Winchcombe. Dated last Christmas. I remembered. Dad was crying, drunk, saying "Just sign this, darling, it's nothing, it's just to keep the lights on for Mum's sake." I signed. "That one says if Daddy can't pay, Princess pays," Bren tapped the paper with a wet finger. "And Daddy can't pay. So... how are you gonna pay, Princess? You got 4.8 mil in that robe?" "I have four thousand," I said. Bren laughed, almost kind. "We know. We checked your accounts before we came up. That's why Mr. K sent us. He says pretty girls with no money have other ways to pay." Mik picked up the hammer. Looked at my hand on the island. My left hand, with my mother's diamond tennis bracelet I never took off. Bren stepped closer. Too close. Rain smell and cheap aftershave. He reached out, not for bracelet, for my robe tie. One finger. "You are very pretty, Thalia-Vesper. Mr. K has a club in Northbridge. Girls like you make a lot in one night. One night to clear interest. He said you'd be perfect for his VIPs. Private school girls, they love that." The downlight flickered. Tick. Tick. I slapped his hand away. Hard. Silence. Bren's smile dropped. Just fell off his face like a mask. Mik put the hammer down and picked up the blowtorch. "You shouldn't have done that," Bren said quietly. "Now we have to do it the other way. Mik, hold her." Mik grabbed my wrist, the one with the bracelet, twisted it onto the marble island. I screamed. Pain shot up my arm. Bren opened the envelope again, took out a transfer of deed. Bellerose Tower Penthouse, 42A, transferred to K. Holdings Pty Ltd. Already signed by Alistair. Already stamped. "We own the flat now, Princess," Bren whispered as Mik lit the blowtorch with a soft _whoosh_. "So you're trespassing." The flame was blue, inches from my bracelet, from my skin. And then - ding. Private elevator. The one that only goes to this penthouse and requires a key. Bren looked up, annoyed. "Who the fuck... we booked the lift." The elevator doors opened slowly. A man stood inside, in a black suit, completely dry, holding a black umbrella even though he was inside. He looked at me pinned to my own island with a blowtorch to my wrist. At Bren. At Mik. At the deed. Then he stepped into the penthouse and closed the umbrella with a soft click. The rain stopped. "Gentlemen. You are touching what is mine." His voice was not Australian. Low, cut-glass British, bored, but underneath it - rage. Controlled, cold rage that made the room colder than the leaking glass. "My name is Silas Winchcombe. I believe you know my brother Alistair. I bought Mr. K's debt this afternoon. $4.8 million. In cash. So Mr. K no longer owns this building. Or this girl. Or that bracelet. I do." Bren laughed, nervous now. "Mate, Mr. K didn't say anything about -" Silas didn't let him finish. He moved. Fast. Too fast for a man in a suit. One second he was by the elevator. Next, his hand was around Bren's throat, slamming him back into the oak door. The lion handle rattled. Bren gasped, hands clawing. Silas didn't even look like he was trying. "You came into my property," Silas said, quiet, but every word shaking with anger he had kept locked for years. "You dripped on my rug. You touched my niece's robe. You put a flame near honey blood that has been in my family since 1888. Do you know what honey blood is worth? Do you know what you almost burned?" Mik let go of me, reaching for the hammer. Silas looked at Mik, eyes flashing - grey to amber, wolf-amber - and growled. Not a human sound. "Touch her again and I will take your hands and make you eat them." Mik froze. Silas dropped Bren. Bren fell to the floor, coughing. Silas turned to me. I was still on the island, wrist red, robe open, shaking. He took his suit jacket off and threw it over me. It smelled like old books and smoke and money that never died. He leaned close, not touching, voice only for me, and this time the anger wasn't at me. It was FOR me. "Thalia-Vesper. Your father didn't go to Sydney. He sold you. Last Christmas. He signed that guarantee because Mr. K promised him $200k for one night with you. A virgin honey blood night. To clear interest. Mr. K was going to auction you in Northbridge tomorrow. Your father sold you for one night. I bought you to stop it." The blowtorch was still hissing on the floor. He picked up the deed from the island, looked at it, tore it in half, then quarters, then let the pieces fall into the sink. "You don't owe Mr. K anything anymore. You owe me $4.8 million. And I don't want money." He looked at Bren on the floor, at Mik against the wall, and smiled - no kindness in it, only ownership, only craving anger that had waited a lifetime. "Get out. Tell Mr. K that if any of his men ever look at 42A again, I will burn his club to the ground with him inside it. And tell him... tell him Silas Winchcombe is home. And he is hungry."

The archive smells like death that has been catalogued. Not real death. Paper death. Cold, dry, dusty, with a little smoke still in it even after two years. Reid Library basement, UWA. No sun. Fluorescent light that hums. Aircon set at 18 degrees to keep books alive and archivists half-dead. I work 9am to 2pm. Five hours. $28.50 an hour. $142.50 a day before tax. Yesterday I was Thalia-Vesper Bellerose-Winchcombe, heiress of Bellerose Tower. Today I am Box 42. Box 42 is _Bellerose Family Ledger 1888-1902_. My own family. I sit with white cotton gloves that are too big and a soft goat-hair brush that costs $45 and belongs to the library. Each page has ash on it from the fire in our storage in 2021. Dad said electrical. Insurance said suspicious. I say Dad smoking near old paper because he was broke. I brush. Soft, soft. Ash off. Photo. Entry. Page 112: _Nov 3rd 1891 - Purchased honey blood girl, 16, from London for £400 - for Charles Jr. breeding._ My great-grandfather bought girls. Wrote it down like he bought a horse. Mrs. Keene peeks over the shelf. "Thalia, dear, you've been on Box 42 for three weeks." "Box 42 is fragile," I say. "It needs a slow brush." She nods, but she pities me. Private school girl with hole in the elbow of blue jumper, boots that still have rain inside from penthouse leak. Dignity is a process, I tell myself. Dignity is showing up and brushing ash off your own shame for $28.50. My phone buzzes under the desk. Photo message. Unknown number. My mother's grave. Karrakatta. Someone spray-painted in red: *$4.8M - PAY - K* Second photo: Me. Yesterday. Bus stop to tower, carrying Bunnings bucket. Blue jumper, hole visible. Long lens. They watched me. They photographed my mother's grave. My hands start shaking. Third message: _Lobby. Now. - Dad_ I take my gloves off. Ash under nails, no polish. Working hands. Not heiress hands. The lobby is glass and concrete, students, and coffee smells. And in the middle, Alistair Bellerose-Winchcombe. He looks like he hasn't slept since Bali. Tom Ford suit now wrinkled, open collar, sweat, beard three days, eyes red. The brown envelope was wet at the corner like he held it too tight in the rain. "Thalia! Thank God," he runs, grabs my elbows. Students stare. "I went to penthouse, door broken, rain inside, I thought they took you -" "Who took you? Bren?" I whisper. "Bren and Mik! Last night at a villa in Bali, with a hammer and blowtorch. They said I owe $4.8 now, not $3.9. Interest. They said if I don't bring $200k by Friday, they come to Perth and take you for one night to clear interest. One night, Thalia. You know what that means." One night. $200k. Virgin honey blood night. My $28.50 an hour dignity cracks right down the middle. "Dad, you left me a note. Gone to Bali to fix_. You left me with rain leaking. With two men with blowtorches. Is that fixed?" "I tried to get money from Silas! Your uncle "I know who Silas is. He came last night. Umbrella. He said he bought debt." Alistair goes white. "No. No. Your mother said never call Silas. He is -" "He said I owe him now. $4.8m. He owns an archive. He owns a tower. He said you work for him too." Alistair pushes the envelope to me. Photos fall. Grave, me with bucket, penthouse door with same red spray: *PAY - K* "He owns everything!" he cries as security walks over. "Winchcombe Capital is Silas! You work for him! We live in his building! We breathe his air! Please, you have to find Kaelen!" "Who is Kaelen?" "Kaelen Bellerose. Your cousin. Greenbushes Pack. Lithium. He hates Silas. He rents the 38th floor to spite him. He has money. He -" Guard pulls him. "Your mother was his first -" "Don't say my mother in the lobby!" Guard drags him out into Perth rain. I stand there, envelope in hands, everyone looking at a private school girl whose father got dragged out. Mrs. Keene: "Thalia? Want to go home early?" Home? Penthouse that says PAY - K, owned by Silas? Or a basement at 18 degrees owned by Silas? I open envelope. Inside a business card. Black, thick, embossed *W*. Back, handwriting, sharp: _You brushed ash off my family ledger for 3 weeks at $28.50. Cute. Come to the 38th floor at 6pm. Wear something that can be torn. I can clear $4.8m before Friday and make K disappear. Your choice, little bird. My phone buzzes again. Different number. Don't go to Silas. He will put you in a cage and never let you out. Come to me at 6pm, 42A. I will tear K apart for free if you let me smell honey blood once. - K.B._ 6pm. Two wolves. Same hour. One tower. I chose the 38th floor. Because 42A is my home that leaks and says PAY. I don't want to be home. 6pm. Bellerose Tower. I take a service lift because the main lift needs a key I don't have anymore. Red dress in tote bag, still folded. Wearing a blue jumper with holes, because I am stubborn, because dignity is still a process. 38th floor. Winchcombe Capital lobby. Glass, steel, no receptionist after 5pm. Doors open automatically, like they knew I was coming. Like Silas knew. Lights off, except one office at the end. Library again. Same smell as Peppermint Grove. Leather, lemon oil. I walk. Boots squeak. My wrist is still red from Mik. I push the door. Two men inside. Not one. Two. Silas in navy suit, dry, holding umbrella again even though inside. And next to him - massive frame, 6'4", black t-shirt, tattoo on neck, hair tied back, boots with mud, like he came from Greenbushes mine, not boardroom. Eyes amber already, not grey. Faint tremor in a massive frame, like he is holding a wolf back. Kaelen. Both look at me at the same time. Both inhale, at same time, like they smell honey blood at same time. Silas smiles, cold. "Thalia-Vesper. You wore the jumper again. Disappointment number two. And you brought the red dress again, I see the shape in the bag. You knew you'd say yes." Kaelen doesn't smile. He steps forward, one step, floor creaks under weight. "You told her to wear something that can be torn, you sick bastard? She's 24. She's your niece's cousin. She's -" "She's not your Luna either, Kaelen. You rent my building to be near her. Don't pretend you're better." I am shaking. "Dad said Friday. $200k or they take me to Osborne Park. Which one of you - " Silas interrupts, soft, but eyes on Kaelen, not me: "We both will pay. But we want different things. I want Luna for board meetings. He wants Luna for pack fights. Choose. Now." Kaelen looks at me, amber eyes full of pain, not collector cold. "Thalia, don't choose him. He had your mother. He had first Luna. Ask him what happened to her. Ask him where her body really is. Ask him why there is no body in Karrakatta grave you brushed ash for, only an empty coffin." Empty coffin? Silas's smile drops. Just falls off like a mask. "Kaelen," Silas says, quiet, with that controlled rage from last night, "you shouldn't have said that." Kaelen growls. Real growl. Not human. Windows vibrate. "Tell her, Silas. Tell her your first Luna didn't die in a car crash in 2018. Tell her you kept her in Peppermint Grove library for four years because honey blood makes wolves live longer. Tell her your mother died of mold but you kept Thalia's mother alive in a cage because her blood smelled like honey. Tell her!" My bag falls. Red dress falls out, silk on expensive floor. My mother's grave photo in envelope - spray-painted PAY - K. but if the coffin is empty, who is the grave for? Silas looks at me, grey to amber, longer now, black nail tapping book again - same book, Box 42 ledger - and says: "Your mother is upstairs. 42A. Alive. I brought her back this morning from Grove. She has been waiting to see you for 8 years. But she is not the same woman who left. Honey blood changes when caged too long. Go up and see her. Or stay here and let us decide who owns you. Your choice, little bird. Before the fire goes out.

Vance Enterprises is not a building. It's a mirror. 48 floors of glass on St Georges Terrace, opposite Bellerose Tower. Perth sun hits it at 4pm and it throws light back at the city like a middle finger. You can't see inside. Inside you can see everything. I had never been inside. Heiresses of Bellerose Tower don't go to Vance Enterprises. We cross the street to avoid it. Old beef. Lithium vs old money. Wolf vs wolf. Now I was going inside because my mother might be alive in my penthouse and two men told me to choose who owns me and I chose neither. I ran. Service lift down, out through the bin room, across the terrace in the rain, blue jumper with hole, tote bag with red dress falling out, and into the mirror building. The receptionist said: "Mr. Vance doesn't take walk-ins." I said: "Tell him honey blood is in the lobby." She looked at my jumper hole and called security. Security looked at me and then his earpiece buzzed and he went white. "38 - sorry - 48th floor. He says come up. Now." Glass elevator. No buttons. It just goes. 48th floor. Doors open. Cold hits you. Not aircon cold. Money cold. Boardroom. Glass-fronted, three sides glass, city under you, Swan River like silver ribbon you can step on and own. Table long, black, 20 chairs, all empty except one man at head. Kaelen Vance. Not the Kaelen from last night in t-shirt with mud boots. This Kaelen is Corporate Apex. Black suit, but not Silas navy suit. Black on black. Shirt black, tie black, but tie loose. Sleeves rolled up to elbows, forearms thick, veins, tattoo - Southern Cross, five stars, black ink that moves when he moves because muscle moves. Hair tied back, wet, like he just came from shower or rain or fight. Massive frame that makes boardroom chair look small. And faint tremor, massive frame tremor, like wolf inside is cold and angry and trying to get out. He doesn't look up. He is reviewing financial portfolios. Three screens in front of him, papers spread, red and green numbers. On screen: VANCE ENTERPRISES - GREENBUSHES LITHIUM - Q3. He speaks while reading. "You took 9 minutes to run from Bellerose 38th to Vance 48th. In the rain. In a jumper with a hole. You left a red dress on Silas floor. Stupid. That dress was worth $2,000." He knows. Of course he knows. Wolves know. "I didn't know where else to go," I say. My voice is small in a glass room. "Silas said my mother is alive in 42A." Kaelen finally looks up. Amber eyes. Not grey to amber flicker like Silas. Permanent amber. Alpha amber. Pain in them, not collector cold. "She is alive," he says. "Silas didn't lie about that. He lies about everything else. Your mother, Elara Bellerose, was his Luna for 4 years. 2018 to 2022. Not a dead car crash. He staged a crash. Empty coffin in Karrakatta with PAY spray - that's K marking territory, but the coffin was empty long before K sprayed it. Silas kept her in Peppermint Grove library because of honey blood..." He stops, inhales, jaw clenches, tremor gets worse. "Honey blood makes unstable alphas stable. My tremor - this -" he holds out hand, massive hand shaking faintly, " - is because I don't have Luna. Southern Cross Pack alphas need Luna to anchor the wolf. Without Luna, the wolf shakes, then breaks, then goes feral. Silas knows. He used your mother to stop his shake. For 4 years she kept him stable. Then she got sick. Caged honey blood gets sick. So he let her go. Put her in your penthouse this morning to bait you." Bait. I sit, because legs shake too, but not from wolf, from $28.50 an hour life. "You review portfolios while your wolf shakes?" I ask. He smiles, not a nice smile, but a painful smile. "I have to. The Southern Cross board is here." He taps the intercom. "Come in." The side door opens. Four men enter. Old suits, grey hair, no tattoos, but smell - I smell now, honey blood nose now open - they smell like old wolves. Southern Cross Pack board. They look at me like I am meat on black table. "Kaelen," oldest says, "we discussed. Stability wedding. You are 32. Alpha of Greenbushes, Vance Enterprises, $4B lithium. You shake in front of investors. Last week in Sydney you almost shifted in a meeting. You need Luna. Now." Second: "Winchcombe has Luna. Silas is stable because he had Elara. Now he wants a daughter. If he gets Thalia-Vesper, West Coast Pack will be stable for next 10 years and we lose Terrace. You cannot let him have honey blood." Third, look at me, at my jumper hole, at ash under my nails. "This is a Bellerose girl? The virgin honey blood? She is... small. Poor. But blood is blood. Does she know?" Kaelen's tremor gets worse. Hand on table, gripping edge, wood creaks. "She knows," Kaelen says, voice low, holding the wolf back. "She was offered a contract by Silas. One year. Companion. Luna for board. He offers $4.8m clear." Board laughs. "That's cheap," the oldest says. "We offer $7m. And the penthouse back. And mother medical care. She needs care, Elara, she is in 42A now, shaking worse than Kaelen, honey blood withdrawal." Mother is shaking worse than Kaelen. In my penthouse that leaks. "And what do you want for $7m?" I ask, because now I know the price. $200k one night, $1.2m to buy from syndicate, $4.8m tower, $7m for Luna. Kaelen looks at me, amber eyes, tremor in a massive frame that makes black table shake too. "I want what Silas wants," he says, honestly, no collector's game. "I want you to sit near me when the wolf shakes. I want to smell honey blood so I sleep. I want you to wear dresses that can be torn, but only I tear them. For one year. Be my stable wedding. Not a real wedding. Pack wedding. Luna ceremony. Everyone in Perth packs will see you are mine, so Silas can't take you, K can't take you. You will be safe. Your father is safe. Your mother is safe. In return, I pay $7m in debt, I make K disappear - not buy him, disappear him - and I give you an archive job back but at $90 an hour, not $28.50, because you shouldn't brush ash for pittance." $90 an hour. That's $450 a day. That's the dignity of paying the power bill. Board: "And virginity?" Kaelen growls. Real growl. Glass vibrates. Three-sided glass boardroom and Swan River outside ripples. "Don't talk about her virginity like it's lithium grade," he snaps, tremor now full shake, massive frame shaking. "She is not mine yet. She is not to be graded." The oldest board man steps back, scared. "Alpha, control." Kaelen stands, chair flies back, hits glass, doesn't break, but he grabs the edge of black table and bends it. Real bends. Metal screams. "I can't control without Luna!" he shouts, amber eyes bright, teeth showing, canines longer now, not human, "You demand a stable wedding but you bring me no Luna! You bring me portfolios! You bring me Q3! I need honey blood! I need - " He stops. Look at me. The smell hits him. Honey blood, fear, rain, ash under nails. He drops to knees. In front of me. Massive frame on knees, head down, shaking, like dog, like wolf, in $4B boardroom in front of board who came to demand wedding. "Please," he whispers, only for me, not board, voice broken, not Alpha, just man who hasn't slept because wolf shakes. "Thalia-Vesper. I know Silas had your mother. I know that makes me the same as him. But I am not a collector. I don't keep girls in the library. I... I will keep you in the penthouse you own, with rain fixed, with lights that don't flicker. I will not touch you unless you say so. One year. Say yes and I stop shaking. Say yes and your mother lives. Say no and Silas takes you tonight at 42A and you will see what 4 years in the library does to honey blood. Please. Choose me. Not because you love me. Because you hate him more." Board silent. Glass silent. The city under us is silent. My phone buzzes. Unknown number. Photo. My penthouse. The door opened. Inside, on floor, woman. Thin, hair long, white, like mother but 8 years older, eyes closed, shaking, same tremor as Kaelen, but worse. Wearing a cashmere robe like mine. My mother's old robe. Caption: She woke up. She asks for you. Come home now or she sleeps again forever.  Silas sent a photo from my home. Kaelen sees a photo, growls, stands, a massive frame between me and glass, blocking the board view of me. "Don't go," he says. "He will lock you both. He wants mother and daughter Luna. Two honey bloods, one cage. That's why he emptied the coffin." Two honey bloods. One cage. Mother and daughter. I have to go. But if I go to 42A, I go to Silas. If I stay at 48, I will go to Kaelen. I look at Kaelen, on knees, shaking, offering $7m and $90 an hour dignity, and on the phone, mother shaking on the floor.