Coralie Hanson POV: I shoved open the heavy iron door of the hidden border base, and the freezing night wind whipped desert sand straight into my face. Narrowing my eyes, I scanned the dark, empty highway ahead. I pulled the hood of my black hoodie up over my head and waited for the car Hanson Pack had sent to take me home. After the elders discovered the truth about the baby swap eighteen years ago, the Alpha finally decided to bring me—his true daughter—back to the manor. Tires screeched against gravel as a heavy black SUV tore through the darkness and skidded to a halt in front of me. The Hanson Pack’s corporate emblem was painted on the car door—exactly the mark of an official pickup vehicle. The driver flashed his high beams twice—the exact signal we had agreed upon. I pulled open the back door and slid inside. The pungent smell of cheap tobacco mixed with the sour, sweaty odor of a low-ranking werewolf immediately hit my nose, making my stomach turn. In our world, every werewolf carried a unique scent that revealed their identity and emotions long before their face did. The driver, Hank Tucker, glanced at me through the rearview mirror. His eyes darted away nervously as he cleared his throat. "You came out earlier than scheduled," he muttered, his voice tight. I leaned back against the leather seat and crossed my arms over my chest. "Drive," I ordered coldly. "Don't waste my time." Hank gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal, and the sudden acceleration pressed me hard against the seatback. As the SUV sped through the night, I rubbed the back of my neck, where an old implanted chip pulsed with a dull ache. Looking out the window, I noticed we had bypassed the main highway leading to the Romero territory and were heading straight into the barren Silver Creek Canyon. I sat up straight, my gaze locking onto his eyes in the mirror. "This isn't the right route." "The Alpha ordered me to take a safe route and avoid being followed,” Hank stammered, fine beads of sweat seeping out on his forehead. “The canyon is the nearest shortcut." I didn't bother arguing with his pathetic lie. My heightened senses had already picked up the foul, rotting stench of three feral Rogues carried by the night wind just ahead of us. Without warning, Hank slammed on the brakes. The violent momentum threw me forward toward the windshield, but I braced my boots against the floor and locked my core, holding myself firmly in place. Hank frantically unbuckled his seatbelt, shoved his door open, and scrambled out into the dirt. "She's in the back!" he yelled into the darkness. "Do it now!" Three massive men stepped out from the shadows of the canyon rocks, blocking every exit. They were Rogues—packless, violent outcasts who lived without law or morality—and their eyes glowed with feral bloodlust. Before the closest Rogue could reach for the handle, I kicked the half-open car door with all my strength. The heavy metal door swung out and smashed straight into his face with a sickening thud. The Rogue roared in fury, his jaw elongating as sharp fangs protruded from his gums in a partial shift. He spat blood onto the ground and glared at me. "You little bitch," he snarled, flexing his clawed hands. "A tiny girl like you thinks a car door can save her?" I stepped out of the SUV calmly, the cold moonlight hitting my face. "Who paid you?" I asked, my voice flat. The Rogue didn't bother answering. He lunged straight at me with a deafening roar, his razor-sharp claws aiming directly to rip out my throat. I tilted my body slightly to the left, dodging his clumsy attack by a hair's breadth as he crashed into the side of the car. In the same fluid motion, I reached down into my combat boot and drew out a custom dagger forged from high-purity silver. In werewolf society, silver was never used at the dinner table because it was our only fatal weakness—a single cut could burn our blood, destroy our healing ability, and even kill our inner wolf. The moment the silver blade caught the moonlight, the Rogue's pupils shrank in pure terror. He tried to throw his weight backward to stop his momentum. "How does a scentless, wolfless piece of trash like you have pure silver?" he gasped, his voice cracking with panic. To the outside world, I was a defective freak born without an inner wolf, completely masking my true bloodline as the top dark-web assassin, Shadow Feather. I didn't waste my breath answering him. With a flick of my wrist, my silver blade sliced a deep arc across his chest. The pure silver sizzled loudly like hot iron against raw meat as it touched his flesh. Smoke rose from the wound, and the Rogue let out an agonizing scream, clutching his burning chest as he collapsed to his knees in the mud. A second Rogue tried to ambush me from behind. Without turning around, I dropped low and swept my leg backward, kicking his ankles out from under him. As he hit the ground hard, I dropped my knee onto his spine, pinning him down, and pressed the freezing edge of my silver blade right against his carotid artery. He froze instantly, trembling beneath me. The third Rogue backed away in horror, while Hank, who was hiding behind a boulder twenty feet away, stared at the bloody scene. His legs gave out completely, and he slumped into the dirt, his pants darkening with warm urine. Leaving the pinned Rogue choking on dust, I stood up and walked slowly toward Hank, blood dripping from the tip of my silver dagger. Hank shook violently, scrambling backward on his hands and heels as I towered over him, his sanity completely shattering under my icy stare.

Coralie Hanson POV: I pushed the tip of my bloodstained silver dagger half an inch forward, pressing the freezing metal directly against Hank's throat until he was forced to tilt his chin up. Tears and snot ran down Hank's face as he threw both hands into the air, his whole body convulsing. "Please! Don't kill me!" he sobbed, his voice shrill. "I'm just a driver! I was only following orders!" I stared down at him without a trace of warmth, pressing the blade just hard enough to indent his skin. "Tell me who hired these Rogues to kill me," I said. "Now." Hank's eyes darted left and right in panic. "It—it was probably one of your rivals from the border! I just took some cash from a middleman, I swear I don't know their name—" Losing my patience, I lowered my wrist slightly. The razor-sharp silver sliced through the top layer of his neck, and a thin line of bright red blood trickled down into his collar, sizzling faintly against his skin. Hank let out a pig-like squeal of agony, his hands flying up before stopping inches from my blade. "It was Miss Danelle!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, completely breaking down. "Danelle Hanson ordered me to do it!" I raised an eyebrow, the name sounding completely foreign to me. "Who the hell is Danelle?" Hank swallowed hard, careful not to move his throat against the knife. "She's the favored young lady of the Hanson Pack! Eighteen years ago at the pack hospital, a nurse switched you two at birth! You're the real pureblood daughter of Alpha Coy, and she's the fake! When the elders found out and ordered me to bring you back tonight, Danelle paid me to feed you to the Rogues so you'd never take her place!" I listened to his frantic confession, my chest remaining completely still. The whole rich-pack baby-switch drama was beyond ridiculous. I let out a cold laugh. "The high and mighty alphas of the Hanson Pack couldn't even recognize their own flesh and blood for eighteen years? Pathetic." Before Hank could reply, the roar of a heavy-duty engine echoed through the canyon. A heavily modified black tactical armored vehicle tore through the dirt and skidded to a stop beside us. The passenger door flew open, and Zane Kowalski—my top tactical specialist in the underground syndicate—jumped out wearing full combat gear, a heavy assault rifle cradled in his arms. Zane took one look at the groaning, silver-burned Rogues on the ground and the weeping driver at my feet. He let out a low whistle. "Holy shit, Boss." Zane grinned, lowering his rifle. "You didn't even leave one for me to warm up with?" I slid my silver dagger back into my boot sheath and wiped a speck of dust from my sleeve. "Shut up and tie those Rogues up," I ordered flatly. "Throw them in the trunk. Make it fast." "You got it, Boss." Zane didn't hesitate, pulling heavy alloy chains from his belt and dragging the wounded Rogues toward the back of the armored truck like dead dogs. I turned my attention back to Hank, who was still shivering in a puddle of his own filth, and curled my lips into a dangerous smile. "Take out your phone," I commanded. "Send Danelle a text message. Tell her the job is done." Hank hesitated, his eyes flickering with fear. In the Hanson Pack, Danelle was treated like a princess, and betraying her meant certain death for a low-ranking worker like him. I tapped the hilt of the silver dagger in my boot. "She's miles away in a warm mansion, Hank. I'm standing right here. Think carefully about who holds your life in their hands right now." Hank whimpered and immediately fumbled in his pocket, pulling out his smartphone with trembling fingers and unlocking the screen. Under my cold gaze, he typed out a message word by word: The Rogues tore her to pieces. Not even a bone is left. I snatched the phone from his hand and checked the message and the recipient's contact name before hitting send. Once the screen showed the message was delivered, I tossed the phone back into his lap. "Roll back to the Hanson estate and keep playing dumb," I warned, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "If you leak a single word before I get there, I'll personally twist your head off your shoulders. Understand?" "Yes! Yes, I understand!" Hank banged his forehead against the gravel repeatedly. "I won't say a word, I swear on my wolf!" Scrambling to his feet, he stumbled back into the dented SUV, started the engine, and sped away in a cloud of dust as if the devil were chasing him. Zane slammed the trunk of the armored vehicle shut, dusted off his hands, and walked over to me. "Where to now, Boss? Back to base?" I smoothed out the creases on my black sweatshirt. "No. The billionaire Alpha of the Romero Pack paid a fortune on the dark web to save his dying grandfather. He's waiting for me." I pulled open the passenger door of the armored truck and climbed inside. "Drive me to the private airfield."

Coralie Hanson POV: Zane drove the armored truck at top speed through the dark highways, and thirty minutes later, we pulled up to a heavily guarded private airfield on the edge of the territory. Out on the tarmac sat a massive private jet bearing the dark-gold crest of the Romero Corporation, its twin engines humming low in the night air. Two rows of elite Gamma guards—the highest-ranking warriors in a pack, second only to the Alpha and Beta in brute strength—stood at attention along the boarding stairs, their faces stone-cold. I pushed open the truck door and stepped out, the night wind blowing my long hair back as I walked straight toward the jet. A towering Gamma guard stepped forward and blocked my path with a thick arm. "Halt," he said, his voice like grinding stones. "State your business and show your credentials." Without a word, I reached into my pocket, pulled out a black alloy badge engraved with the supreme symbol of the dark web, and tossed it to him. The guard caught the badge. The second he saw the emblem, his eyes widened in sheer respect. He immediately took a half-step back and bowed his head, clearing the way. Just then, the cabin door at the top of the stairs swung open, and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out under the floodlights. It was Callan Romero，the grandson of Alistair Romero Alpha of the former Romero Corporation. Wearing a bespoke charcoal suit, the billionaire Alpha CEO looked down at the tarmac like a ruthless king surveying his empire. A suffocating wave of Alpha Dominion—the genetic aura of absolute authority—rolled off him, so heavy that the surrounding Gamma guards lowered their heads further, barely daring to breathe. Before I could take another step, the wind shifted, and an intoxicating scent of crisp cedarwood and wild mint slammed straight into my lungs. My breath hitched. Every werewolf knew the legend of the Moon Goddess's Fated Mate ritual: when two fated souls met for the first time, five undeniable reactions would strike them at once—scent, physical surge, soul's peace, the inner wolf's roar, and an electric touch. My heart hammered violently against my ribs, my blood boiling as my knees went weak and tiny sparks prickled across my skin. At the same time, an overwhelming sense of warmth and peace washed over me, filling the hollow ache I had carried in my chest for years. Deep inside my mind, my ancient White Wolf—which I had kept hidden from the entire world—snapped her golden eyes open and let out a deafening, possessive roar: "Mine!" I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug deep into my palms, using all my willpower to crush my wolf's instinct to submit to the mate bond. At the top of the stairs, Callan's amber eyes shrank the instant they locked onto me. His jaw tensed, and his chest heaved with a ragged, heavy breath. He strode down the metal stairs, each step radiating pure, predatory aggression, as if he wanted to swallow me whole. Stopping less than two feet in front of me, he towered over my frame, his dark gaze burning into my face. "You're the miracle healer?" he asked, his voice dangerously low and raspy. Forcing down the racing beat of my heart, I tilted my chin up and met his stare coldly. "I'm Shadow Feather," I corrected him. "And I'm only here for the money." Callan stared into my defiant eyes, the corner of his mouth curving into a dark, unreadable smirk. Suddenly, he reached out his hand to take the black medical backpack slung over my shoulder. I instinctively jerked back to avoid him, but his Alpha reflexes were too fast. His long, warm fingers brushed heavily across the back of my hand. The moment our skin touched, a violent jolt of electricity shot up my arm and exploded through my entire nervous system, sending a dizzying wave of pleasure straight down my spine. I yanked my hand back as if I had been burned by open fire, taking two quick steps backward to put safe distance between us as I glared at him warily. Callan looked at his empty hand and let out a low, rumbling chuckle. From the golden flicker in his eyes, I could tell his inner wolf was thoroughly pleased by my reaction. He turned around and walked back up the boarding stairs. "Get on the plane," he commanded over his shoulder, leaving no room for argument. "My grandfather doesn't have time to waste." I took a deep breath to steady my erratic pulse before turning slightly toward Zane, who was standing by the truck scratching his head, completely oblivious to the invisible tension between us. "Stay here and monitor the dark web," I told Zane. "Wait for my orders." Without waiting for a reply, I climbed the stairs and stepped into the luxurious, spacious cabin of the private jet. Callan was already seated on a wide cream leather sofa. His eyes were glazed over slightly for a second—he was actively projecting his thoughts through the pack mind-link to order the pilot to take off, a silent mental channel that only pack members could share. A second later, the heavy cabin door hissed shut and locked behind me, sealing me inside this small metal tube with my extremely dangerous Fated Mate.