Moonlight gleamed on the shards of glass at my feet as I sprinted down the alley, breath harsh in my chest. Every echo of distant howls rattled through my bones and sent me veering faster, half-blind along Silverfield’s labyrinth of brick and shadow. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm, in time with every step—matching the angry music of the packs behind me, hunting for the traitor in their midst.
I ducked low, sliding behind a rusted fire escape, the metal stinking of old rain. My hand pressed instinctively to my sleeve, tightening against the feverish pulse of the mark hidden on my wrist. The blood mark burned hotter tonight, as if sensing the nearness of the full moon—and of danger.
A tall figure appeared at the end of the alley, blocking the only exit. He stepped out of the silver-splashed darkness, broad-shouldered and silent, eyes catching the moonlight with a cold glint. Ronan Carter.
His gaze swept over me, pausing on the spot where my sleeve covered the mark. Even from here, I felt the sharp, predatory focus in his scent—an alpha, and not my own. The notorious rival.
He took one step closer and spoke, voice low and dangerous. “I know what you are.” He nodded, almost imperceptibly, toward my arm. “And you’re running out of time.”
I stiffened, trying to will my heart to stillness—trying not to bare my teeth, not to let the wolf rise in my eyes. Behind him, footsteps echoed, lighter and desperate. Lena Marrow, her scent carried ahead of her: anxious, uncertain, diplomatic. If she saw me here with Ronan, the scandal alone could be fatal.
Between the iron shadows and the moon’s accusing light, I had seconds to decide. Ronan’s stance was tense, ready; Lena was almost at his side. The blood mark on my wrist pulsed again, alive and hungry. The alley was about to become a hunting ground. One wrong move, and I’d be caught—by the alpha, by the diplomat, by the law written in blood and old moonlight. My secret balanced on a breath, and whichever way I ran, someone would bleed for it.