The jasmine hit me three steps inside Devon's door.

I stopped, tray balanced on my hip, and breathed through my mouth. It didn't help. The scent clung to everything—his sheets, his collar thrown over the chair, the Luna seat I'd never been allowed to touch. Thick. Cloying. Wrong.

And underneath it, something sharper. Metallic. Rogue.

My chest tightened. Not pain. Not yet. Just a low hum beneath my ribs, like something waking up after a long sleep. My hand moved on its own, pressing flat against my collarbone where his mark should have been. Six years. He'd never given it to me.

I set the tray on his desk and walked to the bed. The pillow on the right side—my side, the side I hadn't slept on in months—was stained with jasmine oil. I picked it up. The scent rolled over me in waves, and that hum in my chest grew louder. Not quite a growl. Not quite silent.

I heard his footsteps in the hall.

When Devon walked in, he didn't look surprised to see me holding the pillow. He looked annoyed.

"Whose scent is this?" I asked.

His jaw tightened. "Put that down."

"Whose?"

"I said put it down."

I didn't. "There's jasmine oil all over your sheets. And something else. Rogue-clan. Who is she?"

He crossed the room in three strides and grabbed my arm. Hard. His fingers dug into the soft part above my elbow, and I felt the bruise forming under his grip.

"You don't get to ask me questions," he said.

The air in the room changed. His aura pressed down on me like a hand over my mouth, crushing, suffocating. My knees buckled. I tried to speak—tried to say his name—but the words died in my throat.

Alpha tone.

My body obeyed him before my mind could catch up. My mouth snapped shut. My head dropped. I hated it. I hated that I had no wolf to fight back, no aura to push against his. I was just a body he could silence whenever he wanted.

"You're not my Luna," Devon said. His voice was cold. Precise. "You're not my equal. You're not even a proper wolf. You're here because your father owed me a blood-debt. That's it. When the ledger's clear, you'll have no place in this pack."

He let go of my arm. I stumbled back, gasping.

"Do you understand?" he asked.

I looked at him. Really looked. His eyes were flat. Empty. Like I was a piece of furniture he was tired of moving around.

I nodded.

He walked out.

I stood there for a long time, staring at the jasmine-stained pillow on the floor. My arm throbbed. The hum in my chest had gone quiet again, but it didn't feel like sleep this time. It felt like waiting.

I went to his study. The ledger was where it always was—locked in the cabinet beside his desk. I'd watched him open it a hundred times. I knew the combination.

It took me less than a minute to find the page with my father's name on it.

Jared Snyder. Blood-debt: $47,000. Repayment: six years of service, valued at $750/month.

I did the math in my head. Then I did it again on a scrap of parchment. $750 times seventy-two months. $54,000.

I'd overpaid by fourteen months.

I copied every figure onto the parchment, folded it, and slid it into the lining of my boot. My hands were steady. My heartbeat was steady. I didn't feel angry. I didn't feel sad. I felt clear.

I locked the cabinet and left the study. Devon's scent—layered with jasmine and rogue metal—followed me all the way back to the Omega quarters.

That night, I didn't sleep. I lay on my cot and stared at the ceiling, feeling the parchment press against my ankle. Fourteen months. Fourteen months of my life he'd stolen, and he still looked at me like I owed him something.

The Autumn Pack Banquet was tomorrow. Everyone would be there. Including her.

I closed my eyes and felt the hum again. Faint. Waiting.

Not yet, I thought. But soon.

Cade came to my quarters after midnight.

I heard his boots on the stone steps before he knocked. Two sharp raps, then silence. I opened the door and found him standing in the hallway, his face tight.

"He wants to see you," Cade said.

"When?"

"Tomorrow night. His hunting lodge. He says he'll settle the debt terms privately."

I studied his expression. Cade was Devon's Beta. He'd watched me scrub floors and serve meals for six years without ever meeting my eyes. But tonight, something flickered across his face. Not pity. Warning.

"Privately," I repeated.

Cade nodded once. "He said to come alone. No witnesses."

The hum in my chest stirred. Faint. Wary.

"Tell him I'll be there," I said.

Cade left without another word.

I closed the door and leaned against it, my hand pressed flat over my ribs. The parchment with my ledger calculations was still tucked in my boot. Fourteen months. Devon knew I was right. And now he wanted me alone in a hunting lodge where no one could hear us.

I should have been afraid. I wasn't. I was tired.

The next evening, I walked the dirt path to Devon's lodge as the sun bled orange across the horizon. The lodge sat at the edge of Ironridge territory, surrounded by dense pines. No patrols. No guards. Just the empty clearing and the smell of woodsmoke curling from the chimney.

Devon opened the door before I knocked.

"Come in," he said.

His voice was calm. Almost gentle. The tone he'd used years ago, back when I still believed the mate bond meant something.

I stepped inside. The lodge was warm. A fire crackled in the hearth. Two cups sat on the low table between the armchairs, steam rising from both.

Devon gestured toward the chairs. "Sit."

I sat. He picked up one of the cups and handed it to me. Cider. The same kind I used to make for us during the first year, before everything turned cold.

"I thought about what you said," Devon began. He settled into the chair across from me, cradling his own cup. "About the ledger."

I waited.

"You were right," he said. "The debt's been paid. Overpaid, actually."

I lifted the cup to my lips but didn't drink yet. I watched his face over the rim. His eyes stayed fixed on the fire. Not on me.

"So I'm free to go," I said.

Devon's jaw tightened. "We need to discuss the terms. Compensation for the extra months. A formal release document. I don't want any confusion later."

His words were smooth. Reasonable. But his scent was wrong. Jasmine and something sharper underneath. Chemical. Bitter.

I took a sip of the cider. It was warm and sweet, just like I remembered. Apple and cinnamon.

Devon finally looked at me. "I want this to be clean, Carmen. No hard feelings. You've served the pack well."

I took another sip. The warmth spread through my chest, down my arms. Pleasant at first. Then too warm. Then burning.

My vision fractured at the edges. The fire blurred into streaks of orange light. The cup slipped from my fingers and hit the floor, cider pooling across the wood.

I tried to stand. My legs wouldn't move. They felt like stone, heavy and dead.

"Devon—"

My voice came out wrong. Slurred. Thick.

He set his cup down and stood. His face was calm. Blank. Like he was watching something inevitable happen, something he'd already decided.

"Wolfsbane," he said quietly. "Concentrated. You won't feel pain. Just sleep."

I tried to push myself up from the chair. My arms buckled. I fell forward, my knees hitting the floor, my palms slapping against the wood. The room tilted. The fire roared in my ears.

Devon walked to the door and opened it. Two Deltas stepped inside. I recognized their boots. Garrett and Soren. Warriors who'd never spoken to me, never looked at me.

"Take her to the Prince's estate," Devon said. "Guest suite. Be careful with her."

Garrett crouched beside me. His hands slid under my arms, lifting me like I weighed nothing. My head lolled back. The ceiling spun above me, wooden beams bleeding into shadow.

I tried to speak. Tried to ask why. But my tongue was heavy, useless.

Devon's face appeared above me. He looked down for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

"It's just business," he said.

Then the world went black.

I woke to darkness and fire.

Not real fire. Fire inside me. Wolfsbane scorching through my veins, burning from the inside out. My muscles refused to move. My lungs pulled in air in shallow, ragged gasps.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Shapes slowly formed in the dark. A high ceiling. Unfamiliar walls. A bed beneath me, soft and foreign.

I turned my head. Pain shot down my neck. On the nightstand beside the bed, a scroll lay unrolled, illuminated by a thin strip of moonlight through the window.

I forced my eyes to focus. Devon's handwriting. His seal pressed into red wax at the bottom.

Blood-Pact Agreement. Ironridge Pack. Silvercrest Coastal Territory.

And halfway down the page, my name.

Carmen Snyder. Collateral.

The fire in my chest surged. Not the wolfsbane. Something else. Something silver and furious that had been sleeping for six years, pressed down under layers of silence and submission.

It clawed at the ceiling Devon had built inside me. Clawed and snarled and refused to stay quiet.

I tried to push myself upright. My arms trembled. My elbows locked. I managed to lift my torso a few inches off the bed before my strength gave out.

Then I saw him.

A silhouette in the doorway. Tall. Still. Amber eyes glowing in the dark like embers.

He held a small glass vial in one hand. The liquid inside caught the moonlight, pale green and faintly luminous.

"Who—" My voice cracked. Came out as a whisper.

The man stepped into the room. His footsteps were silent. His scent rolled over me—dark cedar, crushed pine, ozone. Not pack. Not rogue.

Lycan.

He stopped at the edge of the bed, looking down at me with an expression I couldn't read. Not cold. Not warm. Just absolute.

"You're awake," he said. His voice was deep. Calm. The kind of calm that didn't need to prove itself.

I tried again to sit up. Failed. My body was a cage I couldn't escape.

The silver thing inside me surged again, violent and desperate, and for the first time in my life, I felt it—my wolf. Not a voice. Not a name. Just a raw, primal pulse of rage beneath my skin, trying to claw its way out through the wolfsbane's chemical ceiling.

The man's eyes narrowed slightly. He tilted his head, watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"Interesting," he murmured.

He stepped closer and held up the vial.

"This will purge the poison," he said. "Or I can leave you here and let it burn through on its own. Your choice."

I stared at him. At the vial. At the blood-pact scroll with my name written as collateral for land I'd never seen.

My wolf snarled inside me, silver and soundless.

I opened my mouth, forced the words past my swollen tongue.

"Who are you?"

His amber eyes met mine.

"Atticus Bailey," he said. "Lycan Prince. And you, Carmen Snyder, were just sold to me by your mate."

He didn't touch me.

Atticus Bailey stood at the edge of the bed, holding that pale green vial, and didn't move closer. Didn't reach for me. Didn't use that Alpha tone I'd felt crushing down on me a thousand times before.

He just waited.

My chest burned. The wolfsbane was still there, coiling through my veins like molten wire. Every breath felt like swallowing glass. But underneath it, that silver thing—my wolf—was clawing harder now. Angrier. Like she'd been buried alive for six years and finally smelled air.

Atticus set the vial on the nightstand beside the blood-pact scroll. Then he stepped back. Three full paces. Enough distance that I could see the door past his shoulder.

"My healer is outside," he said. His voice was low. Steady. No command in it. No demand. "He'll enter only if you permit it."

I stared at him. At the vial. At the scroll with my name written in Devon's hand.

Collateral.

My fingers curled into the sheets beneath me. I wanted to speak. Wanted to ask why he wasn't doing what Devon had sent me here for. But my throat was too tight, and the words tangled somewhere between my tongue and the fire in my lungs.

Atticus tilted his head slightly, watching me with those amber eyes that didn't blink.

"You have a choice," he said.

A choice.

I'd forgotten what that word meant.

I gave a single nod.

Atticus turned toward the door and spoke quietly. "Gideon."

The man who entered was older, silver-haired, with a leather satchel slung across his chest. He moved like someone who'd spent decades in sickrooms and battlefields, efficient and unbothered by the sight of a half-conscious woman sprawled on a stranger's bed.

He didn't ask questions. Didn't waste time on introductions. He set his satchel on the nightstand, pulled out a second vial—this one darker, almost black—and uncorked it.

"This will hurt," Gideon said. "But it will be brief."

He held the vial to my lips. I drank.

The liquid tasted like charcoal and iron. It hit my stomach and detonated.

I doubled over, gagging, my hands clutching at the sheets as my body tried to expel the poison and the cure all at once. My vision went white. My wolf surged, violent and desperate, slamming against the inside of my ribs like she was trying to break through bone.

Then it stopped.

The fire drained out of me all at once, leaving behind a hollow, trembling ache. I gasped, sucking in air that finally didn't burn.

Gideon pressed two fingers to my wrist, checking my pulse. His expression didn't change.

"The concentration was lethal," he said quietly. "Whoever administered this was not trying to sedate you. They were trying to ensure you couldn't resist."

I looked up at him. My voice came out hoarse. "How lethal?"

"Enough to kill an unawakened wolf within the hour."

My stomach turned. Not from the poison. From the clarity.

Devon hadn't drugged me to make me compliant. He'd drugged me to make sure I couldn't fight back when he handed me over. And if Atticus had been the kind of man Devon thought he was—if he'd used me the way Devon expected—I would have been unconscious. Helpless. Gone.

Gideon packed his satchel and left without another word.

Atticus remained by the window, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on something outside I couldn't see.

I sat up slowly. My arms shook, but they held. I looked at the nightstand. At the scroll.

"Read it," Atticus said.

I picked it up.

Blood-Pact Agreement between Alpha Devon Martinez of Ironridge Pack and Lycan Prince Atticus Bailey. Transfer of Silvercrest Coastal Territory in exchange for…

I read the line three times before it sank in.

In exchange for exclusive claim to Carmen Snyder, fated mate of Alpha Devon Martinez, offered as gesture of goodwill and alliance.

My hands didn't shake. They should have. But they didn't.

I set the scroll down, smoothed it flat with my palm, and looked at Atticus.

"What do you want?" I asked.

His head turned slightly. Not quite looking at me. Not quite looking away.

"What do you mean?"

"The antidote. The healer. This." I gestured at the scroll. "What do you want in exchange?"

Atticus finally turned to face me fully. His expression was unreadable.

"Nothing," he said.

I laughed. It came out bitter and sharp. "No one does something for nothing."

"I am offering you safe passage to Thornwall territory," Atticus said. "Lycan Crown protection while you rebuild. No obligation. No claim. No debt."

He stepped forward and slid the scroll across the bed toward me.

"This is yours," he said. "Keep it. Use it as evidence if you need it."

I stared at him. At the scroll. At the vial still sitting on the nightstand.

My wolf was quiet now. Not sleeping. Listening.

I picked up the scroll, folded it carefully, and slid it into my boot beside the ledger copy I'd taken from Devon's study. The parchment pressed against my ankle, solid and real.

"When can I leave?" I asked.

Atticus's mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile. Something colder.

"Whenever you're ready."

Three days later, Devon came back.

I wasn't there to see it. I was in the east wing, packing the small bag Atticus's staff had given me. But I heard his voice echoing through the corridor—sharp, impatient, entitled.

"Where is she?"

I stopped packing. My wolf stirred, low and wary.

I walked to the door and opened it a crack. Down the hall, Devon stood in front of the guest suite I'd woken up in. The door was open. The room was empty.

Atticus stood in the corridor, hands clasped behind his back, watching Devon with the same unreadable calm he'd shown me.

"Where is she?" Devon demanded again.

Atticus didn't raise his voice. Didn't move.

"Gone," he said.

Devon's face went white. Then red. "We had a deal."

"No," Atticus said. "You had a transaction. I had a choice."

Devon took a step forward. His aura flared, hot and aggressive, filling the corridor with the scent of ash and fury.

Atticus didn't flinch.

He tilted his head slightly, and when he spoke, his voice dropped into something deeper. Darker. Not an Alpha tone. Something older.

"Touch what is under the Lycan Crown's protection again," Atticus said, "and I will take more than territory."

The corridor went silent.

Devon's aura collapsed. His shoulders hunched. His eyes widened, and for the first time in six years, I saw fear on his face. Real fear. The kind that comes from standing in front of something that can erase you without breaking a sweat.

He left without a word.

I closed the door and leaned against it, my heart pounding.

My wolf was awake now. Fully awake. And she was smiling.