Riley’s POV
They said family was supposed to protect you. But as I stood in that sterile hospital room, every word out of ric’s mouth twisted that lie a little deeper into my bones,
“She’s a danger,” he spat. “Anyone who dares lift <b>a </b>knife against her own father will do it again.”
Zara’s voice was <b>tight </b>with hesitation, but she didn’t argue. Not really. She never did when it involved Scarlett. Not when it meant <b>choosing </b>between me and her precious adopted jewel.
“She’s your daughter too, <b>ric</b><b>,</b>” she whispered, voice <b>trembling</b>.
<b>“</b><b>And </b>exactly for that reason, <b>she </b>needs to be gone.
Gone
Like trash. Like a burden.
Like a weapon they couldn’t control.
They wanted to marry me off. To bind me to the Alpha of Stormridge Pack from Northhaven–because I was expendable, and they needed a business deal. That’s what I was to them: leverage with a heartbeat.
<b>Zara </b>looked back at me before they walked out–<b>guilt </b>in her eyes, but no courage in her bones. She said nothing. -Cowards<b>, </b>all of them.
They thought I couldn’t hear through these thin hospital walls. They forgot I was a wolf too.
The second the door closed, I clenched my fists so hard my healing fingers throbbed in protest. My ws nearly pierced my own palm<b>. </b>
ric wanted to use me to broker a merger.
Zara just didn’t want Scarlett to suffer.
And me!
I was just a pawn with a price tag.
Laughter burst from my chest, hollow and sharp. The kind ofughter that didn’t bring relief–only a burning rity.
Fine. If they wanted to use me, I’d let them think they’d won. But they’d regret underestimating me.
<b>I </b>slipped out of the room.
My leg was still dragging slightly from the injury, but the burn of betrayal gave me enough strength to limp through the corridor without stopping. I didn’t know where I was going. I just needed to breathe
I pushed open the stairwell door, expecting silence.
But there was someone already there.
A man leaned against the wall, <b>half</b><b>–</b>shrouded in the shadows. The scent of smoke <b>hung </b>in the air–rich, dry<b>, </b><b>with </b>a hint of crushed pine ash. Not <b>cheap </b>cigarettes. Something darker. Earthier.
My steps slowed as I looked up.
He stood on the uppernding, half a flight above me, but it wasn’t the angle <b>that </b>made him look like <b>a </b>god.
It was everything.
The way his suit clung to a tall, broad–shouldered frame <b>built </b>like it had been honed for battle. The subtle silver lining on his cuffs. The glint of <b>a </b>si ring on his right hand. But more than that…..
His face.
Moonlight through the stairwell window sliced across sharp cheekbones, a defined jawline, <b>and </b>lips shaped like a cruel promise. His eyes, <b>deep</b>–set and impossibly dark, watched me like a predator sizing up something unfamiliar–but not uninteresting.
His aura was crushing.
Not <b>wild</b>, not reckless–controlled. Deliberate. Dangerous
He was the kind of man you felt before you saw,
<b>And </b><b>my </b>wolf… stirred.
It blinked inside <b>me</b>. Awake. Alert. Curious.
I should’ve turned around. Should’ve excused myself <b>and </b>found another corner to suffer in peace.
But I didn’t
Because he was looking at me <b>too</b>.
Our gizes <b>met </b>across the <b>stairwell</b>. Neither of us <b>moved</b>.
Then his brow lifted just barely, and he exhaled another long stream of smoke. The scent curled toward me, invasive and heady. It made <b>my </b>lungs tighten
1 stopped halfway down the stairs, clutching the railing with a tremble I hoped he couldn’t see.
“Sorry,” he said, his voice deep, quiet. Measured. Like thunder you only heard once it passed.
He made a motion to put out the cigarette.
But something inside me–something sharp and bitter and reckless–snapped.
“<b>Wait</b>,” I said hoarsely. “Do you have another?”
His head tilted. His eyes didn’t widen. He wasn’t surprised.
<b>Just </b>intrigued.
“Thought you didn’t like the smell,” he said.
“I don’t, I admitted. “But I need something to burn.”
He studied me for a moment longer, then reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled our the silver tin. He tossed it
to me.
I caught it with one hand, wincing at the jolt it sent up my sore wrist.
He watched that too.
<b>“</b><b>You </b>don’t look like you should be walking,” he said.
“You don’t look like someone who loiters <b>in </b>stairwells,” I <b>shot </b>back.
He <b>smirked</b>. It <b>was </b>a <b>small </b>thing, but it was lethal.
“I <b>don’t </b>loiter,” he <b>said</b>, “I wait. There’s a difference.”
I pulled out a cigarette, lips trembling as I raised it to my <b>mouth</b>. I didn’t even smoke. But I needed the taste of something bitter. Something that wasn’t blood.
He thcked a me for me.
The fire caught.
A DIOKENT Alpine ni
ss nevenge