The moment Adrian left the panic room, his wolf surged forward.
The human world might call it a "hit," but this wasn't mafia business — this was a threat on his mate. And that was something no man, no beast, would walk away from alive.
He strode through the penthouse, slipping into the elevator with his gun still warm in his hand. Outside, the storm hadn't eased; rain fell in hard, cold sheets, slicking the streets below.
The instant the doors opened, the scent hit him — faint, diluted by the city, but unmistakable. Wolf.
Not his pack. Not Bloodfang. This stank of something wilder, something feral.
Adrian's teeth clenched. So they knew. Someone out there had sensed what Elara was, even before he'd fully understood it himself.
The scent trail led him through the alley behind the building, where a man lay groaning against the wall, clutching a bleeding arm — the one Adrian had hit with a return shot from the penthouse.
Adrian's boots splashed through puddles as he approached. "Talk."
The man's eyes flicked up — pale, sharp, inhuman. His lips pulled back in a smile that showed elongated canines. "The Alpha of Bloodfang… mated to a human? The packs will eat you alive."
Adrian didn't hesitate. He kicked the man's leg, snapping bone with a crack that echoed in the alley. The howl of pain was almost satisfying.
"Who sent you?" Adrian's voice was a growl now, the wolf riding his words.
"You'll find out soon enough," the man spat, blood mixing with rain on the pavement. "The Crimson Pack doesn't leave loose ends."
Adrian's fingers tightened around the man's collar, hauling him off the ground. "You just made your last mistake."
One twist — clean, precise — and the man went limp. Adrian dropped the body, his mind already racing.
The Crimson Pack. They hadn't dared step into Bloodfang territory in years. For them to send an assassin into the heart of his city meant one thing: Elara wasn't just some human caught in the crossfire.
She was a threat.
And in the werewolf world, threats like her didn't stay breathing for long.
---
Back in the penthouse, Elara sat on the edge of the panic room cot, arms wrapped tightly around herself. The minutes felt like hours, every creak in the walls making her jump.
When the door finally opened, Adrian filled the frame — wet, dangerous, the storm clinging to him like a second skin.
Her eyes flicked to his hands. "You're bleeding."
"It's not mine." He shut the door behind him, locking it again.
Something in his expression made her chest tighten. "Who was it?"
"A problem that won't be a problem anymore."
"That's not an answer."
"No," he said, stepping closer, water dripping from his hair onto the marble floor. "It's not."
Her frustration flared. "You keep telling me I'm in danger, but you won't tell me why. What the hell did I do to deserve someone shooting at me?"
Adrian stopped just short of her, the intensity in his gaze pinning her in place. "You exist, Elara. That's enough."
"That doesn't make sense—"
"It will," he interrupted, his voice softer now, almost unwilling. "But not tonight."
She hated it — hated being left in the dark, hated how the heat of his presence made her forget she was supposed to be angry.
"Go take a shower," he murmured, his hand brushing hers briefly. "You smell like fear, and I don't like it."
She blinked. "That's… creepy."
His lips curved faintly. "It's the truth."
As he left the room, Elara sat frozen for a moment, trying to make sense of it all. She didn't know about packs, about wolves, about the old blood feud that had just been reignited because she was breathing.
But Adrian did.
And he knew the Crimson Pack wouldn't stop until they had her — dead or alive.