My back is sore. My thighs are sore. Waking up in Gabby's guest room has its own specific feeling — sunlight through the blinds, the ghost of last night's gin and smoke still somewhere on my skin despite the shower I took at two in the morning.
I lie there for a moment, ceiling above me, not moving.
My wolf is quiet. That's the first thing I check, always, before anything else — the animal under my ribs, its temperature, its alertness. Right now it's settled in a way it hasn't been in weeks. Like something last night scratched an itch it had been carrying. I don't want to think about which part of last night did that.
Last night replays in fragments. Clarke's voice breaking on a moan. The particular high of control, clean and total, no politics underneath it, no pack hierarchy, just two people and a set of agreed rules. We held back on the stage — enough to win, not enough to cross into something we couldn't come back from. We're good at that line, Clarke and I. We've always known where it is.
The masked figure standing apart from the rest of the viewers.
I sit up.
I grab the charger off the nightstand and plug my phone in. When it powers on, notifications flood in all at once like they've been waiting impatiently.
The prize money lands first. Two hundred thousand euros, split clean. I stare at it for a moment. Then I giggle quietly.
Clarke refused her half. She always does things like that, grand gestures wrapped in casualness, and she'd be annoyed if I made it a thing so I won't.
I scroll the headlines next, which is a mistake but a necessary one.
BENITOVA MARCEL CAUSES SCENE IN TRIESTE STREETS.
MARCEL GIRL SETS FIRE TO FAMILY NAME AGAIN.
HEIRESS IN WILD CAR CRASH — AMASTEN ZAKIEL'S VEHICLE DAMAGED.
"What do you mean wild?! It wasn't too bad! We could drive our cars!"
Who am I yelling at? Ugh.
His name being everywhere isn't helping. Like the universe is making a point.
Alexandra has texted six times. I read them in order without expression: Are you online. Call me asap. Pick up. I just called and your phone is switched off. Benitova I am not playing with you. Fine. Do what you want.
That last one is the most dangerous. Fine means she's stopped asking and started deciding.
I ignore them all and head straight into the shower.
Gabby's guest closet has saved me before. Baggy jean trousers, a jean tube top, black sneakers. My own gold jewelry from last night, cleaned up. I curl my red hair into waves with the iron left on the counter and study myself in the mirror for a moment.
The girl looking back doesn't look like someone who spent last night in an underground wolf gathering on pack neutral ground. All good even.
My talent manager Elena calls as I'm leaving.
"Benny. Are you sitting down?"
"I'm walking. Go on."
"Amasten Zakiel's team reached out. He wants a meeting with you today. A private dinner. He's offering you the lead in the Paper Heat sequel. Says he can make it happen."
I stop on the pavement.
The morning goes very still around me.
"What?"
"You heard me. He's got producer credits, connections. Casting directors passed but he has pull. This could be your breakout, Benny. Don't overthink it."
I stand there for a moment, letting the pieces arrange themselves. Amasten Zakiel. Yesterday's crash. Last night's gathering. The masked figure standing apart. And now, the morning after, his team calling mine before I've even had breakfast.
That is not a coincidence. Men like him don't do coincidences.
"Did his team mention anything he knows about me?" I ask carefully. "Like a specific reason. A club, maybe. Something like that."
Pause. "What club?"
Okay. Elena doesn't know about last night. I'm just confirming his team didn't say anything either, which means he's keeping that card close too.
"They said he saw your audition tape," Elena continues. "He was impressed. He's eager to discuss opportunities."
I start walking again slowly.
The audition tape. Sure. A man who owns pack neutral ground and hosts underground gatherings and has faction dealers across three territories decided to watch my casting tape the same day his driver crashed into my car. Right.
He knows something. I don't know how much. I don't know what he wants with it.
What I know is that the wolf in me — settled and quiet five minutes ago — has just come fully awake at the sound of his name.
"Tell him I agree," I say. "Send me the venue."
She gives me an address. Private spot overlooking the canal in Ghent. Booked out entirely.
I hang up and stand on the pavement outside Gabby's gate for a moment, thinking.
Then I go back upstairs, open my overnight bag, and tuck my sharpest pocket knife into my purse alongside my phone and my lipstick. Not because I think he'll try something stupid.
Because I want to be holding something with an edge when I find out what he actually knows.
The restaurant is empty except for him at a corner table. Candles. The river glittering through the window. He stands when I walk in — tall, a khaki suit cut sharp, that same quiet energy from the street yesterday, like urgency is a concept that simply doesn't apply to him.
I clock him the way I clocked the masked figure last night. The stillness. The way he takes up space without announcing it.
The same way.
Exactly the same way.
"Benitova." He pulls out my chair. Voice low, warm. "You look dangerously perfect."
I sit, crossing my legs. "And you look familiar."
Something moves across his face — quick, almost invisible. He covers it with a smile and reaches for the wine bottle.
"Our first meeting was messy. It caused you a lot of trouble with the media."
"And my friends," I say.
"But mostly you. It was my fault entirely. I owe you."
I sip. Watch him over the rim of the glass. "And now you're offering me the role I wanted for my breakout. You really did your homework."
"I saw your callback tape."
"I was informed."
"You're good. Really good. The casting directors were idiots."
"All true," I say, leaning forward. "So what's the catch? You don't strike me as charitable."
He meets my eyes steadily. "Date me, Benitova."
I choke on the wine. Laugh — real this time, caught off guard despite myself. "Excuse me?"
"Be my girlfriend. Public, private, whatever you want. In exchange, the role is yours. Funding, connections, everything that comes with it."
I set the glass down. "What do you really take me for? Some easy opportunity because you heard rumors? Or because you think you saw something last night that gives you leverage?"
He blinks. Genuine-looking confusion. "Last night? What are you talking about?"
I just stare at him.
He's either the best liar I've ever sat across from, or he genuinely wasn't there. The man from behind the mask watched me like he was cataloguing something. This one looks at me like he's still trying to find the first page.
Or he knows exactly how to make me doubt myself and he's very good at it.
"You can keep the role," I say.
"Why would I do that, Benitova?"
"Because nobody owes me something and still wants something in return without a reason that makes sense." I hold his gaze. "Your offer is stupid."
He shakes his head slowly. "I guessed this would happen."
He snaps his fingers.
Two men emerge from the shadows at the edge of the room, casual clothes, loaded guns, moving with the quiet precision of people who do this for a living.
They were there the whole time.
My hand finds my purse under the table. Finds the knife. I don't take it out yet.
Watching him the way it watched him on the street yesterday — locked, total, that compass-north attention that I have been refusing to name since the moment it started.
I look at Amasten across the candlelight.
He looks back at me like he has all the time in the world.
"So," I say, very calmly. "What exactly is it that you think you know?"