Chapter 8
Elara Vance POV:
We parked in a dense thicket of pines, the Packhouse a distant silhouette against the moonless sky. Alaric's plan was simple: he or Silas would infiltrate, confront Ryker, and enact the King's justice. But I refused.
"I have to go back," I said, my voice quiet but unyielding. "There's something in there—an heirloom my mother left me. I won't leave it for her. It matters."
It was more than just an object. It was a piece of my past, a symbol of the life and the mother he had insulted. It was the anchor for my vengeance.
Alaric studied my face in the dim light, seeing the iron resolve in my eyes. He gave a single, sharp nod. "Then I go with you. I am the Alpha King. My ability to move unseen in a mid-level pack's territory far exceeds your own. It is the safest option."
He was right, and his logic was undeniable.
We moved through the woods like ghosts, his immense power cloaking us, making the pack's patrols deaf and blind to our presence. I led him to a small, hidden service entrance I'd used as a child to sneak out for midnight runs. The door opened with a faint groan.
The moment we stepped inside, the wrongness of the place assaulted me. It was my home, yet it was not. The air was thick with that cloying, hateful scent of wild ginger flowers. It was everywhere now, clinging to the walls, woven into the very fabric of the house.
She wasn't just a visitor anymore. She was living here.
Lyra let out a vicious snarl in my mind, and I ruthlessly suppressed it. We couldn't afford a single mistake. Our target was my parents' old room on the second floor, where my mother's things were stored.
We ascended the grand staircase, our feet silent on the plush runner. As we neared the top of the landing, the door to the Alpha's study—*my* study, once—swung open.
Alaric reacted in a blur, pulling me back into the deep shadows of an alcove, his body a solid wall in front of me.
Ryker stepped out. He looked tired, an irritable frown creasing his brow. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled black hair and stalked down the hall towards the master suite without a single glance in our direction. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic prisoner in my chest.
He left the study door slightly ajar.
Alaric gave me a silent command to stay put, then moved with a predator's grace toward the sliver of light. But I couldn't stay. I had to see her. I had to see the face of the woman who had helped destroy my life. I crept up behind him.
He peered through the crack, and I saw his entire body tense, his shoulders hardening into plates of steel.
I looked over his broad shoulder, and my breath caught in my throat.
A woman in a slinky, silk robe was lounging in Ryker's high-backed leather chair, a glass of red wine held delicately in her fingers. She looked completely at home, the picture of smug satisfaction. The scent of wild ginger rolled off her in waves.
But it was her face that made the world tilt on its axis.
I knew her. Lila Monroe. The name hit me first, but then a confusing flicker of memory—hadn't I met a Vance at a gathering once? No, that was me. My own name. My mind was scrambling. It was definitely Lila Monroe, the daughter of the Alpha from the neighboring Silver Creek pack. We weren't close, but we had been friendly, sharing polite conversation and fake smiles at pack gatherings. A "friend."
I felt Alaric shift beside me. He recognized her too, or at least, he recognized the scent and lineage of the Silver Creek pack, and a dangerous light flared in his amber-gold eyes.
As if she felt our eyes on her, Lila's head snapped up. Her gaze, sharp and suspicious, shot directly toward the door.
Before I could even flinch, Alaric had me, pulling me deeper into the shadows, his body completely shielding mine. His scent of storm and pine enveloped me, a grounding force in the chaos.
Lila rose and walked to the door, her silk robe whispering against the floor. She peered out into the empty, silent hallway. After a moment of seeing nothing, she shrugged and closed the door with a soft, definitive click.
In the suffocating darkness of the alcove, the only sound was the wild, frantic beating of my own heart.
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