Chapter 9
Elena POV
Hamilton's island was a fortress of solitude, a jagged rock jutting out from the churning gray waters of the North Sea.
Shrouded in a perpetual, clinging mist, the location was a ghost on any map, protected by advanced Lycan technology that scrambled tracking signals and swallowed sound.
I stood on the precipice of a sheer cliff, the salt-laden wind whipping my hair across my face like a lash.
It had been a week.
My body was healing. The purple bruises were fading into sickly yellow echoes. But the hollowness inside-that vast, echoing canyon where my heart used to be-remained.
Hamilton joined me silently. He didn't speak, simply offering his solid presence as a shield against the biting cold.
I stared down at the waves crashing violently against the rocks.
"I want to cut the tie," I said, my voice barely audible over the roar of the ocean.
"The Fated bond?" Hamilton asked, his tone grave.
I nodded.
"It will hurt, Elena. It will feel like dying all over again."
"I am already dead," I replied, turning to look at him with dry eyes. "I want to be reborn."
I took a deep breath, feeling a faint, dormant heat stir in my chest.
"Help me train. I feel something inside me. The White Wolf. She is awake, but she is faint... weak. I need to be strong for her."
Hamilton studied me for a long moment, then gave a sharp nod.
"We start tomorrow at dawn. I will not go easy on you."
"Good," I said, turning back to the storm. "Pain reminds me I'm still alive."
Jackson POV
The Pack House was quiet. But it was the wrong kind of quiet.
Down in the main hall, Candida was barking orders at the servants, demanding a complete redecoration. She wanted everything gold. Gilded frames, gold leaf on the banisters, gold velvet.
It looked tacky. It looked cheap.
Ignoring the noise, I walked up the stairs to the master bedroom.
Her bedroom.
I hadn't set foot inside since Mara had taken the body away.
I pushed the heavy oak door open.
It was empty.
Not just devoid of people, but hollowed out. Empty of her.
The wardrobe stood gaping and bare. The vanity surface was cleared of her brushes and lotions. The scent of pine and rain that used to linger here-a scent that calmed the wolf in my blood-was gone, replaced by the stale, suffocating smell of dust.
Drawn by a strange impulse, I walked to the cold fireplace.
In the heap of dead, gray ashes, something glinted.
I knelt and reached into the soot.
It was a lump of twisted silver. Blackened. Melted almost beyond recognition.
But I recognized the chain link. It was the pendant I gave her on our first anniversary. The one engraved with J & E.
She had burned it.
She hadn't just died; she had erased us before she went.
A cold, spectral hand squeezed my heart.
Why did this hurt? She was useless. She was weak. She was dead.
My hand moved on its own, pulling out my phone. I scrolled to her number. I knew it was disconnected. I knew she couldn't answer.
But my thumb hovered over the 'Call' button.
I just wanted to hear the voicemail. Just one last time.
I pressed it.
Ring... Ring...
It should have gone to an error message.
Click.
The sound of the line opening was louder than a gunshot.
Someone picked up.
"Elena?" I breathed, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"She is dead, Jackson," a male voice answered.
The voice was deep, cold, and dripping with an aristocratic contempt that made my hackles rise.
I froze. "Who is this?"
"Someone who knows exactly what you did," the voice hissed, low and dangerous. "And someone who will make sure you never forget it."
The line went dead.
I stared at the black screen of my phone, my hands shaking uncontrollably.
She was dead. Mara said so. I saw the body.
But someone had her phone.
And for the first time since I ordered her death, true fear clawed its way up my spine.
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