The television's display flickered from a fast-paced hockey match to a grim news broadcast with a single click of the remote.
The news anchor, perched stiffly behind her desk, adjusted her script with practiced efficiency before delivering the update in a crisp, detached tone. "In recent news, George McIntosh, the prisoner rumored to have escaped Avon Jail three days ago, was discovered dead at A.W.E Beach. The gruesome find was made by civilians earlier this morning. Preliminary reports indicate he was shot execution-style before being dumped into the water. This marks the thirteenth half-blood death in the past month alone, following closely after the passing of Samuel Sanchez."
Rowan's fingers stilled over the half-folded shirt in his hands as his eyes locked onto the screen. The man's face—gaunt, unshaven, eyes wide with the desperation of a fugitive—flashed briefly before the segment cut away. He exhaled through his nose, tossing the shirt into his luggage with more force than necessary. The bed was littered with neatly folded clothes, each waiting its turn to be packed, methodical yet hurried. He wasn't one to waste time.
The door creaked open.
Vincenzo, silver-haired and sharp-eyed despite his forty-odd years, leaned against the doorframe with a grin, arms crossed. His presence was always deliberate, calculated—like a man who never entered a room without knowing exactly how he'd leave it.
"Still can't believe Darius agreed to let you stay under his roof," Vincenzo mused, shaking his head in amusement.
Rowan snorted, shoving another shirt into the bag. "He's paranoid. Thinks his wife needs a watchdog."
"Or he's just an idiot." Vincenzo clicked his tongue. "Man never thinks straight when a woman's involved. Pity." He pushed off the doorframe, stepping inside. "Board's expecting updates. Once a month, minimum. Twice if you dig up anything useful."
Rowan shot him a dry look. "Since when do I work on a schedule? You'll get what you need when I have it. And I don't plan on sticking around that place longer than a few weeks anyway."
Vincenzo sank onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. "You're underestimating this case, Rowan. We're not just chasing some rogue Alpha—we're trying to dismantle an entire system. Every scrap of evidence matters."
"And you think Darius is just gonna leave a trail of breadcrumbs for us?" Rowan zipped the bag shut harder than necessary. "I get that the guy's dumb enough to hire me in under a minute, but give him some credit."
"He hired you because you're young," Vincenzo countered, smirking. "And he thinks you're easy to manipulate."
"Yeah, right." Rowan's laugh was sharp, humorless.
Darius might be that stupid. Sure, Rowan was young—twenty-four wasn't exactly seasoned, but gullible? Not a chance. They'd had Darius in their sights for two years now, ever since the half-blood body count in the Blackthorn Pack started climbing. The Alpha's grand speeches about "pending investigations" and "unfortunate delays" had only made him more suspicious.
When news broke about Odessa's near-fatal shooting, Vincenzo had moved fast. A few well-placed calls, a carefully crafted reputation as the owner of a high-end security firm, and suddenly Darius was browsing through profiles of potential bodyguards. Of course, he'd picked the youngest one—Rowan. Perfect.
"Just play the part," Vincenzo said, rising to his feet. "Act the obedient little guard. Let him think he's in control."
"On my terms," Rowan corrected, snatching a pair of shoes off the floor and stuffing them into a side pocket.
Vincenzo sighed. Arguing was pointless. He'd raised Rowan since he was a scrappy kid with too much defiance and not enough fear, and the boy had only gotten more stubborn with age. Smart, ruthless, efficient—qualities that made him the best in the agency.
"Fine. Do whatever you have to. Just get the job done." Vincenzo turned to leave, then paused, snapping his fingers. "One more thing—his wife. There's something off about her. Darius doesn't stalk someone this hard without a reason. She's hiding something. And whatever it is, he suspects it too."
***
In the Castle…
"Look at me." Darius' voice was a rough command, his grip tightening on Odessa's hips as he thrust into her with punishing force. He wanted a reaction—a moan, a gasp, anything to prove she wasn't just a lifeless doll beneath him.
But her face remained blank.
Her dark eyes, dull and distant, stayed fixed on his as instructed, but there was no pleasure in them. No anger, either. Just exhaustion.
It infuriated him.
She used to try. In the beginning, she'd even pretended to enjoy it, arching into his touch, biting her lip when he took her roughly. Back when she still believed their marriage could be saved. Back before he'd chosen her sister as his mistress.
Now? Now she just lay there.
And yet, even like this—lips pressed into a thin line, body stiff with resignation—she was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever had. None of his other lovers compared. Not her soft curves, not the way her skin glowed even in the dim light, not the quiet dignity she clung to no matter how hard he tried to break it.
His climax hit him like a punch to the gut, and he collapsed onto her with a groan, his breath hot against her neck.
When he rolled away, she didn't move. Just stared at the ceiling, waiting.
He left without a word, stalking into the bathroom to clean up. The water ran, loud and angry, as if it could drown out his frustration.
By the time he returned, she was already sitting up, one hand bracing herself against the mattress as she reached for a robe.
"Don't ever do that again," he growled, yanking his pajamas on.
"Do what?" Her voice was flat.
"Walk out on me." His jaw clenched. "You don't get to just leave."
"Okay."
That single word, so empty, made his blood boil.
"Okay?" he mocked.
She nodded, sliding off the bed. The robe slipped over her shoulders, hiding the marks he'd left on her skin.
He couldn't stand it. The indifference. The way she treated him like an inconvenience instead of her Alpha.
"The least you could do is pretend," he spat. "I'm the only one trying here. Wasting my seed in your useless womb."
A flicker of something—pain? Or perhaps , anger,passed over her face before she schooled it back into blankness. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
It wasn't an apology. It was surrender.
Darius stormed back to the bed, his pride stinging. He'd been generous tonight. He'd stayed, hadn't he? Most nights, he'd have left the second he finished. But no, he'd chosen to sleep here. And this was how she repaid him?
"You must think you're something special," he sneered as she disappeared into the bathroom. "Just because you survived a bullet. Bitch."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence.