ELARA'S POINT OF VIEW
The blade whistled past my ear, close enough that I felt the displacement of air against my skin.
"Dead," my father said from the shadows.
"Again."
I rolled to my feet, sweat dripping into my eyes. My ribs ached from where Agent Moss had landed that kick ten minutes ago. Blood trickled from my split lip, copper-sweet on my tongue.
"Reset," Marcus Ashford commanded.
Moss didn't give me a chance. He lunged before I'd fully steadied myself, silver knife gleaming in the fluorescent lights of the training room. I twisted, barely avoiding the strike. My hand shot out, catching his wrist. I used his momentum against him, sweeping his legs.
He hit the mat hard.
"Better," my father said. "But hesitation at the end. Why didn't you follow through with the kill strike?"
Because he's human, I thought. Because this is training, not an execution.
"I'm assessing if he's truly neutralized," I said instead. "Wasting energy on a downed opponent when there could be others..."
"There are always others." Father stepped into the light. Fifty-two years old and still moving like a predator. Steel-gray hair, cold blue eyes, and that smile that never reached his face.
"Moss, again. This time, don't hold back."
"Sir, she's already..."
"Did I ask for your opinion?"
Moss's jaw tightened. "No, sir."
My pulse kicked up as Moss circled me. I'd sparred with him a hundred times, but never like this. Never with my father watching with that particular intensity that meant this mattered.
That this was a test I couldn't afford to fail.
Moss attacked.
This time, he wasn't pulling punches. His fist cracked against my jaw, snapping my head back. Stars exploded across my vision. I ducked the follow-up, drove my elbow into his solar plexus. He grunted but didn't slow down.
We moved across the mat in a blur of strikes and counters. My training took over... twenty-three years of conditioning, every move drilled into muscle memory. Block. Strike. Evade. Counter.
But Moss was bigger, stronger, and fighting without restraint.
He caught me in a chokehold from behind.
"Yield," my father said calmly.
My vision dimmed at the edges. My hands clawed at Moss's arm, but his grip was iron. The pressure on my windpipe increased.
"Yield, or pass out."
No.
Something hot flickered through my chest. Not panic... something else. Something wild. My fingers tingled. For a split second, I could've sworn my nails lengthened, sharpened...
I slammed my head back into Moss's nose.
He yelped, grip loosening just enough. I dropped, spun, and swept his legs. This time when he fell, I followed him down, knee on his chest, forearm across his throat.
"Yield," I gasped.
Moss's eyes widened. He tapped the mat twice.
Silence filled the training room.
My heart hammered against my ribs. My hands shook as I pushed off Moss and stood. That feeling, that strange surge of heat and strength... was already fading, leaving me wondering if I'd imagined it.
"Adequate," my father said.
Not good. Not excellent. Adequate.
I kept my face neutral even as disappointment settled in my stomach like a stone.
Father gestured to Moss. "Dismissed."
The agent left, hand pressed to his bleeding nose. The door hissed shut, leaving me alone with my father in the sterile white room that smelled of sweat and disinfectant.
"You're strong," Father said, circling me slowly.
"Fast. Well-trained. But you're soft, Elara. You hesitate. You think too much."
"I neutralized the threat..."
"You let emotion interfere with efficiency." He stopped in front of me. "Do you know why?"
Because I'm human, I wanted to say. Because I don't enjoy hurting people.
"No, sir."
"Because you've never faced a real monster." His cold eyes studied my face. "You've trained against humans. Predictable. Limited. But our enemies are neither of those things."
Werewolves. He meant werewolves.
I'd never seen one in person. Only photographs. Crime scene evidence. The bodies they left behind when they went feral and attacked humans. My mother's body, torn apart when I was three years old.
That was all the proof I'd ever needed that they were monsters.
Wasn't it?
"I'm ready," I said.
"Are you?" Father tilted his head. "Ready to face something that can rip your throat out before you blink? Ready to look into eyes that hold centuries of cunning and cruelty? Ready to break something that will use every psychological weapon at its disposal to make you doubt, to make you weak?"
"Yes."
"Then tomorrow, you meet your final test."
My breath caught. Final test. The words I'd been waiting to hear for years.
"I've captured something special for you," Father continued, his voice dropping to something almost pleased. "The Beta of Silverpine Pack. Second-in-command to one of the most powerful Alphas in the region. Kael Thornhart."
The name meant nothing to me, but the weight he gave it suggested it should.
"He's been... uncooperative during preliminary interrogations. Three of my best interrogators have tried to break him. All failed." Father's smile was thin and sharp. "But you, Elara. You have something they don't."
"What's that?"
"You're my daughter. You carry the Ashford name. And you're about to prove you deserve it." He turned toward the door. "Get some rest.
Tomorrow morning, you go down to the cells. You extract pack locations, safe houses, the names of their sympathizers. Everything."
"And if he won't talk?"
Father paused at the door, glancing back.
"Then you make him wish he had. Use whatever methods you deem necessary. The only rule is that he stays alive until I say otherwise." His expression hardened. "Break him, Elara. Break him completely. Do that, and you become a true Ashford. Fail, and..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that felt like a cell door slamming shut.
I stood alone in the training room, blood still on my lip, adrenaline still singing through my veins. My reflection stared back at me from the mirrored wall... dark auburn hair plastered to my scalp with sweat, pale green eyes too wide, bruises already forming on my jaw.
I looked like my mother. Everyone said so.
The mother I barely remembered. The mother the werewolves had killed.
Tomorrow, I'd face one of them. Not just any werewolf, but a Beta. High-ranking.
Dangerous. And my father expected me to break him.
I pressed my palm against my sternum, where that strange heat had flared during the fight.
My skin felt normal now. Cool. Human.
I shook my head, banishing phantom thoughts. Exhaustion playing tricks. That's all.
I headed for the showers, trying to ignore the tremor in my hands. Trying to ignore the way my reflection's eyes had looked almost... gold in the fluorescent light.
Just a trick of the light.
It had to be.
The water ran red as I scrubbed blood from my knuckles. The shower stall was small, industrial, like everything else in the compound. Thornwood Estate wasn't a home... it was a fortress. A training facility. A prison for anything my father deemed dangerous.
Tomorrow, I'd walk into one of those cells.
Tomorrow, I'd prove I was my father's daughter.
The water turned cold before I shut it off. I dressed mechanically... black tactical pants, gray tank top, boots. My small room on the third floor held nothing personal. A bed. A desk. A wardrobe. Spartan and sterile, like my father preferred.
I reached for the pill bottle on my nightstand—the daily supplements Father insisted I take.
Protection against werewolf influence, he said.
Some kind of pheromone blocker that kept their manipulation abilities from working.
The pills rattled as I shook one into my palm.
Small. White. I'd been taking them since I was seven years old.
I swallowed it dry and lay down on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
Sleep didn't come.
My mind kept circling back to tomorrow. To the cells beneath the compound that I'd never been allowed to enter. To the creature waiting there.
The Beta of Silverpine Pack.
What did a Beta look like? Act like? I'd studied werewolf biology, knew their hierarchies, their territorial behaviors, their weaknesses. Silver. Wolfsbane. Decapitation.
But I'd never looked one in the eyes.
Never had to make one talk.
My phone buzzed. A message from Thomas: Heard about tomorrow. Proud of you. You've got this.
Thomas Reeves. Twenty-five, sandy-haired, and the closest thing I had to a friend in this place. He'd joined the hunters three years ago, trained alongside me, and developed feelings I didn't return but couldn't bring myself to crush entirely.
I typed back: Thanks.
Another message: Want to grab breakfast before? Might be your last meal as a trainee.
Maybe. I'll let you know.
I set the phone down and closed my eyes.
Tomorrow, everything changed.
Tomorrow, I became a hunter.
Tomorrow, I met the monster.
Somewhere deep in the compound, in a cell lined with silver and reinforced steel, something waited for me. Someone, my mind corrected traitorously. Werewolves were people too, technically. Just corrupted. Dangerous. Other.
Father's voice echoed in my memory: Break him, and you become a true Ashford.
My hands curled into fists against the thin blanket.
I would.
I had to.
There was no other option.
Sleep finally claimed me near dawn, and my dreams were full of golden eyes and the scent of pine and snow... things I'd never experienced but somehow knew with aching familiarity.
When my alarm blared at six AM, I woke with tears on my cheeks and no memory of why.