There was no answer to her question.
Only the sudden sensation of weightlessness as the world blurred into streaks of grey rain and concrete.
Draven didn't run; he blurred.
He moved with a velocity that defied physics, carrying her like a sack of flour through the labyrinth of the shipping yards.
Elara squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach lurching as the air pressure shifted.
They weren't going up.
They were going down.
A heavy industrial elevator groaned into life, the metal cage rattling as it descended into the earth.
The smell of rain and rot was replaced by something sharper—ozone, stale beer, and the metallic tang of dried blood.
"Welcome to the Pit," Draven grunted, the first words he'd spoken in ten minutes.
The doors shuddered open.
The assault on Elara's senses was immediate.
Bass vibrated in her teeth.
Neon lights in garish pinks and greens cut through thick clouds of cigarette smoke.
It wasn't just a hideout; it was a subterranean kingdom carved out of the city's sewer system and abandoned bomb shelters.
Rough-looking men and women—Rogues, all of them—sat on mismatched furniture, sharpening blades or drinking from unmarked bottles.
The music died instantly as Draven stepped onto the metal grating of the mezzanine.
Every head turned.
The scent of fear spiked in the air, acidic and sharp.
Draven ignored them.
He marched toward a railed-off VIP section that overlooked the pit, kicking open a steel door into a private office that looked more like a pillaged throne room.
He didn't place her gently.
He dropped her.
Elara landed hard on a sprawling, velvet-upholstered sofa.
The fabric was plush, a deep crimson that probably hid stains well, but the impact jarred her injured leg.
She bit her tongue to stifle a cry.
"You're broken," Draven stated, looming over her.
He walked to a minibar crafted from a repurposed engine block, pouring amber liquid into a dirty glass.
He downed it in one swallow.
The gold in his eyes was swirling, fighting the red that tried to encroach on his irises.
"Broken things are useless to me unless they serve a purpose."
He turned, leaning against the heavy oak desk, crossing his massive arms.
"You stopped the noise inside my head. That buys you an hour. Explain why I shouldn't snap your neck and go back to sleep."
Elara pushed herself up into a sitting position.
Her left ankle was throbbing, swollen to the size of a grapefruit.
She looked at this monster—this legend of slaughter—and realized begging would be a death sentence.
He was a predator.
Predators didn't respect prey; they ate it.
"I know where the Silas family keeps the ledger for the Silver Creek mine," she said.
Her voice was raspy, but steady.
Draven's brows twitched.
"The Silas pack claims that mine ran dry ten years ago."
"That's the official report for the Council tax auditors," Elara said, her fingers digging into the velvet cushion.
"But every Tuesday, I scrubbed coal dust and raw silver residue out of Elder Marcus's private coats. I saw the coordinates in his pocket notebook. They aren't mining the main shaft. They're strip-mining the eastern ridge illegally and selling the unrefined ore to the cartel."
She met his gaze.
"You need money to feed this army of yours. I can give you the Silas fortune."
Draven stared at her for a long, agonizing minute.
The air in the room grew heavy, the static charge building again.
"A laundry girl who spies," he mused, pushing off the desk.
He stalked toward her.
"Smart. Dangerous."
The door to the office banged open.
Three Rogues stood there.
They looked hungry, their eyes tracking the scent of fresh Omega blood oozing from the cut on Elara's arm.
"Boss," the lead Rogue sneered, stepping forward.
"We smelled fresh meat. You didn't say you brought a party favor."
Draven didn't look at them.
He kept his eyes locked on Elara.
"She is not meat," Draven said, his voice dropping to a subterranean growl that rattled the glass on the table.
"She is property."
He turned slowly to face his men.
"Mine. Touch her, and I will peel the skin from your bones while you're still using it."
The Rogues blanched, backing out of the room so fast they tripped over each other.
The door clicked shut.
Draven turned back to her, his expression unreadable.
"Property," he repeated, testing the word.
"Let's see if the property works."
He dropped to one knee in front of the sofa, invading her personal space.
The scent of rain, musk, and raw power overwhelmed her.
He grabbed her chin with rough fingers, forcing her head up.
"Look at me."
It wasn't a request.
Draven let the barriers in his mind drop.
The gold in his eyes vanished, consumed entirely by a blood-red tide of pure, unadulterated violence.
The Moon Madness.
It was a psychic scream that usually turned an Omega's brain to mush.
Elara didn't flinch.
She didn't scream.
Instead, she felt that hollow ache in her chest expand.
The vacuum opened.
She saw the pain behind the red.
It wasn't just rage; it was noise.
A thousand voices screaming in his head, a sensory overload that never ended.
Without thinking—her body moving on instinct—she reached out.
Her fingers, stained with mud and dried blood, brushed past his jaw and pressed firmly against the side of his neck, right over the thundering carotid artery.
Hush.
The thought wasn't spoken, but the effect was physical.
She felt the pulse under her fingertips slow down.
The frantic, erratic hammering smoothed into a powerful, rhythmic beat.
Draven gasped.
His eyelids fluttered.
For the first time since she'd met him, the tension that held his body in a permanent state of combat readiness evaporated.
He leaned into her hand, essentially resting his cheek against her palm, like a wolf submitting to a touch it craved but didn't understand.
The red receded.
The gold returned, clear and sharp.
"Silence," he whispered, the word sounding like a prayer.
"Actual silence."
A knock at the door broke the trance.
Draven pulled back instantly, the mask of the ruthless King slamming back into place.
He stood up, clearing his throat.
"Enter."
Toby, the scrawny scout from the alley, slipped inside.
He held a cracked tablet, looking between Draven and Elara with wide, disbelief-filled eyes.
"Report," Draven barked.
"The Silas family just issued a press release," Toby stammered.
"They claim Elara Vance... uh, that's her, right? They claim she died in a tragic fall during the storm. Body unrecoverable."
Elara let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.
Dead.
She was officially dead.
"And," Toby continued, tapping the screen, "they've put a five-million-dollar private bounty on 'The Unknown Wolf' who abducted her corpse. They want the head. No questions asked."
"Only five million?" Draven scoffed.
"I'm insulted."
He looked at Elara.
"You hear that? You're a ghost. You have no name, no pack, no protection. Except mine."
Elara looked down at her clothes.
The tattered grey dress, the heavy canvas apron of a laundry servant—the uniform of her slavery.
"Do you have a lighter?" she asked.
Draven raised an eyebrow but tossed a heavy Zippo lighter onto the coffee table.
Elara picked it up.
She untied the heavy apron, the fabric stiff with grease and mud.
It pooled on the metal floor.
With a flick of her thumb, the flame sparked life.
She dropped the lighter onto the fabric.
The grease caught instantly.
Flames licked up, consuming the Silas crest embroidered on the pocket.
She watched it burn, the heat flushing her pale cheeks.
Then, her eyes landed on a jagged shard of glass from a bottle Draven had smashed earlier in a fit of rage—or celebration—before she arrived.
She picked up the glass.
Draven watched her, intrigued.
"Suicide is boring, little ghost."
"Not suicide," Elara said.
She held out her hand.
"Give me your hand."
Draven hesitated, then extended his massive palm.
It was calloused, scarred, a weapon of flesh and bone.
Elara didn't hesitate.
She dragged the sharp edge of the glass across her own thumb, beads of crimson welling up.
Then, before Draven could pull away, she pressed the glass to the center of his palm and carved a quick, sharp line intersecting with a circle.
Draven didn't flinch, though his eyes narrowed.
"A blood pact?"
"A contract," Elara corrected.
She pressed her bleeding thumb against his bleeding palm, mixing their blood.
"You give me protection and revenge. I give you silence. And I give you the Silas family on a platter."
The blood sizzled slightly where their skin touched, a faint wisp of steam rising into the cool air.
It wasn't magic—she wasn't a witch—but it felt binding.
Heavy.
Draven looked at the crude symbol she had carved into his flesh, then at the fire burning the last of her past on the floor.
He slowly closed his fingers, trapping her hand in his.
The grip was tight, possessive, bordering on painful.
"Deal," he growled.
He didn't let go.
His thumb brushed over the fresh cut on her hand, smearing the blood, his gaze darkening as he realized the texture of her skin felt better than any drug he'd ever taken.