Lyra's POV
Obsidian City. Air smelled of burnt coffee. Ozone. Stale exhaust.
Five years. I swore I'd never come back. Never step on this concrete again.
Liar.
Here I was. Immigration queue. Just another body in the machine that chewed me up and spat me out.
Strap of the tote bag dug into my shoulder. Heavy. The encrypted laptop pressed a hard line against my hip.
Silence behind me.
Wrong. The triplets were never silent.
"Mommy." Cyra tugged the hem of my grey cardigan. Wool stretched. "Leo is calculating the structural integrity of the ceiling fan."
I looked down.
Wide, innocent doe eyes. My daughter. The hacker who cracked Pentagon-level firewalls before she could tie her shoelaces. Beside her, Leo stared at the ceiling. Fingers twitched. Typing on air.
And Aries.
Aries glared at a security guard. Eyes dark. Assessing. Like he was deciding where to bury the body.
"Behave," I whispered. Smoothed Aries's hair. Black. Messy. Just like his father's. A miniature ghost of the man who ruined me. "Rules. What are they?"
"Normal," Aries grumbled. Crossed his arms. "Boring. Invisible."
"Good."
"I want to bite him."
"No biting." My voice was a wire. "Not unless I say so."
We shuffled. Customs officer stamped passports. Thud. Thud. Matches the pulse in my throat.
Passports were fine. Biometrics forged by Starfire. Flawless.
The twelve crates on the belt?
Not fine.
"Precision instruments," the manifest said.
Silver-nitrate projection rifles. Disassembled. Designed to punch through the regenerative hide of a True Alpha.
One open latch. One peek. My cover as a struggling single mom disintegrates.
"Next." Barked.
I stepped up. Shoulders slumped. The "exhausted mother" mask slid into place.
Not hard. Twelve hours. Three five-year-olds with nuclear reactors for batteries.
"Purpose of visit?" Officer didn't look.
"Relocation." Soft voice. "Fresh start for the kids."
He looked then. Scanned.
Loose clothes. No makeup. Hair a disaster.
He saw an Omega. Maybe a weak Beta. Harmless.
He didn't see the Shadow Lord. Didn't see the arms dealer who ran the black market from the dark.
"Lot of luggage for a fresh start." He nodded at the conveyor. Metal crates thudded down. heavy.
"My late husband... musician." The lie tasted like ash. "His instruments. Couldn't sell them."
Frown. Hand reached for the radio. "Check 'em. Standard procedure for bulk metal."
Skin tightened. Cold prickle down my spine.
Crate four. The Widowmaker.
"Is that necessary?" I widened my eyes. "Delicate. Vintage cellos."
"Routine, ma'am." He waved. "Bring the dog."
Breath hitched. Stopped.
German Shepherd. K-9 unit.
Not for drugs. Not here. Obsidian City hid monsters in plain sight. Dogs hunted explosive. And undeclared Lycanthropes.
The Widowmaker was clean. Mostly. Smell of cold iron and nitrate lingered.
But the kids...
Scent-masking spray soaked their clothes. But Alpha blood is loud.
Dog trotted up. Sniffed.
Move on. Move on.
It didn't.
Stopped at crate four. Whine. Then a bark. Sharp. Teeth barred.
"Ma'am, step back." Hand to holster.
Calculated. Distance to exit: fifty meters. Three guards. Ceramic knife in my boot. Flash-bang lipstick.
Drop the guard. Blow the door.
Run? With three kids?
No.
Distraction.
I looked at Aries. He was vibrating. Hated noise. Hated threats.
Eyes warm brown? No. Gold flecks ignited.
Use it.
I squeezed his shoulder. One hard press.
Aries inhaled. No growl. No shift.
Just pressure. Pure Alpha dominance. Released it like a bomb.
Invisible to humans. To the dog? A prehistoric apex predator just breathed on its neck.
Barking stopped. Cut off.
Whimper. Tail tucked. Dog scrambled back, claws skittering on the linoleum, dragging the handler. Away from the small boy in the dinosaur t-shirt.
"Rex? What the hell?" Handler pulled the leash.
Silence. Thick. Choking.
Leo threw his head back.
Screamed. High. Sharp enough to crack teeth.
"Scary! Doggy is scary!" Tears instantly. "Mommy, wanna go home!"
Cyra buried her face in my coat. "Scared!"
Chaos. Perfect.
Travelers muttered. Officer flustered. Dog terrified. Kids screaming.
"Look, lady, just... go." Waved hand. Dismissive. "Control your kids."
"Sorry. So sorry." I gathered the brood. "Thank you."
Loading zone.
Practiced ease. Muscle memory took over. Hauled crates.
Roleplay: Desperate mom. Reality: Smuggling ordnance.
Through the doors. Humid air.
Exhale.
"Good job."
Aries smirked. Gold faded. "Wimp."
"Leo, crying was solid," Cyra said. "Eight out of ten."
"I try." Leo wiped dry eyes.
Taxi. Large van. Driver was a Beta. Smelled of wet dog and stale tobacco.
Loaded crates. No questions. Cash spoke louder.
Highway.
Forehead against the cool glass.
Obsidian City. Steel towers piercing the smog. Monuments to greed.
Center stage: Storm Enterprises.
Black. Monolithic. A tombstone touching the clouds.
Damon's tower.
My hands curled in my lap. Nails dug into palms.
Hate you.
For what you did. For what you didn't do.
"Mommy?" Cyra. "Seeing Grandma?"
"No." Throat dry. "Grandma is... away."
Dead. Or worse.
Reason we were here. "Dragon's Blood." Cure for the curse. My father's madness. My family's ruin.
Find the cure. Save him. Get answers about Mom.
Then burn the place down.
Silver Lake. Upscale. Quiet.
Safehouse was a penthouse. Expensive. Owned by a shell of a shell.
Sun dipped. Sky turned purple like a fresh bruise.
Elevator ride. Sweating. Bun falling apart. Kids arguing about buttons.
Doors opened.
"Stop." I froze.
Him.
Not Damon. Elias.
Personal assistant. Sharp suit. Grey wool. Expensive sheen. Shoulders tight.
Checking his watch. Impatient. Lived next door.
Of course.
He stopped. Looked at me. Disheveled.
Looked at kids.
Looked at crates.
Nose wrinkled. Micro-sneer.
"New neighbors?" Tone polite. Temperature zero.
"Moving in." Tired smile.
His eyes did the inventory. No jewelry. Cheap shoes. No Pack mark.
Verdict: Rogue. Mistress. Trash.
"Quiet building," Elias said. Eyes on Aries climbing a sculpture. "We value decorum. Mr. Storm owns this. Tolerates no mess."
Mr. Storm.
Skin crawled.
"We'll be quiet."
"See that you don't."
He stepped in. Manicured finger hit the button. Doors shut. Cut off the judgment.
"Mr. Storm," I muttered. "Asshole."
Inside.
Locks. Deadbolt. Electronic jammer engaged.
"Go explore. Don't touch windows."
"Okay!" Scattered.
Living room. Crate marked "Cello".
Pop the latches.
Black velvet foam.
Widowmaker.
Cold. disassembled. Beautiful.
Fingers reassembled it. Blind touch. Click. Snap. Deadly puzzle solved.
Window. Floor-to-ceiling.
City glittered away below. Stolen jewels.
Across the river. Storm Tower.
Raised the rifle. Weight was home. Extension of my arm.
Unloaded. Just looking.
Scope up.
Magnification cut the miles.
Executive suite. Top floor.
Movement.
Silhouette.
Back to the window.
Tall. Shoulders broad enough to carry the world. Or crush it.
Damon.
And I saw it. The scar. Jagged white line on the back of his neck. Where a rogue silver blade missed the artery by an inch.
My stomach dropped.
Wolf stirred. Woke up.
Whined. Mate.
Jaw locked. Traitor.
Crosshairs settled on the scar. Perfect shot.
"Bang."
Across the city.
He flinched.
Spun around. Hand flew to his neck. Like a sting.
Staring out. Into the twilight.
Eyes locked. On my building. My window. Me.
Impossible. Tinted glass. Miles away.
But I felt it.
The snap. Electric jolt. Bond vibrating through thin air.
He grabbed the window frame. Steel groaned under his grip.
My pulse thrummed, deafening.
Lowered the rifle.
"Hello, husband."
Stepped back. Dark swallowed me.
"The game is on."