Night had fallen over Brooklyn, heavy and suffocating like a wet wool blanket. Inside the safe house, the air was thick with the smell of sickness.
Mia was burning.
It was not a normal fever. Her small body was radiating heat so intense that Aria could feel it through her own clothes. Mia's skin was flushed a deep, alarming red, and her breathing came in short, sharp gasps that sounded like tearing paper.
Mommy, Mia whimpered, her eyes squeezed shut. The monsters... they are biting me.
Aria dipped a rag into a bowl of tap water—the only water they had—and wiped Mia's forehead. The rag grew warm instantly.
It is okay, baby, Aria whispered, though her own heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Mommy is here. The monsters cannot get you.
Leo sat in the corner, his knees pulled up to his chest. He was not looking at his broken radio anymore. He was staring at his sister with wide, terrified eyes.
Is she going to die? Leo asked. His voice was small, stripped of its usual genius arrogance.
No! Aria snapped, too loudly. She softened her voice immediately. No, Leo. She is not going to die. She is just... shifting. Her body is fighting the wolf blood.
But Aria knew the truth.
This was Moon Sickness. It happened when a werewolf child's biology tried to assert itself too early, usually triggered by extreme stress or trauma. Like running away from home. Like being hunted by an Alpha father.
Without a specific herbal suppressor—Wolfsbane extract mixed with silver-dust—Mia's internal temperature would keep rising until her organs failed.
Aria looked at the two hundred and fifty dollars on the floor.
A regular pharmacy would not have what she needed. CVS did not sell Wolfsbane. Hospitals would run blood tests, see the anomaly, and call the government—or worse, Damien's people.
She had to go underground.
Leo, Aria said, standing up. She grabbed her hoodie. I need you to be the man of the house for one hour. Can you do that?
Leo looked at Mia, then at his mother. He adjusted his glasses, his jaw setting in a firm line that was painfully similar to Damien's.
I will watch her, Leo said. I will keep the wet rag on her head.
If anyone knocks, you do not answer. Even if they say they are police. Even if they say they are me. You wait for the secret knock. Three taps, pause, two taps.
I know the code, Mom. Go. Save her.
Aria grabbed the cash. She hesitated for a second, looking at the rusty knife on the counter. She took it and shoved it into her boot.
Then she opened the door and vanished into the rain.
The destination was a place Aria had not visited in six years. It was a place she hoped never to see again.
Deep in the industrial sector of Brooklyn, between a defunct shipyard and a chemical plant, there was a dilapidated laundromat. To human eyes, it was just a ruin. To werewolves, it was neutral ground. A place where Rogues, exiles, and criminals went when they could not go to a Pack healer.
It was called The Apothecary.
Aria kept her head down, the rain soaking through her thin hoodie. Every shadow looked like one of Damien's enforcers. Every car that passed made her flinch.
She knew Damien was watching the city. But the Apothecary was shielded by old magic and heavy lead walls. It was a blind spot. It was her only chance.
She reached the laundromat. The windows were boarded up. She walked to the metal service door in the alleyway and banged on it.
Go away, we are closed, a raspy voice yelled from inside.
I need Silver-bane! Aria shouted over the thunder. For a child!
Silence. Then, the sound of heavy chains rattling.
The door creaked open just an inch. A pair of yellow, jaundice-stricken eyes peered out. It was Silas. An old Rat-shifter who had lost his pack decades ago. He smelled of sulfur and rot.
Cash only, Silas grunted. No credit. No IOUs.
I have cash, Aria said, showing the edges of the bills.
Silas opened the door wide enough for her to slip in.
The inside smelled worse than the outside. It smelled of dried herbs, bleach, and old blood. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars of questionable liquids and dried roots.
Silas limped behind the counter. He was hunched over, his skin grey and peeling.
Child fever? he asked, rummaging through a box.
Yes. Moon Sickness. She is four years old.
Young. Too young. Silas muttered. He pulled out a small, dark blue vial. This is the last one. Imported from the Russian packs. Pure stuff.
Aria reached for it. How much?
Silas placed his hand over the vial. His yellow eyes gleamed with greed as he looked at her.
He didn't see Vera the designer. He saw a desperate, wet woman in dirty clothes. He saw prey.
Five hundred, Silas said.
Aria felt the blood drain from her face. Five hundred? Silas, it used to be one hundred!
Inflation, sweetheart. Supply and demand. The Alpha of New York has locked down the ports. Smuggling is hard these days.
I... I only have two hundred and fifty, Aria stammered. Please. My daughter is burning up. I will owe you. I will come back with more.
Silas laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound. You look like you are on the run, girl. People on the run do not come back. They die.
He started to put the vial back in the box.
No! Aria lunged forward, grabbing his wrist.
Silas snarled. He was old, but he was still a shifter. He backhanded her with surprising speed.
Aria went flying backward, crashing into a shelf of glass jars. They shattered around her, sending foul-smelling liquid onto the floor.
Pain exploded in her shoulder, but she barely felt it. The image of Mia's red, feverish face flashed in her mind.
You want the medicine? Silas sneered, coming around the counter. Maybe we can work out a trade. You are skinny, but you have a pretty face.
He reached for her, his dirty fingers outstretched.
Something inside Aria snapped.
For five years, she had been hiding. She had been pretending to be a human. She had suppressed her wolf, silenced her instincts, played the role of the meek, elegant designer.
But she was not just a designer. She was the woman who had caught the eye of the Damien Sinclair. She was the mother of two Alpha heirs.
She was not prey.
Aria looked up. Her eyes, usually a soft brown, flashed with a terrifying, golden luminosity.
A low, guttural growl vibrated in her chest—not a human sound. It was the sound of a mother wolf protecting her cub.
Touch me, Aria said, her voice dropping an octave, layered with the command of an Alpha Female, and I will rip your throat out with my teeth.
Silas froze. His hand hovered in mid-air.
He smelled it then. Beneath the scent of rain and fear, there was something else. Power. Ancient, dormant, furious power. The kind of power that commanded packs.
You... Silas stammered, taking a step back. Who are you?
The medicine, Aria commanded. She stood up, ignoring the glass shards cutting into her palms. Give it to me. Now.
Silas was shaking. His rat instincts screamed at him to flee. This was not a Rogue. This was a Queen in exile.
He grabbed the blue vial and threw it at her. Take it! Just take it and get out!
Aria caught the vial. She didn't thank him. She threw the crumpled two hundred and fifty dollars onto the floor—not as payment, but as an insult.
She turned and walked out into the rain, the glass crunching beneath her boots.
Silas watched her go, clutching his chest, his heart racing. He reached for the phone hidden under the counter. He needed to sell this information. Someone would pay a lot to know that a hidden Luna was walking the streets of Brooklyn.
High above, in the Sinclair Tower.
Damien was pacing. The storm outside matched the tempest inside his chest.
He had lost visual on her.
She had slipped out of the safe house. The cameras on the street corners were too far apart, the rain too heavy. For forty-five minutes, she had been off the grid.
Where is she? Damien roared, throwing his empty glass into the fireplace.
We are scanning all frequencies, Sir, Marcus said, typing furiously. We picked up a heat signature near the industrial district, but it vanished into the old ironworks.
Damien ran a hand through his hair. His wolf was pacing inside his mind, scratching at the walls. She is in danger. Our mate is in danger.
Suddenly, Marcus's console beeped.
Sir. We have a ping.
Where?
A low-level informant. An old fence named Silas. He runs an apothecary for Rogues down by the docks.
Damien stopped. An apothecary? Why would she go to a...
His blood went cold.
Medicine.
She wasn't running for herself. She was running for the children.
One of them is sick, Damien whispered. The realization hit him like a physical blow. I cut off her money. I cut off her access to hospitals. And now one of them is sick.
What did the informant say? Damien demanded.
Marcus hesitated. He looked at the message on the screen. He says... he says a woman came in looking for Wolfsbane fever reducers. He says she... she terrified him.
Damien frowned. Terrified him? Aria? She is a human. She is gentle.
He says she growled at him, Sir. He says she has Alpha eyes.
The room went silent.
Damien stared at Marcus.
Alpha eyes.
Aria wasn't a wolf. He had checked her background a thousand times. She was human. Unless...
Or... Damien's mind raced. The bond.
She had carried his heirs. She had shared blood and breath with them for nine months. The ancient Pack laws were clear: the Mother of Alphas is marked by the Pack. The magic didn't just protect the children; it empowered the vessel.
She stood up to a Rogue, Damien said softly. A hint of pride curled through his chest, warring with his fear. She tapped into the bloodline to save them. She is more of a Luna than I ever realized.
Sir, the informant is asking for a reward. He is offering to track her.
Tell him if he touches a hair on her head, I will skin him alive, Damien snarled.
He grabbed his coat.
Prepare the car. I am not waiting anymore.
But Sir, you said we should starve the rat...
The rat is not just a rat anymore, Damien said, his eyes glowing gold as he walked to the elevator. She is a Queen protecting her cubs. And my cubs are sick. The game has changed, Marcus.
I am going to get them. Tonight.
Back in the safe house.
Aria burst through the door, soaked and shivering, but triumphant. She held the blue vial tight in her hand.
Leo! I got it!
Leo was still by Mia's side. He looked up, his face pale. Mom... she stopped crying.
Aria's heart stopped. She rushed to the mattress.
Mia was silent. Her breathing was shallow, almost non-existent.
Open it! Aria ordered, her hands shaking so hard she could barely uncork the vial.
She tilted Mia's head back and poured the dark blue liquid into her daughter's mouth. Please, baby. Please drink.
Mia didn't swallow. The liquid pooled in her cheek.
No, no, no. Aria massaged her throat. Swallow, Mia! Fight!
A long, agonizing second passed.
Then, Mia coughed. She sputtered, choking on the bitter medicine, but she swallowed.
Aria collapsed back onto her heels, sobbing with relief.
She pulled Mia and Leo into a hug, burying her face in their wet, dirty clothes.
We made it, she whispered. We are okay.
But even as she said it, she felt a vibration in the floorboards.
It wasn't the subway. It wasn't the wind.
It was the sound of heavy engines. Many of them.
Leo pulled away and crawled to the window. He peeked through the blinds.
Mom, he whispered.
Aria crawled over. She looked down at the street.
Three black SUVs were pulling up to the curb. They didn't have sirens. They had the Sinclair crest on the doors.
Men in black tactical gear were stepping out, moving silently to surround the building.
And in the center, stepping out of the lead car, was a figure that loomed larger than life. He wore a long black wool coat that billowed in the wind. He didn't look up at the window. He didn't have to.
He walked straight toward the front door of their building.
Damien.
He wasn't playing anymore.
Aria looked at the empty vial. She looked at her sleeping, sick daughter. She looked at her terrified son.
She had no weapons. No money. No magic left.
She stood up and smoothed her dirty hoodie.
Leo, she said, her voice strangely calm. Unlock the door.
What? No! Mom!
Unlock it, Aria said. Because if we make him break it down, he will be angry. And right now... we need him to be a father, not a monster.
Leo looked at her, tears in his eyes. He walked to the door.
Click. Click. Click.
The bolts slid back.
Aria stood in the center of the room, shielding her children with her body. She waited.
She heard the heavy footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Deliberate. Like the ticking of a doomsday clock.
They stopped outside the door.
The handle turned.
The door swung open.
And the Wolf King stepped into the cage.