The walk back to the East Wing was silent, but it was a silence that screamed.
Every footstep on the polished floorboards felt heavy, echoing the dull thud of the vault door closing downstairs. Damien hadn't escorted them back. He hadn't needed to. The smart-home system had engaged "Lockdown Protocol B" the moment they stepped out of the elevator. The windows were tinted opaque. The heavy oak doors leading to the main foyer were magnetically sealed.
It wasn't a guest suite anymore. It was a gilded cage.
Leo walked into the bedroom and immediately collapsed onto the small cot next to Mia's bed. He didn't take off his shoes. He didn't check his tablet. He just curled into a ball, his knees pulled to his chest, looking smaller than Aria had ever seen him.
"I messed up," he whispered into the pillow.
Aria sat on the edge of the cot and brushed the dust from his hair. Her hand trembled slightly, but she forced it to be steady.
"You didn't mess up," she said softly. "You got us into the most secure vault in North America. You bypassed a military-grade firewall with a tablet you built from scraps."
"And we got caught," Leo mumbled. "We have nothing, Mom. He has the serum. He has us."
"He has the serum," Aria corrected, "which means he has to use it. Mia gets treated. That was the mission, Leo. The mission is a success."
Leo turned his head, his grey eyes—so like his father's—filled with skepticism. "At what cost?"
Aria didn't answer. She stood up and walked to the massive bed where Mia lay. Her daughter was burning. The fever of the Moon Sickness was not like a human fever; it radiated heat like an open oven door. Aria placed her hand on Mia's forehead and snatched it back instinctively. It was scalding.
*Hold on, baby,* she thought, panic clawing at her throat. *Just until dawn.*
She didn't sleep. She spent the remaining hours of the night pacing the room, watching the digital clock on the wall count down the seconds.
4:00 AM.
5:00 AM.
6:00 AM.
The sky outside the tinted windows began to turn a bruised purple.
At 6:15 AM, the magnetic lock on the bedroom door disengaged with a sharp *click*.
The door swung open.
Damien stood there. He had changed out of the cable-knit sweater and was back in his armor: a charcoal three-piece suit, tailored to perfection, not a wrinkle in sight. The domestic vulnerability of the night before was gone, replaced by the cold, impenetrable mask of the Sinclair Alpha.
Behind him stood an older man carrying a silver medical case. Dr. Aris.
"Is she awake?" Dr. Aris asked, his voice rough with lack of sleep.
"Unconscious," Aria said, stepping aside.
Damien didn't look at her. He walked straight to the window, pressed a button to clear the tint, and stood with his back to the room, watching the sunrise over Manhattan. He was present, but he was making a point: he was the warden, not the participant.
Dr. Aris set the case on the bedside table. He opened it, revealing rows of gleaming instruments and a portable bio-scanner.
"I need to warn you," the doctor said, glancing at Aria as he pulled on latex gloves. "The Seraphim Serum is not gentle. It is essentially liquid nitrogen for the blood. It cools the feral heat of the wolf bloodline, but the shock to the system is... violent."
Aria gripped the bedpost. "Will it hurt her?"
"She is unconscious," Dr. Aris said diplomatically. "But her body will react. You might want to step out."
"No," Aria said instantly.
"No," Leo echoed from his cot, sitting up.
Dr. Aris looked at Damien's back. The Alpha didn't turn around. "Proceed," Damien said.
The doctor took the vial from the cryo-case. In the daylight, the blue liquid looked less magical and more dangerous. He loaded it into a pressurized hypospray.
"Stabilizing her heart rate," Dr. Aris muttered, checking the scanner. "Three... two... one."
He pressed the device against Mia's small neck.
*Hiss.*
For a second, nothing happened.
Then, Mia arched off the mattress.
A guttural, animalistic sound ripped from her throat—too deep for a four-year-old child. Her eyes flew open, but they weren't her soft hazel eyes. They were glowing, radioactive gold.
"Mia!" Aria lunged forward.
"Do not touch her!" Dr. Aris barked, physically blocking Aria with his arm. "The thermal displacement will burn your skin!"
Mia thrashed, her small hands clawing at the silk sheets, shredding them instantly. Frost began to bloom on her skin, spreading from her neck down to her chest in rapid, crystalline fractals. The air in the room dropped twenty degrees in seconds.
"She's seizing!" Leo shouted, terrified.
"She is fighting," Damien said.
Aria spun around. Damien had turned. He was watching his daughter with an expression Aria couldn't read—pain mixed with a dark, fierce pride.
"The Wolfsbane you gave her weakened her system," Damien said, his voice flat. "But the Wolf is fighting the ice. She is strong."
"She is in pain!" Aria screamed at him. "Do something!"
"There is nothing to do," Damien said mercilessly. "She survives the transition, or she does not."
Aria looked back at the bed. Mia's thrashing had slowed. The gold in her eyes was fading, replaced by the milky white of exhaustion. The frost on her skin melted into dew. Her breathing, which had been a ragged panting for two days, suddenly deepened.
*Inhale. Exhale.*
Slow. Steady. Cool.
Dr. Aris checked the scanner and let out a long breath. "Core temperature is stabilizing. Ninety-nine degrees. The genetic inflammation is receding."
Aria's knees gave out. She slumped against the bedframe, burying her face in the mattress near Mia's hand. She didn't care that Damien was watching. She didn't care about the Matriarch code or the vault. Her baby was breathing.
"The first dose is successful," Dr. Aris announced, packing up his tools. "But Mr. Sinclair, as we discussed... the viral load in her blood is higher than anticipated."
Aria lifted her head. "What does that mean?"
Dr. Aris hesitated. "It means one dose isn't enough. The serum suppresses the heat, but it doesn't cure the underlying genetic conflict. She will need a booster shot every forty-eight hours for the next three weeks. If we miss a dose, the fever returns with double the potency."
Aria felt the blood drain from her face.
Three weeks.
She looked at Damien. He wasn't surprised. He knew.
"You knew," she accused him.
"I suspected," Damien corrected. "Dr. Aris confirmed it when I called him at 4 AM."
"So we are trapped here," Aria said bitterly. "For a month."
"You are guests here," Damien said, buttoning his suit jacket. "For a month. Unless you would prefer to take her back to your rat-infested apartment and watch her burn?"
Aria gritted her teeth. He had her. He knew he had her.
"We stay," she whispered.
"Excellent." Damien checked his platinum watch. "Dr. Aris, set up a monitoring station in the adjoining room. Aria, get washed up. You look like a fugitive."
"I am a fugitive," she snapped. "Or have you forgotten you are holding me hostage?"
"I haven't forgotten," Damien said smoothly. "But my staff is arriving in twenty minutes to prepare breakfast, and I would prefer they not think I am running a refugee camp in the East Wing."
He turned to leave, but stopped at the door.
"Oh, and Aria?"
"What?"
"Stay out of the vents."
He walked out.
---
Two hours later, Aria felt human again.
She had showered in a bathroom that was larger than her entire apartment in Queens. She had scrubbed the vent dust from her skin and washed the grime from her hair. She refused to wear the clothes Damien had provided—designer dresses that looked like they belonged to a doll, not a mother—and instead washed her black leggings and turtleneck in the sink, drying them with the heated towel rack.
She walked out into the main living area of the penthouse. It was a sprawling open concept of glass and steel, suspended over the city like a cloud.
The smell of coffee hit her first. Real coffee. Not the instant sludge she had been drinking for five years.
She followed the scent to the kitchen island. A spread of pastries, fruit, and eggs was laid out, but the room was empty. Leo was still back in the room, guarding sleeping Mia.
Aria reached for a coffee pot.
"I wouldn't touch that if I were you."
The voice was sharp, feminine, and dripping with disdain.
Aria froze. She turned slowly.
Standing by the floor-to-ceiling window was a woman. She was tall, blonde, and impeccably dressed in a cream-colored power suit that probably cost more than Aria's lifetime earnings. Her eyes were a piercing blue, and they were currently scanning Aria like she was a stain on the carpet.
Elena.
The fiancée. The daughter of Councilman Vance. The woman who was supposed to take Aria's place.
Aria straightened her spine. She didn't have her mask. She didn't have her weapons. But she had five years of surviving in the Underground.
"And why is that?" Aria asked calmly, pouring the coffee anyway.
Elena's eyes narrowed. "Because that is Damien's private blend. He doesn't like the help touching his things."
*The help.*
Aria took a slow sip. It was delicious. "I will keep that in mind."
Elena walked closer, her heels clicking aggressively on the marble. "I don't know who the agency sent over, but you are late. The gala cleanup was supposed to be finished yesterday. And why are you wearing... that?" She gestured vaguely at Aria's damp, wrinkled tactical gear. "Is this some kind of new minimalist uniform?"
She thought Aria was a maid.
Aria considered correcting her. She could say, *'Actually, I'm his ex-wife, the mother of his secret children, and the reason he didn't pick up your call last night.'*
But information was currency. And right now, Aria was broke.
"Laundry day," Aria said simply.
Elena scoffed. "Unbelievable. Standards in this house have plummeted." She pulled out her phone and dialed a number. "I need to speak to Damien. He isn't answering his private line."
She paused, looking at Aria with suspicion. "Wait. I saw the security logs downstairs. The penthouse is in Lockdown B. No service staff is allowed up here during Lockdown."
Elena hung up the phone slowly. The air in the kitchen shifted. The dismissive arrogance evaporated, replaced by the sharp, predatory instinct of a wolf sensing an intruder.
"Who are you?" Elena demanded, stepping closer. "You aren't a maid."
Aria set the coffee cup down. "No. I'm not."
"How did you get up here?" Elena's voice rose. "Security is impenetrable. Unless..." Her eyes widened. She looked at the hallway leading to the bedrooms. "You're the one he was with last night."
Aria raised an eyebrow. "Is that what he told you?"
"He told me he had a 'security anomaly,'" Elena hissed. "I didn't realize the anomaly had legs and a cheap dye job."
She reached out to grab Aria's arm. "You are leaving. Now. Before I call the guards and have you thrown off the balcony."
Aria didn't move. She watched Elena's hand coming toward her.
In the Underground, if someone grabbed you, you broke their wrist. Muscle memory twitched in Aria's arm.
But before she could strike, the elevator doors chimed.
"Elena."
Damien's voice cut through the room like a whip.
He walked out of the elevator, holding a tablet. He didn't look happy. He looked like a man juggling two active grenades.
Elena spun around, her face instantly transforming into a mask of hurt betrayal. "Damien! Who is this woman? I found her drinking your coffee and acting like she owns the place. She claims—"
"She is a guest," Damien said, walking between them. His body blocked Elena's path to Aria. A subtle shielding move.
"A guest?" Elena laughed, a high, brittle sound. "Look at her, Damien. She looks like a vagrant. Since when do you host guests who look like they crawled out of a gutter?"
"Since last night," Damien said. "Elena, why are you here? We had a lunch appointment at noon. It is 9 AM."
"I was worried!" Elena reached out and placed a manicured hand on Damien's chest. "You hung up on me. I thought something was wrong. And clearly, I was right." She glared at Aria over Damien's shoulder. "Is she a new assistant? Or something... cheaper?"
Aria felt a flash of cold anger. Not jealousy. Just pure offense.
"Careful," Aria said softly.
Damien shot Aria a warning look. *Don't.*
"Elena," Damien said, removing her hand from his chest. "Go downstairs. Wait for me in the lobby. I will handle this."
"No," Elena said, planting her feet. "I am your fiancée, Damien. I am the future Matriarch of this pack. I have a right to know who is in our home."
*Future Matriarch.*
The word hung in the air.
Aria couldn't help it. She laughed. It was a short, dry sound, but it made both of them freeze.
"What is so funny?" Elena snapped.
Aria leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms. She looked at Damien, her eyes dancing with dangerous amusement.
"Nothing," Aria said. "Just... good luck with that title, honey. I hear the system is a bit picky about who it accepts."
Damien's eyes narrowed. He knew exactly what she was referencing. The vault. The override.
Elena looked between them, sensing a conversation happening on a frequency she couldn't hear. Her face flushed red.
"Damien, get her out of here," Elena demanded. "Now."
"I can't," Damien said.
"Why not?"
Damien looked at Aria. He looked at the closed door of the East Wing where his children were hiding. He looked back at the woman the Council wanted him to marry.
"Because," Damien said, dropping the bomb with zero hesitation, "she is my wife."
Elena's jaw dropped.
Aria blinked. She hadn't expected that. *Ex-wife,* she wanted to correct. But the divorce papers... she had never signed them.
Technically, legally, magically...
She was still the Lady of the House.
And the war had just begun.