Chapter 322

The sound came from the obsidian nightstand on Dallas’s side. It wasn’t his personal phone, nor the sleek business one he used to command the Pack. It was the plain black device he called the ghost phone.

Dallas didn’t stir. His breathing remained deep and even, his dark lashes resting against his cheekbones. He looked younger in sleep, the weight of the crown momentarily lifted. I didn’t want to wake him. I didn’t want Ragnar to surface and deal with whatever threat was buzzing in the dark.

I slipped out from under his heavy arm, the loss of his body heat making me shiver instantly. I crept around the bed, bare feet silent on the plush carpet, and picked up the phone.

The screen’s blue light stung my eyes.

Unknown Number: I know the truth about your mother, Adella. The truth Dallas has been hiding from you. Central Park, the old oak tree, 10 a.m.

My breath hitched, trapping itself in my throat. My mother. Elara.

Before I could process the first message, a second appeared, the words scrolling across the screen like a venomous snake.

Unknown Number: If you’re not there, I’ll deliver the message to the Alpha King myself. I’m sure his Pack would love to hear it.

I could almost smell him through the text. Braydon. The memory of his scent — sour, cloying, desperate — coated the back of my tongue.

I looked back at Dallas. If he woke and saw this, he would tear the city apart to find Braydon. There would be blood. A war between the King and a desperate heir was the last thing I wanted on my conscience. But deeper than the fear of violence was a cold, gnawing worm of doubt.

The truth Dallas has been hiding.

Why did that sentence resonate so painfully? Because Dallas was a man of secrets — a vault of classified intel and buried histories.

I placed the phone back down, face down, exactly as it had been.

I dressed in silence, pulling on jeans and a thick sweater to ward off the morning chill. I wasn’t running away. I was protecting him. And I was going to get the truth, even if it meant dancing with the devil one last time.

Central Park was deceptively peaceful at ten in the morning. The sun filtered through the turning leaves, dappling the gravel path in gold and shadow. But as I approached the secluded corner near the old oak tree — a place where Braydon and I used to meet as children — the air grew heavy.

He was sitting on the bench, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He looked like a ruin of the man he used to be. His clothes were rumpled, his hair unkempt, and the scent rolling off him was a toxic mix of stale alcohol and rotting jealousy.

“You came,” Braydon said without looking up. His voice was a rasp.