Chapter 465
I walked back to the bed, picked up my phone from the nightstand, and stared at the dark screen. Azalea would call soon. She always did. And when she did, I would tell her I was ready to leave. I wasn’t going to hide in Anson’s gilded cage, waiting for Dallas to remember I existed or for the world to decide my worth. I was going to walk out on my own two feet.
Let him have his Yara. Let him have his throne. Let him play the villain.
I would build something of my own from the ashes he left behind.
I lay back against the pillows, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and for the first time in three days I felt something other than the cold weight of grief pressing down on my chest. It was anger — clean and sharp.
And it was fuel.
The freezing downpour of the Blackwood Docks did nothing to wash away the scent of blood and cowardice.
Vance Decker’s Warriors dragged Estevan Parrish out of the rusted shipping container. The man was unconscious, his arms and legs twisted at grotesque, unnatural angles. He looked exactly like what he was — a broken toy.
But it wasn’t enough. The phantom agony of my severed mate-bond clawed at my chest, a constant reminder of the liquid silver Seraphina and Estevan had pumped into Adella’s veins. I pulled a hunting knife from my tactical belt. Kneeling in the mud beside him, I grabbed the collar of his ruined shirt and carved a message deep into the fabric and the flesh beneath it.
A debt paid for a broken Mate.
“Dump him on the front lawn of Parrish Manor,” I ordered, my voice devoid of anything human. “Let the entire Pack see what happens when they touch what is mine.”
As the Warriors hauled Estevan into the back of an unmarked van, the adrenaline finally crashed.
A violent tremor seized my spine. My bad knee buckled, and I hit the wet asphalt, coughing up a thick splatter of black blood. The silver poison was ravaging my Lycan soul, accelerating the rot.
“Alpha!” Duncan Whitaker rushed out from the shadows of the SUV, his hands glowing faintly as he checked my pulse. “Your heart rate is over 140. Your pupils are sluggish. We are going to the medical center right now.”
“No,” I rasped, shoving his hands away. I gripped the bumper of the SUV and forced myself to stand. “Take me to General Higgins.”
Duncan froze, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead. “The human military base? Dallas, you are dying. You need a Healer.”
“A Healer can’t fix a rotting Lycan,” I growled, letting the crushing weight of my Alpha’s Command bleed into the air. “I drew up the Ghost Protocol years ago, after Aleppo — a contingency for the day my past finally caught up with me. I never thought I’d actually use it. But I need Higgins. I’m initiating the Ghost Protocol.”
Duncan’s eyes widened in absolute horror. “You’re going to fake your own death? That’s madness!”
“It’s the only way,” I breathed, staring into the dark storm. “If I die, Adella becomes a protected widow under Pack law. The Silver Claws won’t be able to touch her. Take me to Higgins, Duncan. Now.”