“Alpha Merric?”
“What?”
“One of the rescued captives is asking for you. Won’t talk to anyone else. He’s pretty insistent, sir.”
I turn and focus on him. He flinches. “Which one?”
He fumbles with his tablet like it might bite him. “A young male. Wolf hybrid. Cameron Corvus.”
Corvus.
My whole body locks up. Wolf goes dead still, hackles rising.
That name. That fucking bloodline.
Copper-gold eyes burn through my memory. Hair black as midnight. Skin that glowed under moonlight. Magic that danced off her fingers like she was born to it.
Brenna Corvus. Ravenclaw Pack.
Eighteen years since I told her goodbye. Eighteen years since I picked my pack’s survival over the only woman who ever made me feel like more than just teeth and rage. The elders laid it out real simple—chase that girl and they’d turn Frostbourne to dust before letting Ravenclaw blood mix with ours.
Her people kept the old ways. Real magic, not the watered-down shit most packs pretend still matters. The traditional packs—the ones with their heads so far up their own asses they can’t see daylight—they called Ravenclaw corrupted. Abomination. Said their magic was poison.
So I walked. Left her standing in that field, knowing exactly what I was doing to both of us.
Buried that choice so deep it should’ve fossilized.
But now there’s a kid with her name asking for me personally.
“Where?” My voice is raw. I clear my throat.
“Medical wing.” The kid shifts his weight. “I can show you—”
“Make it fast.”
This whole place is a goddamn rat maze. Corridors that lead nowhere, levels stacked like someone was trying to confuse invaders instead of help anybody find a fucking bathroom. Not how wolves build. We need sight lines, escape routes, space to breathe.
The medical wing reeks of disinfectant trying to mask the stench of blood and piss and pain. Never works. I can smell the torment soaking into the walls.
“Room 307,” the operative squeaks, pointing at a door.
I jerk my head. He scurries off like his ass is on fire. Smart kid.
I stand there, hand flat against the door frame, trying to get my shit together.
Corvus. Eighteen years. A kid with that name who wants me specifically.
Fuck me sideways.
I don’t knock. Just push through.
The boy’s propped up in bed, looking like death warmed over. Too skinny, all sharp angles where there should be muscle. Surgical scars running up both arms, like they carved him open for fun. More scars on his throat. Whatever those sick fucks did to him, they took their time.
But he’s breathing. Healing. Young—just a teen, really. Dark hair that needs cutting. Sharp features that’ll fill out if he gets some real food in him.
And those eyes. Copper-gold, just like hers.
My wolf knows him. Not thinks or guesses—knows. It’s in his bones, the way he holds his head up despite looking ready tocollapse. Every inch of him broadcasts Corvus blood. I see her in every line.
