"That is exactly why you’re dying right now," I said softly. "You have valued yourself at zero. You think because you don't sing, or present, or rut, that you’re expendable. But I watched that clip, Rowan. I watched you dissect a C-suite Alpha with nothing but a clipboard and a serotonin deficiency. That is a skill set I can use."
"Use?" The suspicion was back, sharp as a paper cut. "You’re headhunting me right now?"
"We’re a Pack," I said.
The word hung in the air between us, weighted and archaic. In her world, the corporate, sanitized, neon-lit music industry, 'Pack' was a dirty word. It implied feral instincts, messy biology, knots and biting and blood. It was everything she had spent fifteen years starching out of her suits.
"I don't do packs," she said immediately. "I’m a Beta. I don't bond. I co-work."
"And how is independent contracting working out for you tonight?" I asked. "Is the dumpster providing adequate benefits?"
Silence.
"Self-reliance is just a pretty word for 'easy target,' Rowan. Loneliness is a security flaw. You are currently a single point of failure. I’m offering redundancy."
"I don't know you."
"You know I have your number. You know I warned you about the lobby. You know I’m the only voice in your ear not telling you to kill yourself or apologize."
I checked the monitor. The mob was close. Garett, the Alpha with the camera, was turning the corner into her alley.
"He’s forty feet away," I said, my voice dropping an octave, becoming the low rumble of a warning track. "He’s going to lift that lid, and he’s going to broadcast your terror to three million people. You will be a meme before you hit the pavement."
"Juno," she panicked.
"There is a black sedan at the north end of the alley. The plate is obscured. The glass is B6 armored. The driver is named Stephen. He’s a lawyer, so he’s arguably more dangerous than the mob, but he’s on a retainer."
"I can't just get in a strange car."
"Then stay in the bin," I said ruthlessly. "Be content. Be the victim they want. Let them confirm that a woman without a master is just trash waiting to be collected."
It was cruel. It was necessary. I needed to trigger her pride. I needed the Rowan Quill who shoved a tablet into a VP’s chest.
I heard her breathing stop. Then, a sharp intake of air.
"Fuck you," she hissed.
"Excellent," I said. "Now move."
I watched the thermal feed. The lid of the dumpster shifted. It pushed open, agonizingly slow.
Rowan Quill emerged. She looked like a drowned rat in a tailored suit. Her hair was plastered to her skull, her folio case clutched to her chest like a bomb defusal kit. She scanned the alley, eyes wide, white-rimmed in the gloom.
Garett was twenty feet away, his back turned, scanning the fire escape.
She didn't run. She didn't scurry. She walked. It was fast, yes, but her heels struck the wet pavement with a clipped, rhythmic precision. Even covered in refuse, she moved like she was late for a board meeting.
God, she was magnificent.
She reached the north end. The taillights of the black sedan flared red, illuminating the rain. The rear door clicked open.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second. She looked up at the camera lens I was watching through, a security camera mounted on the laundry service roof. She couldn't see me, but she stared right down the barrel of the digital eye, her expression a mix of fury and exhaustion.
Then, she slid into the back seat.
The door slammed shut.
"Asset secure," Mateo said, pushing off the doorframe. "Stephen is moving."
