Grayson's POV

Three days.

The deadline passed six hours ago.

I stare at my phone. Screen dark. Silent. Mocking me.

No calls. No messages. Nothing.

'She's not coming,' Arthur snarls. 'She thinks she can ignore us.'

"She'll come back."

'It's been three days!' His rage builds, clawing at my control. 'THREE DAYS! She's LAUGHING at us!'

I slam my fist on the desk. The wood cracks. "I know!"

She's not calling. She's not coming.

She's running.

Again.

'Then we HUNT,' Arthur roars.

Erikson leans against the doorframe. "She'll reach out. Give her time."

"Time?" I shove back from my desk. "I gave her three days."

"You threatened her." Erikson crosses his arms. "You drew wolfsbane on a formal summons. What did you think would happen?"

'We were being clear,' Arthur growls.

"She understands I'm her Alpha and she's defying me."

The silence stretches. I check my phone again. Nothing.

Six years ago, she ran. Now she's running again.

And I'm done chasing ghosts.

Erikson pushes off the doorframe. "Willie and Logan are downstairs. We're taking you to dinner. You need to get out of this office."

I glance at the cracked desk. "Too late."

"Come on. Lacey's Steakhouse."

'Food won't help,' Arthur mutters. 'Only our little wolf will help.'

I grab my jacket and follow him out.

*****

Lacey's Steakhouse sits on the edge of Fire Moon territory—neutral ground where pack members can relax.

Willie and Logan are already at our table. Willie looks up, those caramel-brown eyes assessing.

"You look like hell," he says.

"Thanks."

Logan grunts.

I drop into my chair and signal the waitress. "Whiskey. Double."

Willie exchanges a glance with Erikson. "That bad?"

"She didn't respond," Erikson says. "Deadline passed this morning."

"So what's the plan?" Logan asks.

'Send wolves,' Arthur growls. 'Track her down. Bring her back.'

I take the whiskey and down half of it. "We escalate."

"Escalate how?" Willie leans forward.

"I'll send a retrieval team. The best trackers we have." My grip tightens on the glass. "She's not running anymore."

Willie's expression shifts. "You sure that's wise? She's been out there six years. You can't just—"

"I'm her Alpha." My voice drops to a growl. "She's Fire Moon Pack. She comes home or I drag her home."

'We need her,' Arthur insists.

I drain the rest of my whiskey.

The waitress returns. I barely register what I order. My mind is three days in the past, six years ago—everywhere except here.

Lynn is out there somewhere. Ignoring me. Hating me.

Running.

'Then we hunt,' Arthur says darkly.

"I'll send the retrieval team tomorrow," I tell Erikson. "The worst of the worst. Whatever it takes."

Willie's eyes narrow. "What does that mean?"

"It means she doesn't get a choice anymore." I signal for another drink.

'Make her understand,' Arthur growls.

Remember what? That I threatened to kill her? That I chose my fated mate over her? That I threw her out like garbage?

She remembers. That's the problem.

And when my wolves find her, she'll remember even more.

Lynn's POV

The wig itches.

I adjust it, checking my reflection. Dark brown instead of my natural color. Glasses. Different makeup. Baggy clothes.

I look nothing like the Lynn Beverly who won awards on television.

'Still smells like us,' Istha mutters. 'They'll know.'

"Not if I'm careful."

I left Baron and Lira with Yanis and Wendy three hours ago. Told them I had an emergency client meeting.

I didn't tell her I might not come back.

'Shouldn't have come,' Istha whines.

But I can't run forever. If Grayson sends wolves to my apartment, they'll find Baron and Lira. They'll smell the pups. See Grayson's face in Baron's features.

And then—

I can't think about what happens then.

So I came here. To Fire Moon territory. To scout. To see if I can figure out what Grayson wants.

Maybe I can negotiate. Maybe—

'Maybe we die here,' Istha says flatly.

"Not helping."

The packlands stretch before me, familiar and foreign. Six years since I ran through that gate.

I don't belong here anymore.

But I need information.

My stomach growls. I've been driving for hours.

There—Lacey's Steakhouse. Neutral ground. Safe.

I park three blocks away and walk, keeping my head down.

'Careful,' Istha warns.

I slip inside.

The hostess barely glances at me. "Just one?"

"Yes."

She leads me to a small table near the window.

I order quickly. My hands shake as I pick up my water glass.

'Breathe,' Istha murmurs. 'We're okay.'

Voices behind me. Male. Familiar.

My spine goes rigid.

"—can't just drag her back by force," someone says.

I know that voice.

Erikson.

'Beta,' Istha confirms. 'Don't turn around. Don't—'

But I do. Slowly.

Through the window's reflection, I see them.

A table on the outdoor patio. Four men.

Erikson, broad-shouldered and tan. Willie beside him, lean and watchful. Logan across from them.

And Grayson.

'Alpha,' Istha whimpers.

Six years haven't diminished him—they've sharpened him into something devastating. His blonde hair catches the evening light like spun gold. The sharp cut of his jaw could slice glass. High cheekbones. A mouth made for cruelty and sin.

He's wearing a tailored black suit that molds to his massive frame—six-foot-six of pure Alpha dominance wrapped in expensive fabric. Even seated, his presence dominates the entire patio.

But it's his face that steals my breath. Cruelly beautiful. Cold as winter ice. Every angle precise and perfect, like some ancient god carved from marble.

And those eyes—ice-blue and merciless—scan the street with predatory focus.

He radiates power. Raw, overwhelming, magnetic. The kind of Alpha presence that makes wolves drop to their knees.

Even from here, I feel the pull. The dark charisma that drew me in when I was nineteen and stupid enough to think I mattered to him.

He looks angry. Dangerous.

Absolutely lethal.

"I'll send a retrieval team tomorrow," Grayson's voice carries through the open window. "The worst of the worst. Whatever it takes."

My blood runs cold.

'He's going to kill us,' Istha whispers.

Willie leans forward. "What does that mean?"

"It means she doesn't get a choice anymore." Grayson's voice drops to something dark and dangerous. "She thinks she can run from me? She's wrong."

Run. I need to run.

But my body won't move. I'm frozen, staring at the man who threw me out six years ago.

The man whose children sleep safe in Yanis and Wendy's house.

"She won't forgive me," Grayson says quietly.

"Probably not," Willie responds. "But that doesn't mean you stop trying."

Trying what? To kill me?

My hand trembles. I reach for my water glass—

And knock into my plate.

The china clatters. Loud. Too loud.

All four heads turn toward the window.

Toward me.

'RUN!' Istha screams.

But I can't. I'm trapped in Grayson's gaze through the glass. Those ice-blue eyes narrow, confused—

'Before they catch our scent—GO!'

I force my body to move. Stand. Grab my bag. Walk toward the door with shaking legs.

But it's too late.

The scent.

I see the moment it hits Grayson. His nostrils flare. His entire body goes rigid.

He knows.

"LYNN!" Grayson's roar shakes the restaurant. "STOP HER!"

Chairs scrape. Footsteps pound.

I bolt.

Out the door, down the sidewalk, running flat-out. My wig flies off. The glasses go next.

'Faster!' Istha urges. 'He's coming!'

I can hear them behind me. Heavy footfalls. Grayson's voice bellowing orders.

"Don't let her reach the gate! Cut her off!"

I dodge left, into an alley. My heels are gone—kicked off mid-stride. Pavement tears at my bare feet.

'Wolf form,' Istha begs. 'Let me run—'

"Not here! Too many humans—"

A massive shape cuts in front of me.

Grayson!