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He's still staring at my stomach.
I should run. I know I should. My legs won't move. The two trackers are face-down in the alley behind me, one of them still twitching. This guy—Cole, I think Rena called him—he took them apart like they were nothing. Didn't make a sound doing it either.
Now he's looking at me like I'm a bomb about to go off.
"I don't—" My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. "I don't know what you think you smelled, but—"
He holds up one hand. Just that. Palm out, fingers spread. The universal sign for stop talking.
I stop talking.
He tilts his head toward the far end of the alley. Then he starts walking. Doesn't check if I'm following. Doesn't grab my arm or threaten me. Just walks.
I look back at the clinic door. It's already closed. Rena told me not to come back. Said the trackers proving I was here meant the location was burned.
So it's this guy or the street.
I follow.
He moves fast for someone so quiet. I'm half-jogging to keep up, one hand pressed to my belly because the baby's been kicking all night and my ribs feel like they're splitting. He doesn't slow down. Doesn't look back. Just cuts through one alley after another, weaving between dumpsters and old fire escapes like he's done this a thousand times.
Maybe he has.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
Nothing.
"Can you at least tell me if you're planning to kill me?"
He glances over his shoulder. His eyes are pale gray, the kind that look silver under streetlights. He shakes his head once. Then he keeps walking.
I don't know if that means no I won't kill you or no I won't tell you.
We end up at a building that looks like it should've been condemned twenty years ago. Brick facade so old the mortar's crumbling. Windows boarded up with rusted sheet metal. The kind of place you walk past and don't look at twice.
He stops at a side door, pulls out a key, and unlocks it.
I hesitate.
He notices. Holds the door open and waits. His expression doesn't change. It hasn't changed once since he killed those trackers.
"You know what I am," I say quietly. "You know about the baby."
He nods.
"So why help me?"
He doesn't answer. Just jerks his chin toward the open door.
I'm so tired. My feet hurt. My back hurts. The fake ID in my pocket feels like it weighs ten pounds. I've been running for three months and I don't think I can run anymore tonight.
I walk inside.
The interior's cleaner than I expected. Concrete floors swept clean, walls patched with mismatched drywall. There's a table, two chairs, a cot shoved in the corner with a wool blanket folded on top. A hot plate plugged into an extension cord. A metal shelf stacked with canned food and bottled water.
It's not a safe house. It's a cell someone tried to make livable.
Cole locks the door behind us. Three deadbolts. Then he crosses to the table, picks up a pen and a scrap of paper, and starts writing.
I watch him. His shoulders are broad enough to block the light from the single bulb overhead. He's wearing a dark jacket with the sleeves rolled up, and I can see scars running up both forearms. Not neat surgical scars. The kind you get from fighting. From losing.
He turns and hands me the paper.
The handwriting's rough but legible. *Baby stays free.*
I stare at the words. Read them twice. Look up at him. "What?"
He taps the paper. Then he points at my stomach. Then he draws a circle in the air with one finger—freedom, maybe, or safety, I don't know—and taps the paper again.
"You're saying you'll help me keep the baby away from the alliance."
He nods.
"Why?" My voice is too loud in the small space. "You don't know me. You don't owe me anything. What's in it for you?"
He just looks at me. His face is still blank, but something in his eyes shifts. Not pity. Pity I could handle. This is something colder. Older.
He holds out his right hand, palm up.
I look down.
The scars I saw on his forearms continue across his palms. Four parallel lines on each hand, deep enough that the tissue healed white and ridged. They're old. Years old, maybe more. But I know what made them.
Wolf claws.
"They did that to you," I whisper.
He closes his hand into a fist. Nods once.
"The alliance."
Another nod.
I sit down in one of the chairs before my knees give out. My hands are shaking. I clasp them together and press them against my mouth. "You can't shift anymore. That's why you're here. They broke you."
His jaw tightens. That's the first real reaction I've seen from him. He doesn't nod this time, but he doesn't have to.
"I'm sorry," I say.
He shakes his head. Picks up the pen and writes something else. Slides it across the table.
*Not broken. Cursed.*
I frown. "What's the difference?"
He taps the word *cursed* three times. Then he writes: *Punishment. They wanted me alive.*
"Jesus." I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. "What did you do?"
When I open them again, he's written one more line.
*Killed the wrong wolf.*
He doesn't elaborate. Doesn't offer context. Just stands there with his arms crossed, watching me like he's waiting for me to decide if I'm staying or leaving.
I think about the two trackers in the alley. The way he moved. The way he didn't hesitate.
"You didn't kill them," I say slowly. "The trackers. You could have. You didn't."
He inclines his head slightly. Agreement.
"Because Rena told you not to."
He shrugs. It's the most expressive gesture he's made. It says *maybe* and *does it matter* at the same time.
I look at the paper again. *Baby stays free.*
"Okay," I say. "Okay. I'll stay. For tonight. But if you try anything—"
He raises one eyebrow.
"Yeah, I know. You'd break me in half." I stand up, wincing as my spine cracks. "I need to sleep. I haven't slept in two days."
He gestures to the cot.
I cross to it, lower myself down carefully, and pull the blanket over my legs. It smells like dust and cigarette smoke, but it's warm. The baby kicks again, hard enough that I gasp.
Cole's at the table instantly, his hand on the back of the chair, eyes locked on me.
"I'm fine," I say quickly. "The baby's just active. It's normal."
He doesn't look convinced, but he backs off.
I close my eyes. Try to breathe. My heart's still racing and I don't think it's going to stop anytime soon.
I'm almost asleep when I hear the door unlock.
I jerk upright, adrenaline spiking, but Cole's already moved between me and the door. His stance is loose, ready. Not afraid. Just ready.
The door opens.
Rena steps inside, medical bag in hand. She sees me on the cot and nods. "Good. You made it."
"You sent him to get me," I say.
She closes the door and locks it behind her. "I sent him to make sure you didn't die in an alley. Big difference." She crosses to the cot and sets her bag down. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got thrown into a dumpster and then chased for six blocks."
"Close enough." She pulls out a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff. "Let me check you over. Cole said you were bleeding earlier."
I glance at Cole. He's back at the table, arms crossed, watching.
"I didn't tell her that," I say.
Rena smirks. "He wrote it down. Relax. I'm not here to judge. I'm here to make sure you and the baby don't die."
She presses two fingers to the inside of my wrist. Her face is calm, professional. She counts under her breath, then moves the stethoscope to my chest. Listens. Moves it lower, to my belly.
I watch her face.
She goes still.
"What?" I ask.
She doesn't answer. Just moves the stethoscope again. Listens longer this time. Her eyes narrow.
"What?" I say again, louder.
She pulls the stethoscope out of her ears and looks at me. Her face is pale. "What bloodline is the father?"
My stomach drops. "Why does it matter?"
"Because this baby—" She stops. Swallows. Looks at Cole, then back at me. "This baby isn't just wolf. The heartbeat's wrong. It's too strong. Too steady."
"What does that mean?" My voice is shaking.
Rena leans back on her heels. She's quiet for a long moment. When she speaks again, her voice is low. Careful.
"It means this baby isn't an ordinary wolf, Ivy. It's something older."