LOGINLucasArthur is the missing block from the puzzle. I feel it in the way my mind fits pieces together when the picture finally makes sense. Not a big dramatic moment, not a flash of lightning, just that quiet click in the back of my skull where everything rearranges itself and suddenly I can see the shape of the whole thing.I watch him in the same way I watch everything else. His posture. The way he stands with the calm confidence of a man who believes he has already won. The way his eyes do not widen at all when he sees Anastasia.The person working with Anastasia to take down the rebels is no one else but Arthur himself.It was his name that Anastasia refused to give because there was a pact between them.I think about the day he came to pick Aurora up at our pack. The way he looked at Anastasia like she was just another person in the room. No surprise. No recognition. No hesitation. A man who does not react because he already knows.And now I understand why.Arthur is the head of t
LucasMy eyes stay on Anastasia.Not her hands. Not the chain. Her eyes.People forget how loud eyes are. They think silence lives in mouths, but it doesn’t. It lives in what people do when they think no one is watching. Anastasia’s gaze flicks left. Then right. Then back again. Small movement. Almost lazy. Something you’d miss if you don't know what to look for.That pattern lands in my head and clicks into place like it’s always been there.A signal.She doesn't want Helena or Ryan to know that she is our family.My hand moves before Aurora’s voice does. I catch her fingers mid-motion and hold them. No squeeze. No warning. Just contact. Stop. Her breath stutters through the bond, sharp and bright, like touching cold metal by accident. Shock, yes. Confusion too. But she doesn’t pull away. She never does. She trusts that if I stop her, it’s because something matters more than words right now.I feel her mind shift. Questioning turns into listening. She’s smart like that.I don’t look
LucasThe moment my feet hit the bottom step, my brain switches modes.Not panic. Not fear. Assessment.Places like this announce themselves, but they also lie. The trick is knowing which parts are real and which parts are trying to distract you. I take in the smell first because scent never lies. Old blood. Not fresh. Not recent. Dried long enough to turn sharp and sour, like metal left out in the rain. Rot layered on top of it, the kind that sinks into stone and never quite leaves. That tells me two things. This place has not been used in a long time. And when it was used, it was used thoroughly.Good to know.The hallway stretches ahead, narrow enough to funnel movement, wide enough to walk two abreast if you had to. Cells on both sides. Iron bars, thick, heavy, built to last. Some bent slightly inward, which tells me people pulled on them from the inside. A lot. That detail sticks. You do not bend iron unless desperation is involved.My mind pulls threads without me asking it to.
LucasWe sit around a small dining table in the kitchen, close enough that our knees almost touch when someone shifts. The room smells like herbs and heat and something familiar I cannot name, the kind of smell that settles into clothes and memory without asking permission. A large bowl of soup sits in the center, steam curling upward in lazy spirals. It looks simple. Everything here looks simple. That alone makes me uneasy.Ryan’s mother moves around the kitchen like she has lived in this exact rhythm forever. No hesitation. No searching hands. If you ignore the blankness in her eyes, the way her gaze never quite lands, you would never guess she cannot see. She reaches for bowls stacked neatly to her left, fingers brushing the rim of the top one like a quiet check. Five bowls. She does not count out loud. She does not pause.I watch her hands more than her face. The way she grips the ladle. The angle she tips it at. She pours soup into each bowl without spilling a drop, adjusting the
LucasAurora walks toward us before I can get my thoughts in order. I notice the way her steps shorten when she is serious, like she is conserving something. She stops in front of Ryan, tilting her head just slightly, eyes sharp but not accusing.“Your mother?” she asks. “But why?”Ryan swallows. I watch his throat work, the way his shoulders lift a fraction and then drop. This is not easy for him. Whatever he is about to say was never meant to leave his mouth.“I can’t tell you much,” he says. His voice comes out low, rough around the edges. “I don’t think I’d even know how to explain it.” He chews on his bottom lip, teeth catching skin, a nervous habit he probably hates about himself. “But I can take you to her.”Every instinct in me rises up at once. I open my mouth, already forming a refusal, already planning a dozen ways this could go wrong.I snap my head toward her. She is calm. Too calm. Not reckless, not naïve. Just certain. That is what gets me.Caleb stiffens beside me. I c
LucasCaleb rubs the back of his neck like he is smoothing out a bad idea, which is funny because he never regrets his bad ideas. His mouth is already tilted into that familiar smirk, the one that says he enjoyed every second of it. There is sweat drying at his temples, leaving faint salt lines that catch the light. He always looks like this after a fight. Too pleased. Too loose.“Did I hit you bad?” he asks.I snort. “You hit like a pup.”He laughs under his breath, shoulders relaxed, like we just finished sparring for fun and not because everything lately feels one step away from falling apart. “How about the elbow you caught in your face?”“Perfect placement,” I say. “I hope you enjoyed it.”“Barely felt it.” He shrugs, like we are talking about weather. Then his eyes shift, not to me, but past me. To her.Aurora is stretched out on the blanket a few feet away, one knee bent, hair lifting and falling against her cheek whenever the wind decides to toy with her. She is reading on her







