The True Heir

{Ryk’s P.O.V.}

I wore a groove into the dark hardwood floor of my dimly lit office, my boots striking the thick planks with heavy, punishing thuds. My hands tangled in my hair, gripping the roots until my scalp burned, but the physical sting did nothing to dull the catastrophic reality crushing my chest. I paced back and forth behind my heavy mahogany desk, the shadows of the room mocking the absolute ruin I had made of my life. Macy. The name echoed in the hollow cavity of my chest. She was given a second chance mate. On the night of my Alpha Ceremony, the moon goddess had chosen to deliver her final, sickening punishment to me. I had watched my mother and sister rip into her last night. I had stood there, cold and unmoving, because I had convinced myself she was nothing. Just a filthy, low-ranking rogue. A slave. I had rejected her, snapping the sacred thread between us, yet the phantom ache of that severed bond still clawed at my throat.

My wolf, Grim, paced in the back of my mind, a restless, caged beast. He had not spoken a single word to me since the moment I uttered those damning words of rejection. He punished me with his silence, leaving me to drown in the sickening revelation that now dominated my every waking thought. Macy was mated to Callan Mercer. Alpha of the Shadow Creek Pack. The realization made my blood run hot, boiling beneath my skin until I felt like my veins would burst. Of all the wolves walking this earth, why him? Why did the goddess hand my beautiful mate over to one of the most ruthless and powerful Alphas in existence?

For eight brutal years, she had been living right under our noses, scrubbed into the dirt by the very people who had destroyed her life. She was not just some nameless rogue we picked up from the ashes. She was Mace Rae St-Claire. The sole living heir to the Iron Stream Pack. The same pack my father, Silas, had mercilessly slaughtered. I closed my eyes, the memory rushing back with vivid, haunting clarity. I was ten years old. My father had dragged her into the grand foyer of our packhouse. She was so small, so fragile, her tiny face and torn clothes caked in the gray soot and dark soil of her ruined home. When my father demanded her name, her voice had been a tiny, trembling whisper: Mace Rae, but she liked to go by Macy. I had thought she looked like a broken porcelain doll. I had wanted to play with her, to protect her. But my father had pulled me aside, his grip bruising my shoulder, and drilled his twisted ideology into my skull. He told me she was filth. A rogue. A slave meant to serve us until she dropped dead.

I grew up watching her scrub our floors, watching the visiting she-wolves and my own sister beat her, watching the older males stare at her with sick, predatory hunger as she blossomed into a breathtaking woman. She was denied basic medical care, left to heal her shattered bones in the dark. I had pitied her, yes, but I kept my distance. I was the future Alpha of Nightshade. I had a reputation to uphold. And then the goddess thrust her into my arms as my fated mate, and I threw her away like garbage. I rejected an Alpha by blood.

The thought of Callan Mercer running his hands over her skin, claiming her, marking her, made Grim slam against the mental barriers of my mind. I needed a loophole. I needed to reverse this rejection. Even with the bond broken, my body craved her. I could not even look at the visiting she-wolves without imagining Macy’s face, Macy’s body writhing beneath me. I pulled out my phone and mind-linked my father and Elder Scott, the panic in my chest rising to a fever pitch.

*Dad. I need you and Elder Scott to come to my office, right now.*

*We will be right there, son.*

I collapsed into my leather chair, rubbing my palms over my face. The heavy oak door swung open a few moments later. My father strode in, his posture rigid and authoritative, followed closely by Elder Scott, whose graying hair and lined face always carried an air of calculated wisdom.

"Son," my father greeted, taking the chair opposite my desk.

"Alpha," Elder Scott added, taking the seat beside him.

"What is going on, Ryk?" Silas asked, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the polished mahogany. "You seem rattled."

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. My voice cracked under the immense, suffocating pressure building in the room. "Dad, I found my mate."

My father’s eyes lit up. A wide, victorious smile spread across his face. "That is fantastic news, son! Who is it? One of the daughters from the visiting Alpha lineages?"

"No," I muttered, staring down at my shaking hands.

"Then is it a high-ranking member of our own pack?"

"Kind of."

Silas frowned, his patience thinning. "Ryk, stop talking in riddles. Who is she?"

I looked up, meeting my father’s gaze. "It’s Macy."

A dead, heavy silence descended upon the office. The air grew thick, pressing down on my lungs. Silas and Elder Scott stared at me with blank, uncomprehending expressions, as if I had just spoken a foreign language. The tick of the grandfather clock in the corner sounded like a hammer striking an anvil.

"Dad, did you hear me?" I pushed.

Silas blinked, the shock morphing into a look of profound disgust. "I heard you, son. Please tell me this is some kind of twisted joke."

"It’s not."

Elder Scott shook his head, his face twisting with disdain. "Why on earth would the moon goddess pair the future Alpha of Nightshade with a lowly, filthy rogue? It defies all logic."

"Son," Silas demanded, his voice dropping into a harsh, commanding register. "Tell me you rejected her immediately."

"I did."

Silas let out a massive breath, slumping back against the leather chair. "Thank the goddess. Crisis averted. We can sweep this under the rug."

"No, Dad. Crisis is not averted," I snapped, leaning forward. "There is no rug big enough for this."

Silas scowled. "I do not understand."

"Dad, do you know what Macy’s full name is?" I asked, my voice trembling with suppressed rage.

"Mace Rae. She is just a stray."

"Wrong," I spat, gripping the edge of the desk. "Her full name is Mace Rae St-Claire."

Elder Scott gasped, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair. "Alpha Ryk... did you just say her surname is St-Claire?"

"I did," I confirmed, watching the blood drain from my father’s face. "She used her full title to accept my rejection. Imagine my surprise when the pack slave looked me dead in the eye and announced she is an Alpha’s daughter."

"My goddess," Elder Scott whispered, his face pale. "Macy is the daughter of Garrett St-Claire."

Silas’s face contorted into a mask of pure, unrestrained fury. He slammed his heavy fist onto the mahogany desk, the wood groaning under the impact. "That little bitch! She has been keeping her identity a secret this whole time! Living under my roof, eating my food, and hiding her true bloodline!"

"What did you expect her to do?" I shouted back, my own anger boiling over at his staggering hypocrisy. I shot up from my chair, unable to sit still. "You orchestrated the slaughter of her entire pack! She was ten years old, Dad! Old enough to know the faces of the men murdering her family. Old enough to know her own identity. Old enough to know she had to hide it to survive you!"

I paced over to the large window, staring out at the pack grounds. "She hid her pedigree on purpose. Because of you, because of Mom, Sela, and every other person in this pack who made it their life’s mission to torment her. And because of your twisted teachings, I threw away the perfect mate!"

Silas stood up, his chest heaving. He ignored my accusations, his mind already spinning with political damage control. "Scott, can we fix this?"

I knew it. The second he realized she possessed Alpha blood, she went from being trash to a prize worth claiming.

Elder Scott rubbed his chin, his expression grim and calculating. "Well, that all depends on her current status. Has she found a second chance mate?"

"Our scouts report she has," Silas answered, his jaw ticking. "The Alpha of Shadow Creek."

"Ah. Alpha Callan Mercer," Scott murmured, the name hanging in the air like a death sentence. "This is a dire political reality."

"Why?" my father and I demanded in unison.

"Because Callan Mercer is not just an Alpha. He commands one of the largest, most brutal packs in the central United States. He has been searching for a mate for years. If he manages to formally claim her, and she accepts that claim, it is over. Nightshade does not have the military strength to challenge Shadow Creek. If you intervene after the claim, he will wipe this pack off the map."

Panic set into my chest, heavy and suffocating. The thought of losing her forever, of Callan’s teeth sinking into her marking gland, shattered whatever restraint I had left.

"No! I want Macy! I love her!"

The sudden, desperate confession ripped out of my throat before I could stop it. The words hung in the air, echoing off the stone walls of the office. The room turned ice cold. I had just stood in front of the reigning Alpha and the head Elder and admitted I was in love with the abused pack slave.

Silas stared at me, utterly stunned, his mouth hanging slightly open. "Son... what did you just say?"

{Callan’s P.O.V.}

The pack clinic room was sterile, smelling sharply of bleach and rubbing alcohol, but I barely registered my surroundings. I sat quietly in the hard plastic chair beside the elevated hospital bed, my eyes locked on Macy. Zander stood guard just outside the heavy wooden door, under my strict orders to let no one inside except Doctor Harding. I did not trust a single soul in this godforsaken pack to lay a finger on her. Not after the horrors they had subjected her to.

A soft, angelic smile touched my lips as I watched her chest rise and fall in a steady, peaceful rhythm. A few times throughout the morning, Sela—Silas’s spoiled brat of a daughter—had tried to peer through the small glass window of the door. Zander had physically blocked her path every time. The sheer nerve of that girl astounded me. Zander had filled me in on the beatings Sela and the Luna had inflicted upon Macy the night before.

Macy let out a quiet murmur, her head shifting against the thin pillow. I leaned forward, inching to the very edge of my seat, my heart kicking against my ribs. Her dark eyelashes fluttered, and she slowly blinked awake, her beautiful eyes adjusting to the harsh fluorescent lights above.

"Hey, dearest," I murmured, keeping my voice low and soothing. "Did you sleep well?"

She blinked up at me, a tiny, tentative smile gracing her bruised lips. She gave a small nod. "How long have I been asleep?" her voice was raspy, fragile.

"About four hours."

"Oh wow, that’s it?" she asked, her gaze drifting toward the ceiling. "That was probably the best four hours of sleep I have ever had in my life."

My chest physically ached at her words. I stood up, leaning over the bed to gently support her back with my arm as she struggled to sit up. She let out a small breath, leaning into my hold. "Thank you."

"You are welcome."

She patted the side of the lumpy, thin clinic mattress with her good hand. "This bed is so comfortable."

I stared at her, my brows pulling together in profound confusion. "You think this clinic bed is comfortable?"

"It is luxurious compared to the junk I have been sleeping on for the past eight years," she stated matter-of-factly, her innocent admission driving a fresh spike of rage through my heart.

"Macy, do you not have a bed?" I asked, my voice tight.

"I have a cot."

"A what?"

She wrinkled her nose, looking at me like I was the one missing the obvious. "A cot. Think of it as a small trampoline with no springs, supported by four jagged plastic legs."

I pulled out my phone, typing the word into the search engine. When the image loaded, showing a flimsy piece of canvas stretched over cheap metal and plastic, my stomach churned. I scowled at the screen, turning it to face her. "This thing?"

She nodded. I opened my mouth, the urge to tear the Nightshade packhouse down to its foundations roaring in my ears, but the sound of the door opening cut me off. Doctor Harding stepped inside, holding a metal clipboard.

"Good afternoon," the doctor greeted, offering a professional smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, now that I have gotten some real sleep," Macy replied.

"That is good to hear. I need to do a quick physical exam of your ribs. Would you mind lifting your shirt?"

Macy glanced over at me, a brief flash of hesitation in her eyes. I immediately stood up and turned my back to them, facing the blank wall. The rustle of the hospital gown and sheets echoed behind me. My wolf, Obsidian, growled low in my mind, his possessive instincts flaring at the thought of another male looking at her bare skin. *It is his job to heal her,* I reminded myself firmly, forcing my hands to remain relaxed at my sides.

"Ah," Macy hissed in pain.

I whipped my head over my shoulder, ready to intervene, but the doctor stepped back, making notes on his clipboard.

"Your rib area still seems quite tender to the touch," Harding noted, adjusting his glasses. "However, your facial wounds have cleared up remarkably well. Even though your immune system is severely compromised from years of neglect, your healing capabilities are kicking in strongly now that you have fully connected with your wolf."

"You can turn back around, Callan," Macy said softly.

I took my seat next to her, my eyes scanning her face to ensure she was not in lingering pain. "Doctor, when can Macy be formally released?"

"Oh, so your name is Macy," Harding said, his eyebrows rising in mild surprise. He clearly had not bothered to learn her name before this moment. "Well, given her fractured ribs, I would prefer to keep her overnight. But if she is feeling up to it, I can authorize a release today. However, I must emphasize that she desperately needs strict bed rest and natural sunlight to properly heal. The Vitamin D is crucial for her bone recovery."

"I can do that," Macy said quickly, clearly eager to leave the sterile room.

"Absolutely no housework, Miss Macy," the doctor warned sternly. "Bed rest means bed rest. You may sit outside for sun exposure, but nothing strenuous."

"Do not worry, Doctor," I interjected, my tone leaving no room for argument. "I will make sure she is comfortable and cared for."

"Very well, Alpha Mercer. If you will step out into the hallway with me, we can handle her medical release papers."

I turned to Macy, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the back of her hand. "I will be right back, dearest."

I walked toward the door, pulling it open. Zander stood at attention in the hall. I stepped close to him, dropping my voice into a lethal, aggressive register. "You watch her like a hawk. You do not leave her side. If even one hair on her precious head is harmed while I am gone, you will run twenty miles every morning for the next calendar year. Am I clear?"

"Crystal clear, Alpha," Zander saluted, his expression dead serious as he stepped into the room to take my place. I turned on my heel, following the doctor down the corridor to handle the paperwork, refusing to leave her vulnerable for long.

{Macy’s P.O.V.}

The exact moment Callan disappeared down the hallway with the doctor, Zander pulled up a chair next to my bed. He had a natural, easy-going aura about him, a stark contrast to the suffocating tension that usually filled this packhouse.

"So, Luna," Zander started, a teasing grin on his face.

"Please, can you just call me Macy?" I asked, shifting slightly against the pillows. "Luna is way too formal for me right now. I am not used to any of this."

Zander chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Sure thing. If that is what you prefer, Macy. Cool name, by the way."

"Thank you," I smiled. "I like your name too. You give off major class-clown energy."

Zander placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "Damn, how did you guess?"

"You are not going to deny it?"

"Why would I?" he laughed. "Being the class clown makes me fun and approachable. Keeps the pack morale high."

"Yeah, I guess it does." I picked at the edge of the blanket, a brief, comfortable silence settling between us.

Suddenly, Zander shifted, patting his stomach. "Damn, I have got to pee. I have not used the bathroom since I hauled Silas off you this morning."

He stood up and jogged into the small attached bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him. I leaned my head back against the pillow, enjoying the quiet. But the peace was shattered mere seconds later. The heavy clinic door flew open, hitting the wall with a violent bang. Sela marched into the room, her face twisted in an ugly, venomous mask of pure jealousy.

"Looks like Sleeping Beauty is awake," the spoiled brat sneered, crossing her arms over her chest.

"You are not welcome in here, Sela. Get out," I demanded, sitting up straighter.

Sela let out a mocking laugh, stepping closer to the bed. "I am welcome wherever I see fit, Ma-cy." She spat my name like it was poison. "I do not care what anyone says. You are a filthy rogue. You are not deserving of a mate, let alone an Alpha as powerful and hot as Callan Mercer. It makes me sick."

"I do not have the energy or the patience to deal with your pathetic issues today, Sela. Leave."

Sela’s eyes flashed with irrational rage. "How dare you speak to me like that!"

Before I could even attempt to fend her off, Sela lunged forward. She shoved her hands hard against my shoulders. I was already off-balance, perched on the edge of the elevated hospital bed. The force of her push sent me toppling backward. I crashed hard onto the cold tile floor. I threw my arm out to brace my fall, and a sharp, sickening pop echoed through my wrist. Blinding pain shot up my arm, stealing the breath from my lungs. I cried out, clutching my throbbing wrist to my chest.

"What is your problem, Sela?!" I yelled, tears of pain pricking my eyes. "What did I ever do to you?!"

Sela stood over me, her lip curled in disgust. "You did not need to do anything. I am the Alpha’s daughter! I do not need a reason to treat you like trash because that is exactly what you are! You do not deserve Callan!"

"And you think you do?" a lethal, vibrating voice echoed through the room.

Zander rushed out of the bathroom, taking in the scene in a fraction of a second. He saw me clutching my wrist on the floor, and his eyes instantly flashed pitch black. His wolf surged forward. Zander moved with blinding speed, forcefully stepping between me and Sela. He reached down, his large hands carefully pulling me off the floor and settling me back onto the bed.

Zander turned back to Sela, his chest heaving with feral, protective fury. "Listen to me, cake face. I do not care who you think you are. You have been warned not once, not twice, but three times to keep your spray-tan-infested hands off the Luna."

"She is not a Luna!" Sela shrieked, stomping her foot. "She is trash! She is lower than the bacteria crawling on this clinic floor!"

"SELA!" a booming roar shook the glass windows.

Silas stood in the doorway, his chest puffed out, his eyes blazing. I groaned inwardly. Why could this family not leave me the hell alone?

"Dad!" Sela whined, pointing a manicured finger at me.

"What are you doing in here?!" Silas demanded, marching into the room.

Sela lifted her chin, looking smug. "I came to teach this bitch her place."

Silas grabbed her by the arm, yanking her toward the door. "What gives you the right to do that?! Are you trying to make things impossible for your brother?!"

"But Dad, you always said—"

"GET OUT, SELA!" Silas roared, his Alpha aura flaring. Sela flinched, ripping her arm from his grasp, and scurried out of the room like a frightened rat.

Silas took a deep breath, composing his features as he turned to face us. "Beta Zander, may I have a private word with Macy?"

"No," Zander flatly refused, stepping closer to my bed.

Silas narrowed his eyes. "Excuse me?"

"The answer is no," Zander repeated, squaring his broad shoulders. "I am under strict orders to protect Macy. I am already in deep shit because your banshee of a daughter just injured the Luna’s wrist during the thirty seconds I took to piss. If you wish to speak with her, you do it in my presence, or you wait for Alpha Callan to return."

I placed my good hand on Zander’s forearm, feeling the rigid tension in his muscles. "Zander, it is fine."

"But Macy—"

"It is fine," I reassured him, offering a firm nod. "Please, just wait right outside the door in the hall. I will make sure Callan does not punish you too badly."

Zander grumbled something under his breath, shooting Silas a lethal glare before stepping out and pulling the door shut behind him. The second the latch clicked, Silas dropped the sympathetic, fatherly act. The mask vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating tyrant I had known for eight years.

"Macy, how are you?" he asked, his voice dripping with venomous insincerity.

"Cut the crap, Silas," I snapped, glaring right back into the eyes of my tormentor. "What do you want?"

His eyes flashed black at my blatant disrespect, his wolf rising at the insult of a former slave using his given name. "That is Alpha Silas to you."

"Correct me if I am wrong," I tilted my head, mocking him, "but does that title not belong to your sorry excuse of a son now?"

Silas rotated his neck, the bones cracking loudly in the quiet room as he fought to control his surging temper. Normally, a backhand would have already struck my cheek. But today was different. He needed something from me.

"I merely came to check on your recovery," he lied through his teeth.

"Whatever," I muttered, leaning back against the pillows and cradling my swelling wrist.

Silas stepped closer to the bed, dropping his voice into a low, interrogating tone. "Macy, is it true that you are Ryk’s mate?"

"Was," I sharply corrected him.

"What?"

"Was," I repeated, making sure he heard every syllable. "I was Ryk’s mate until he rejected me, and I gladly accepted."

"Macy, Ryk has come to realize what a terrible mistake he made. He—"

"Oh, I get it now," I interrupted, letting out a dry, bitter laugh. "Ryk ran crying to you, didn't he? He told you I am an Alpha by blood." I stared him down, disgusted by his transparent manipulation. "You think putting on a show, scolding Sela in front of me, would suddenly put you in my good graces? Do not hold your breath. You only took an interest because you want me to reconsider Ryk as my mate. Let me save you the breath: that will never happen."

"You think you have a choice?" Silas growled, leaning over the bed.

"I do have a choice," I fired back, my wolf Selene lending me an unshakeable strength. "I am of age. I do not have to answer to you, scrub your floors, or take your beatings anymore. I know the laws. I am not a member of Nightshade. Neither you nor Ryk has any legal hold over me."

Silas sneered, his hands balling into tight fists. "You better think long and hard about the decisions you make going forward, girl."

"Or what?!" I yelled, pushing myself upright. "Are you going to slaughter me like you did my family?! Go ahead and try! I would love to see you attempt to kill me now! I am an Alpha by blood! You cannot touch me!"

Silas’s face turned a violent shade of purple. Outraged by my defiance, he raised a heavy hand high above his head, fully intending to strike me across the face.

Before his hand could even begin its descent, the door burst open. Zander launched himself into the room, aggressively intervening. He grabbed Silas by the front of his shirt and forcefully shoved him backward. Silas stumbled, catching himself against the doorframe.

"You have overstayed your welcome," Zander snarled, pushing Silas out into the hallway.

"Get your hands off me, Beta!" Silas barked, shoving Zander away. He locked eyes with me from the hall, his gaze promising pain. "This is not over, Macy."

"Keep telling yourself that," I mocked, watching Zander slam the door in his face.

{Macy’s P.O.V. continued}

Zander leaned against the door, letting out a long, heavy sigh before turning to me. "Macy, that mouth of yours could make a sailor blush."

I let out a small, breathless chuckle, the adrenaline slowly leaving my system. "It is a bad habit. I just cannot seem to filter my words when it comes to this pack. I hate them all, especially Silas."

"I get it. They are pricks, and they only want you for your bloodline."

"I knew Ryk would not be able to keep it a secret," I said, rolling my eyes. "He is incapable of doing anything for himself. Always running to Daddy for support. His range of authority is just as short as his dick."

Zander busted out laughing, clutching his stomach. The loud, booming sound was infectious, and I found myself laughing with him, despite the throbbing pain in my wrist.

"What is so funny?" Callan’s deep voice cut through our laughter as he stepped through the door, holding a stack of release papers.

"The Luna is witty, man. It is awesome," Zander replied, wiping a tear from his eye.

Callan smiled at the sound of my laughter, but the expression vanished the second his eyes landed on my arm. He dropped the papers onto a side table and closed the distance to the bed in two massive strides, his face contorting into absolute fury.

"What happened to your wrist?!" he demanded, his eyes darkening as he inspected the swelling joint.

"I fell off the bed," I half-lied, not wanting him to murder Sela and start a pack war.

Callan’s jaw clenched. "Macy, you are my mate. I can tell when you are lying to me."

"It is my fault," Zander admitted, stepping forward, his head bowed. "I stepped into the bathroom for thirty seconds, and Sela forced her way in."

"I TOLD YOU TO WATCH HER LIKE A HAWK!" Callan roared, the sheer volume of his Alpha command shaking the medical instruments on the trays.

I quickly reached out with my good hand, wrapping my fingers around Callan’s thick forearm. "Stop, Callan. Do not be mad at him. You cannot blame him for needing to use the restroom. When you have to go, you have to go."

Callan looked down at me, his chest heaving with suppressed rage. I offered him my sweetest, most pleading smile. He stared into my eyes for a long moment, the fight slowly draining out of him. He hung his head in defeat, letting out a rough exhale.

"Damn it, Macy," he grumbled, though his tone was fond. "Let me go find the doctor to look at this."

He turned and marched back out the door. I looked over at Zander, who was glaring at me with narrow eyes.

"What?" I asked innocently.

"My bladder is not the size of a peanut. I had not peed in twelve hours."

"Would you rather run twenty miles every morning for the next year?"

"Touché," Zander conceded.

Doctor Harding returned a few minutes later, examining my arm. Thankfully, it was only a severe sprain and not a fracture. He carefully wrapped my wrist in a sturdy brace, instructing me to keep it immobilized for at least forty-eight hours. Once the final signatures were placed on my release forms, Callan gently helped me out of the bed. He wrapped his arm securely around my waist, supporting my weight as he escorted me out of the clinic and into the packhouse garden.

The moment we stepped outside, I stopped in my tracks. The warm, golden afternoon sun hit my pale skin. It felt like liquid gold seeping into my starved pores. I closed my eyes, tipping my head back to absorb the heat. It had been years since I was allowed outside during daylight hours. We walked over to a stone bench surrounded by blooming rose bushes and sat down together.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, my senses overwhelmed by the beauty of the outdoors. I smelled the damp earth, the sweet floral notes of the garden, but above it all, I smelled the refreshing, constant scent of fresh rain. I opened my eyes, turning my head toward Callan. The scent was rolling off him in waves. I found myself becoming entirely intoxicated by it. It was invigorating, filling my lungs with life. Ryk’s scent had never affected me this deeply. This was a true mate bond.

"Dearest, are you okay?" Callan asked, his teal eyes searching my face with concern.

"Hmm?"

"You seem deep in thought. Are you alright?"

"I am fine," I smiled softly. "This is the first time in years I have felt the sun warming my skin. I love it."

Callan reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "I hate to ruin your peaceful moment, but it has been thirty minutes. The doctor said you need rest. We should head back inside and get you something to eat."

I nodded, allowing him to help me to my feet. We walked back through the heavy front doors of the grand packhouse. The foyer was bustling. Members of Nightshade, along with visiting Alphas and Betas, stopped in their tracks. Eyes followed us. Some whispered, some glared, and others stared in blatant shock at the sight of the mighty Callan Mercer holding the pack slave so tenderly.

We reached the grand staircase. Callan guided me toward the first step, but I pulled gently out of his grip, turning toward the narrow hallway hidden beneath the stairs.

"Macy, where are you going?" Callan asked, pausing on the bottom step.

"To my room," I replied, pointing toward a small, dilapidated wooden door tucked away in the shadows.

Callan frowned, stepping off the stairs and following me. "What?"

"My room. This is it," I said, reaching out to turn the rusted brass knob. I pushed the door open, revealing the cramped, dark space inside.

Callan stepped up behind me, peering over my shoulder. He took one look inside the tiny, dust-filled room and froze. He looked from the room, back to me, his eyes wide with horrified disbelief.

"Dearest, this is a broom closet."

"Actually, it used to be a shoe closet," I corrected him, trying to mask my deep embarrassment with sarcasm.

Callan did not find it funny. His jaw clenched so tight the muscle leaped under his skin. "You lived in this tiny box for eight years?"

I looked down at the scuffed floorboards and nodded.

Callan’s chest expanded as he took a deep, furious breath. He stepped back into the hallway, his voice dropping a full octave, leaving absolutely no room for debate. "Macy, gather your belongings."

"Why?" I asked, startled by his sudden command.

"Because you will be staying with me in my guestroom for the remainder of our time here. I am entirely done allowing you to endure these squalid conditions for a single second longer."

"Callan, I am not allowed on the fourth floor unless I am sent up there to clean," I protested, my heart racing at the thought of breaking Silas’s strictest rule.

Callan stepped closer, his imposing frame shielding me from the rest of the hall. "Those rules no longer apply to you. You are my mate. Now, please, do as I say. Go up to the fourth floor, take a left, and it is the last room on the right. I will meet you up there."

With that, he turned and marched up the grand staircase, leaving me standing in front of my closet. A nervous fluttering erupted in my stomach. Having absolutely no other choice, I ducked into the cramped space. I grabbed my few meager possessions—two faded shirts, a pair of worn pants, and a small wooden comb—clutching them tightly against my chest with my good arm.

I stepped out, closing the closet door for what I hoped was the last time, and began the long climb up the stairs. My fractured ribs throbbed with every step, forcing me to take my time. I finally reached the luxurious fourth floor, where all the visiting Alphas and high-ranking officials were staying. Thick, plush carpet lined the long hallway, deadening the sound of my footsteps.

I remembered Callan’s directions. Take a left. Last room on the right.

As I slowly made my way down the corridor, a sudden chill washed over me. I realized with creeping horror that Callan’s guestroom was situated directly across the hall from Ryk’s private quarters.

I reached Callan’s heavy oak door. My arms were full of my clothing, and with my wrist wrapped in a bulky brace, I could not turn the handle. I lifted my foot, preparing to lightly kick the door to let Callan know I was there, when the sound of a door clicking open behind me made my blood run cold.

A very unpleasant, desperately whining voice hit my ears.

"Macy, what are you doing here?"