Nobody slept again that night, but at least this time we had a plan and not just a mess of wreckage to sit in.
Sal pulled out a pile of old documents, fanning them across the desk right as the dawn started to show through the windows.
“There’s one lead we haven’t tried,” Sal said, voice steady.
“The Sovereignty records—those were sealed after the Moon Court fell.
Sealed doesn’t mean gone.
Someone was supposed to keep what was left.
A Keeper, that’s what the old texts call it.
Neutral, not part of any pack or family, sworn to guard whatever survived until the rightful heir showed up.” “Are you seriously telling me there’s actually a person out there,” I said, “who’s been sitting on decades of records about my family, just waiting for someone like me to show up?” “If the job’s even filled anymore.” Sal’s face got tight.
“Supposed to get passed down the line, but it’s been sixty years without a Queen’s bloodline to protect.
No promises anyone’s still doing the job at all.
Could be nobody, could be someone crooked.
Or someone who had Marcus Feld killed, just to be sure you’re real before making their next move.” “Love hearing that,” Isabella said quietly by the window, arms wrapped around herself so tight I could see how badly the night’s chaos had shaken her.
“So where do we look?” I asked.
Sal tapped a weathered document—a faded map with a single spot circled in brown ink.
“Last known place a Keeper was seen was here.
Tiny town, right on the edge of neutral ground.
No pack, no family business.
If the tradition’s still alive, that’s where we start.” Adrian hadn’t said much.
He just stood there, arms crossed, jaw clenched.
It was that focused sort of stillness he got when he was running through every risk a mile ahead of us.
“It’s a four-hour drive,” he said finally.
“All through contested territory, and don’t forget—Wren, there’s a bounty on your head, and we already have one dead body.
Someone’s willing to kill to keep these secrets quiet.” His eyes met mine.
“But this is our only move that puts us one step ahead instead of always playing catch-up.” “Then we go,” I said, before I could lose my nerve.
“We go,” Adrian echoed, “but small group.
Me, Sal, Wren.
Isabella stays here and keeps an eye on the house.
Someone has to watch Enzo and the staff—after last night, we can’t trust there’s not another leak.” Isabella looked like she wanted to protest, but one look at Adrian shut her up.
She just nodded, jaw clenched, and I knew that feeling—watching other people choose your fights.
Been there too many times.
We left within the hour.
The estate was still half-demolished behind us when our car rolled out the gates into the bleary morning.
I sat in the back, next to Adrian, watching unfamiliar roads flick past.
My head spun with the thought of those sealed records we were chasing, and—underneath everything else—that raw, ugly question about my dad’s supposed betrayal.
About an hour into woods thick enough to swallow us whole, my phone buzzed—the burner Isabella gave me.
Only person with that number was me.
My stomach dropped.
One new message.
No name.
Fingers cold, I opened it up.
I know you’re looking for the Keeper.
Please don’t.
Whatever Rocco or the others told you about that bloodline, you have no idea what you’re getting into.
I spent eighteen years keeping you away from this world so you’d never have to learn the truth.
I’m sorry.
I never wanted the rejection, never wanted the border, never wanted any of this.
There are powers older than Redthorn—older than the Vitales and Morettis—waiting for a Calloway to come back, and they aren’t merciful.
Please.
Turn back.
Let me find you somewhere safe, just us.
I’ll explain everything, away from all these factions watching.
— L.H.
The words blurred.
My chest went tight—a mess of anger and grief so jumbled there was no untangling it.
Adrian’s hand gripped my shoulder, grounding me as he read the screen, his face growing darker with every line.
“That’s not a threat,” he said.
“That sounds—” “Like he’s really trying to protect me.” My voice cracked.
“Eighteen years too late, and after selling me out to a broker, but—” “Or,” Sal broke in from the driver’s seat, glancing hard in the mirror, “it’s someone who knows exactly where we are right now, which means we’re being tracked, right this second.” I didn’t even get a chance to answer.
The car behind us—closer than I’d realized—floored it, headlights blinding through the morning.
No question about it—whoever was behind us was coming for our blood.
“Brace!” Adrian snapped, throwing his arm across my chest just as metal screamed and the car jerked sideways, fighting for control on the narrow road.
Through the broken mirror, I caught a flash of the driver—unfamiliar, deadly calm—and beside him, in the passenger seat, close enough I couldn’t mistake him, even with the glass shattered and panic rising.
Lucian Hart.
Not some distant ghost behind a screen.
He’d come in person.