The black raven feather didn’t burn easily.
Ariella stood by the stone fireplace, watching the edges of the plume curl and singe in the orange flames.
She had expected it to smell like dark musk—like him—but it just smelled like ancient dust.
Lukan.
The name felt like a mouthful of ash.
Nyx’s words in the library had been a cold bucket of water over the flickering flame of Ariella’s hope.
She had spent nights dreaming of the Rogue as a savior, a dark mirror to her own caged soul.
Instead, she was told he was a scavenger, a common thief wearing a legend’s skin to inflate his price.
“You look like you’re conducting a funeral,” a voice rumbled from the shadows.
Ariella didn’t turn.
The scent reached her first—sandalwood, leather, and that deep, underlying energy of the Void.
Grimshaw walked into the light of the fire, his presence alone seeming to suck the warmth out of the room.
He was dressed for war, tactical gear strapped over his broad chest, his grey eyes fixed on the darkening feather in her hand.
“It was just a feather, Grimshaw,” Ariella said, her voice hollow.
She dropped the remains into the grate.
“And the Ash-Walker was just a lie.
You were right.
Silas was right.
I was a fool to look for a hero in a graveyard.”
Grimshaw stepped closer, his hand coming up to rest on the mantle beside her head.
He didn’t touch her, but the proximity was a physical weight.
“I never called you a fool, Ariella.
I called you reckless.
There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” She finally looked at him.
The silver flecks in her golden eyes were muted, tired.
“Lukan…
the man Nyx told me about.
The scavenger.
Is that who saved me?”
Grimshaw’s jaw flexed.
The lie was right there, sitting on his tongue like a poison he had to swallow to keep her safe.
He looked at the fire, his expression unreadable.
“The Fracture is full of men who wear masks, Ariella.
Some to hide their faces, others to hide their sins.
Whoever he was, he’s gone.
You need to focus on the reality in front of you.”
“And what is that?” she challenged, stepping into his space.
“Being the Ironfang Luna?
Being the freak the Council is terrified of?”
Grimshaw’s hand moved from the mantle to her waist, his fingers digging into the silk of her robe.
“The reality,” he whispered, his voice dropping into that dark, melodic rasp that made her knees weak, “is that the Council just declared you a Sovereign Threat.
Which means they aren’t coming to audit us anymore.
They’re coming to harvest you and I won’t let that happen.”
Ariella’s heart hammered against her ribs.
“Harvest me?
Let them try.
I broke their shard.
I made Atlas crawl.”
“You made them afraid,” Grimshaw corrected, his grip tightening.
“And fear makes Alphas do the unthinkable.
They’ve activated the Huntsmen, Ariella.”
The name sent a chill down her spine.
The Huntsmen were the Council’s myths—the “Silver-Blood” wolves.
Strains of the bloodline mutated by ancient Siphoner alchemy to hunt and kill primals.
They didn’t have packs nor mates.
They were weapons in human skin.
“They’re coming here?”
“They’re already in the Fracture,” Grimshaw said.
He leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of her neck, right over the bite mark he’d given her.
“Which is why you are going to stay in the Spire.
You are going to let me and Silas handle the perimeter.
And you are going to stop looking for ghosts.”
“I’m not a child, Grimshaw!” She tried to push him away, but his Void surged, a cold, addictive pressure that wrapped around her senses.
“No,” he growled, his mouth descending on hers.
“You’re my Luna.
And it’s time you started acting like one.”
The kiss was a collision.
It was full of the lies he was telling and the desperation she was feeling.
Ariella fought him for a heartbeat, her hands fisted in his tactical vest, but then her Primal spark roared to life, answering his Void with a desperate, hungry heat.
She hated his control, but her body was screaming for the grounding force of his power.
She reached up, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as he backed her toward the large, fur-covered bed.
Grimshaw groaned, a sound of pure, possessive hunger.
He broke the kiss to trail a path of fire down her throat, his teeth grazing the silver choker she still wore.
“Say it,” he rasped.
“Say you’re mine.”
“I…
I’m Ironfang’s,” she gasped, her back arching as his hand slid under her robe, his calloused palm searing her thigh.
“Not the pack’s,” he growled, biting her shoulder.
“Mine.”
“Yours,” she whispered, the word a surrender and a challenge all at once.
He moved to pull the robe from her shoulders, his eyes black with a feral need, but he stopped.
His head snapped toward the balcony doors, his nostrils flaring.
“Grimshaw?”
“Stay back,” he commanded, his voice turning to ice.
He shoved her behind him, reaching for the heavy black-iron blade he’d left leaning against the nightstand.
The glass of the balcony doors didn’t shatter.
It dissolved.
It turned into a fine, gray dust that swirled into the room, carried by a wind that smelled of formaldehyde and ancient, rotting scent.
From the mist, three figures emerged.
They were tall, unnaturally thin, and dressed in form-fitting gray suits that looked like a second skin.
Their faces were covered by smooth, featureless silver visors.
They smelled like nothing at all.
The Huntsmen.
“Alpha Grimshaw,” a voice said, sounding like two stones grinding together.
It came from the lead Huntsman, though his “mouth” didn’t move.
“By decree of the High Council, the Sovereign Freak is to be remanded into our custody for ‘Stabilization.’ Stand aside.”
Grimshaw stepped forward, the black-iron blade glowing with a dark, hungry light as it drank in his Void energy.
“You’re a long way from the Council’s kennel, lapdogs.
She belongs here.”
“Then the ironfang pack is declared a hostile zone,” the Huntsman said.
In a movement so fast Ariella’s eyes couldn’t track it, the lead Huntsman launched a leash of liquid silver from his wrist.
Grimshaw caught it with his blade, the energy hissing and spitting as the Void met the Siphoner-tech.
“Ariella!
The safe room!
Now!”
“I’m not leaving you!” Ariella screamed.
She reached for the silver fire in her chest, trying to call the Command, but the presence of the Huntsmen acted like a dampener.
The air felt heavy, stagnant.
Her power was being doused.
“Go!” Silas appeared in the doorway, his silver staff glowing.
He didn’t look refined anymore; he looked like a demon.
“Mina!
Get her out of here!”
Mina dropped from the ceiling, her copper-wired braids swinging.
She grabbed Ariella’s arm, her strength surprising.
“Too many silver-boys, Luna!
Bad mojo!
We gotta go!”
Ariella was dragged toward the hidden passage behind the wardrobe, her eyes locked on Grimshaw.
He was a blue of black iron and charcoal energy, taking on two Huntsmen at once.
The third one—the leader—wasn’t looking at Grimshaw.
He was looking at Ariella.
His silver visor tracked her as she was pulled into the dark.