YOURS TRULY

Chapter 2: The Velvet Note

The heavy iron doors of the armory slammed shut behind me, echoing like a gunshot through the subterranean stone corridors of the Winston estate. I didn't stop to look back. My pulse was a wild, roaring torrent, but outwardly, my steps were measured, cool, and deliberate.

For twenty-four years of my past life, I had walked these halls with a heavy cloak of duty weighing down my shoulders.

I had spent countless nights hunched over mapping tables, tracking lunar cycles, and calculating pack migration corridors. I had allowed Nick and my father to present my tactical genius to the Hunter Council as their own, content to remain the hidden brain of the elite Winston Tactical Firm while they bathed in the glory.

What a fool I had been.

I marched straight past the security checkpoints, ignoring the startled looks from the lower-ranked guards.

They were used to seeing Clara the obedient, Clara the quiet shadow. They had no idea that the woman walking past them had already died once, gasping for air in a sterile hospital room while these very people celebrated her sister's recovery.

I bypassed the grand staircase leading up to the council chambers where my father sat waiting for a blood sacrifice. Instead, I headed straight for the underground garage.

My sleek, matte-black motorcycle sat in the corner, a solitary dark horse among the armored tactical SUVs my family favored. I swung my leg over the seat, fired up the engine, and let the roaring purr of the machine drown out the frantic ringing of my phone.

Nick.

I disconnected the call, blocked his number, and initiated a hard wipe of my tracking terminal. Within seconds, the encrypted data grids, the proprietary pack-hunting routes, and the automated thermal-mapping algorithms I had spent years building vanished from the Winston mainframes. If they wanted to hunt wolves, they could do it the old-fashioned way. They could bleed for it.

I tore out of the estate gates, the cold night air hitting my face like an awakening potion. I didn't head for any of the safe houses or family-owned properties. I had a private rainy-day fund, built from independent consulting work that my father knew nothing about. I drove straight into the heart of the glittering, neon-lit metropolis, pulling up to the valet of the Obsidian Peak—a luxury five-star hotel known for its absolute privacy and impenetrable high-tech security.

I checked into a penthouse suite under a pseudonym, threw my jacket onto the plush leather sofa, and poured myself a glass of neat scotch. My hands were perfectly steady. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a cold, sharp focus.

Suddenly, a heavy thud rattled the mahogany door of my suite.

I reached for the concealed firearm at my waistband, but before I could draw, the door burst open. Nick stood in the entryway, his chest heaving, his expensive tactical gear disheveled. His face was a mask of unbridled fury.

"You blocked my number?" he hissed, slamming the door shut behind him. He marched into the room, his eyes scanning the luxury suite with disgusted disbelief. "You think this is a game, Clara? You think you can just throw a tantrum, walk out on the Council, and hide in a hotel?"

"I'm not hiding, Nick," I said, taking a slow, elegant sip of my scotch. My voice was dangerously calm. "I am residing. There is a difference."

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" He stepped into my space, his hands flaring out. "Without your mapping data, the vanguard vanguard team walked straight into a blind spot on the northern border less than an hour ago. We got ambushed by a beta patrol. Three of our men are in the infirmary, and the Council is breathing down my neck! They think you've lost your mind because of our upcoming wedding. They think you're trying to make me jealous by acting out."

I let out a soft, melodic laugh that caught him completely off guard. It wasn't a laugh of anger; it was pure, unadulterated amusement at his staggering delusion.

"Jealous?" I took a step toward him, my eyes narrowing into razor-sharp slits. The smile curling my lips was devoid of any warmth. "Nick, look at me very carefully. Do I look like a woman playing a game? Who says I'm fighting for a seat on your pathetic Hunter Council anyway? I am kicking both you and your rotten legacy out of my life."

"You can't survive without the Winston name," he threatened, his voice dropping into a low, vicious snarl as he reached out to grab my wrist. "You're a tracker, Clara. An asset. You belong to the firm. You belong to me."

I stepped back seamlessly, completely out of his reach. "I belong to no one. Now, get out of my room before I have hotel security remove you for trespassing. And trust me, the press would love to know why the golden boy of the Winston Firm is getting dragged out of a penthouse lobby."

He snarled, realizing he had no leverage here. "This isn't over. Your father will bring you to heel." He turned and stormed out, throwing the door open so hard the glass fixtures rattled.

Silence descended on the room once more, but the air felt charged, heavy with an electric current.

I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the sprawling city skyline. My phone buzzed on the counter. It wasn't a standard call; it was an encrypted, untraceable frequency bypassing my newly established firewall.

I picked it up, pressing it to my ear.

I didn't say a word. I just listened.

Through the line, a deep, velvety voice oozed into my ear, sending an icy thrill straight down my spine. The tone was smooth, laced with a terrifying, magnetic power that commanded total submission.

"A very bold move tonight, little hunter," the voice purred. "Dropping the silver blade. Walking away from the pack's blood. I must admit, I am profoundly entertained."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Who is this?"

"Someone who appreciates a woman who knows when to change sides," the voice replied smoothly. "Look down, Clara."

I frowned, lowering the phone as I turned around. My eyes scanned the pristine, high-tech suite. There, sitting directly on the glass coffee table next to my half-empty glass of scotch, was a pristine piece of heavy, cream-colored cardstock.

My breath hitched. My hotel security grid was military-grade. No one could have entered this room without triggering a dozen silent alarms.

I walked over with hesitant steps, picking up the paper. Written in an elegant, flowing script with midnight-black ink were a set of coordinates pointing directly to the heavily fortified dark forest border of the city's supernatural territory.

Beneath the coordinates were two chillingly possessive words that made my blood run hot:

Yours Truly.