chapter one
Aida's POV
The first rule of running an inn between three rival werewolf packs was simple: never let their fights become my problem.
Unfortunately, the men standing in my common room had no intention of following that rule.
“Move aside, girl,” one of them ordered, dragging an unconscious wolf through my doorway.
I folded my arms and watched him smear mud across my freshly cleaned floor. “Good evening to you too. If you're bringing trouble into my inn, at least have the courtesy to wipe your feet first.”
His companions turned to stare at me.
They wore the black uniforms of the Blackthorn Pack, and the silver wolf insignia on their chests told me exactly who they served. The wounded man between them wore no uniform, but the blood soaking his shirt suggested he had been running from someone for a long time.
“Do you have any idea who you're speaking to?” the first warrior demanded.
“Yes. A man who owes me money if he plans to bleed all over my floor.”
One of his companions snorted, quickly hiding it when the first man glared at him.
The warrior released the injured wolf's arm and stepped toward me. He was broad-shouldered, with a scar cutting through his left eyebrow, and his expression suggested he was accustomed to people becoming frightened whenever he opened his mouth.
I had never found that particular talent impressive.
“That's a dangerous mouth for an Omega,” he said.
“And yet, here you are, still listening to it.”
His face hardened. Before I could move, he caught my wrist and squeezed hard enough to make my fingers ache.
“Careful.”
I looked down at his hand, then slowly raised my eyes to his face. “Take your hand off me before I make you regret having fingers.”
For a second, nobody moved.
Then someone near the entrance laughed under his breath.
The warrior released me with a shove, and I rubbed my wrist while keeping my expression steady. My wolf stirred beneath my skin, irritated by the insult and the rough handling, but I pushed her down. I had learned early that showing weakness invited trouble, while showing too much strength attracted a different kind of attention.
Neither was particularly useful when you ran an inn that depended on customers from all three packs.
“Put him in the back room,” the warrior ordered. “We need to question him when he wakes.”
“You can put him in a room after you pay for it.”
He stared at me as though I had started speaking another language.
“Are you seriously asking me for money right now?”
“I'm asking you to pay for the room, the stained sheets, and whatever furniture your friends decide to break. If you want a charity, there's a church down the road.”
One of the men covered his mouth. The warrior looked ready to throw me through my own window, but the wounded wolf suddenly groaned, drawing everyone's attention.
His face was pale, and sweat clung to his forehead despite the cold evening air. Whatever had injured him had left deep scratches along his ribs. I couldn't tell whether they came from claws or something else, but the wounds looked worse than anything I had seen in months.
“Enough,” another warrior said. “We need to get him upstairs before he dies.”
I stepped aside, though I made sure they saw me point toward the staircase.
“Room six. And if he dies on my mattress, you're buying me a new one.”
“Keep talking,” the scarred warrior muttered as they carried the man away. “One day, someone will shut you up.”
“Make sure you bring enough money for the damages when that happens.”
Their footsteps faded upstairs, leaving me alone with the mess they had made. I picked up a broken glass, muttering under my breath about arrogant warriors and their inability to solve anything without dragging blood into someone else's business.
I was halfway through wiping the counter when I heard hurried footsteps above me.
The scarred warrior appeared at the top of the stairs. “You. Come here.”
I considered pretending not to hear him, but the expression on his face made it clear that refusing would only prolong the evening. I followed him upstairs, keeping a safe distance as he led me into room six.
His companions stood around the bed, where the injured wolf lay struggling to breathe.
“Get him water,” the warrior said.
I poured a glass from the jug and approached the bed. As I leaned forward, the injured man suddenly caught my sleeve.
His eyes opened.
They were an unusual shade of pale grey, and for one unsettling second, he stared at me as though he recognized me. His fingers tightened around my arm, and his breathing became shallow.
“Listen to me,” he whispered.
I leaned closer, barely hearing him over the rain beginning to strike the windows.
“Don't let them open it.”
My gaze shifted toward the warriors. None of them appeared to understand what he meant, but fear flashed across the injured man's face when he noticed me looking at them.
“Open what?” I whispered.
He tried to answer, but his grip loosened. His head fell against the pillow, and his eyes closed again.
I checked his breathing. He was still alive, though barely.
“What did he say?” the scarred warrior demanded.
I straightened and met his suspicious gaze.
“Nothing that makes sense.”
He studied me for another second before turning back to the bed. I left the room without another word, but the injured man's warning followed me down the stairs.
Don't let them open it.
I had no idea what he meant, and I had no intention of getting involved in whatever mess had brought him to my inn. I had enough problems without adding mysterious warnings from half-dead strangers to the list.
Still, when I reached the bottom of the staircase, my eyes drifted toward the door leading to the basement.
It had been locked for as long as I could remember. My mother had always told me there was nothing worth seeing down there, only old storage rooms and damaged foundations.
For the first time in years, I wondered whether she had been telling me the truth.
I forced myself to look away and returned to the counter. Whatever was beneath my inn was none of my business.
At least, that was what I told myself.
