The Lycan's Silver

Chapter 3: Silver

The wind atop the building has a bite to it, slicing through my hair as I sit beside the helipad, legs crossed, a glass of Château Margaux cradled between my fingers. Olaf stands nearby, fiddling with a cigarette, his lighter sparking faintly in the cold. After a few failed attempts, he gives up, tucking the unlit cigarette back into a gold packet and sliding it into the rear pocket of his jeans.

We both pause when the distant thrum of helicopter blades reaches us. He squints into the dark, shielding his eyes against the dust kicked up as the aircraft approaches. I don’t bother moving, just placing a casual hand over my wine to keep it clean.

The helicopter emerges from the skyline, red and blue lights flashing rhythmically against the jagged New York horizon. It hovers just long enough for the side door to slide open and a woman to step out. Her silhouette lingers for a moment before the helicopter disappears back into the night.

She stands there, silent, her feline eyes locked on me. I study her in the stark glow of the landing lights—slightly above average height, short auburn hair, and an air of confident detachment. After a beat, she moves forward.

“You know,” she begins, her voice cool, “with a name like Silver and all the drama the Council’s throwing over you, I thought you’d be… hulking at least."

I keep my face impassive. “I don’t impress you?"

She shrugs. “I expected more you to be more imposing. You know, ‘last true Anderson’ and all."

Behind me, I hear Olaf’s breath tighten, a low rumble building in his throat. Instead, I flash her a quick smile, drain the rest of my wine, and in one swift motion hurl the glass at her. Hard. Fast enough to c***k a bull’s skull.

She tilts her head a fraction, the glass whistling harmlessly past her into the night. Too smooth. Too deliberate. I tilt my head slightly, my fangs snapping out, slicing into my lower lip and drawing blood. Her smirk wavers.

“Look, I’m sorry,” she says quickly, her tone conciliatory. “No need to turn this into my funeral over a bad joke.” She bows her head slightly.

“You’d do well to watch your tone,” Olaf growls, his voice like distant thunder.

“Yeah, big guy. Noted."

“Now that we’ve cleared that up,” I say, brightening, “what news do you bring us, Ms. Janine?"

Her eyes flick to Olaf, questioningly.

“Whatever you say to me, he hears too,” I explain.

She sighs. “The Council was torn on whether to attack or negotiate. In the end, they decided you weren’t worth the cost of war."

I raise an eyebrow. “Was Linares at the meeting? I’d have bet money on that b***h pushing for blood."

“She was,” Janine confirms, “but Collin overruled her. If it had gone to a vote, you’d already have the entire Council coming for your head. Instead, he made it clear they were to stand down.

“Collin?” I frown. “He wanted peace?” Memories of him flashed unbidden in my mind. Before the war, I’d barely spoken to him. I’d always thought him morose, indecisive. Until the day I saw him rip my father’s heart out. He’s haunted my thoughts ever since.

“What reason did he give?” I ask.

Janine hesitates. “He said he’d maintain peace at any cost,” she admits, her voice carrying a subtle edge of admiration. “And I don’t think he’s afraid for himself."

Olaf strokes his chin thoughtfully. “So, who’s coming for this… resolution? Roman?"

“No,” she says, a wry smile playing on her lips. “Collin’s coming himself."

That was when it hit. A sharp rush of blood fills my ears, a tingling pressure building behind my eyes. Olaf stiffens beside me, his alarm mirroring my own.

I grin. “You’d best leave, Janine,” I said, my voice almost playful. “He’s already here."

±±±±

I sit alone in the plush living room, a few feet opposite the elevator door. My flesh is dotted with goosebumps and my throat feels parched. I can still hear the blood rushing in my ears, so it muffles the elevator ping. The doors slide open and my heart does a leap.

He’s much different from how I remember—broader shoulders, a mustache, and a little taller. Okay, much taller. His eyes, though— the same piercing blue as they were back then, wander a bit before latching on to mine, unyielding.

Olaf leads him into the living room with a bow.

I clear my throat. “Council Master Collin! What a pleasure. How long has it been?"

“I’d prefer if we spoke alone,” he says, his voice low and steady.

I wave Olaf off, and as soon as the door closes, I pour myself a glass of more champagne from the penthouse’s collection. “Can I get you anything while we catch up?"

He shakes his head. “No, thank you. I’ll be brief."

“So to what do I owe the hon—"

“Cut the bullshit, Silver,” he interjects, a bored edge to his voice. “You know I've thought long and hard about your actions? And every answer I've gotten has led to chaos."

“I'm the one bullshitting? You, the Council and I—we've been killing our respective spies,” I say, his frown deepening, “And you all are somehow mad that I didn't attend your little meet and greet? Seems to me like you're the one full of s**t. The lot of you."

He narrows his eyes, the blue of them distracting. Have they gotten bluer? “You're lying. You did it so the Council would proclaim war like you expected it to. No, like you NEEDED it to, so you'd have a valid reason to come after my family."

I shrug. “That too."

His face darkens and he leans back, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You know I can't let you."

I laugh shrilly, swirling the champagne in my glass. “Can't? Still trying to be lycanthropy's voice of reason while simultaneously being its bloodiest sword, huh."

His expression softens and I know I've struck flesh. “Look I'm sorry for all I've done and am capable of doing, but I only ever did what I had to. And I have to protect those that only ever done what they've been asked."

“What your family asked.” I correct him.

“And you're so much better than we are?"

I feel my muscles tighten and I'm unaware how tightly I'm clutching the glass until it shatters. “What do you think this is? Some moral contest? Let me make it simple for you then, Collin.” I seeth, droping the bloody shards and pointing a finger at him, “You killed my father, so I will kill you. Honor is as latent on my mind as revenge is prioritized."

He stares at me for a moment, rubbing his index finger against his thumb, before his eyes wander to the wet bar. My heart skips a beat. “I never forgot him, you know. He seemed more surprised than angry. That fight could've gone a lot longer if he’d tried. Maybe you would have been on time to stop me."

I feel the tears well up before I can stop them but I furiously blink them away, glad his eyes are focused somewhere else.

He continues. “I deserve whatever you have for me. But I can't just die. My family won't let me, they'll come after you. Then, you'd deserve to die. When does it all end?"

I finger the large, silver ring on my thumb.

“I'm not asking you to forgive me bu—"

“Good,” I say, steeling myself, “because I don't plan to."

He rises to his full height, and the room feels smaller, the air heavier. "So why not kill me now?" he asks, his voice steady but low. "It would be easier. You're strong enough to do it—or at least hold me off until your wolves make their move.

I raise an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. "Not sure even that would be enough," I reply.

His lips curve into a faint, humorless smile. "Is that why you have them hiding in the wet bar?"

My thoughts stutter, and for a split second, I'm caught off guard. Then,like the click of a lock falling into place, the realization hits me. A slow smile spreads across my face, sharp and deliberate. "How long have you known?"

"There was never a moment I didn't," he says, his tone almost amused. "You had Olaf lead me in just so you could send him out, thinking it would make me careless. It was clever, but predictable."

I study him, weighing his words against the calm certainty in his voice. "I can't decide if I'm underestimating or overestimating you at this point," I admit. My tone shifts, probing. "So tell me—if you knew they were here, why did you walk in?"

His expression dulls. "Because I knew they wouldn't be enough," he says, his hand moving to press the button for the elevator.

I narrow my eyes, scrutinizing him. The answer comes too easily, too rehearsed. "That's a half-truth at best, Collin," I say softly.

For the first time, his eyes struggle to meet mine. He exhales slowly, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the space between us. "Goodbye, Silver," he murmurs as the elevator doors slide shut.

And for a merciful moment, I let myself falter.