Bounded By Blood,Freed By Love

"Table six wants their check." I nodded at Beth without looking up from the coffee pot I was cleaning. Table six had been eyeing me all night—three rough-looking wolves who weren't from around here. My wolf stirred uneasily under my skin. Five years. Five years since I'd run from my pack, from my name, from everything I used to be. Five years of being nobody, just another packless wolf working doubles at a rundown diner. The bell above the door chimed. "Welcome to Murphy's," I called out automatically, still not looking up. "Sit anywhere you—" The words died in my throat. Power rolled through the diner like thunder before a storm. Every wolf in the place went still. Even the humans seemed to sense it, shifting uncomfortably in their seats. My wolf cowered, recognizing an Alpha's presence. Not just any Alpha. Kane Silvermoon stood in the doorway, his gray eyes scanning the diner like a predator surveying his territory. Six feet three inches of pure dominance dressed in a black suit that probably cost more than I made in three months. His dark hair was slightly messed from the wind outside, the only thing about him that wasn't perfectly controlled. Behind him stood two more wolves—his Beta, Marcus, and another enforcer I didn't recognize. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Silvermoon Pack owned this territory. Kane owned this territory. But he never came to the outskirts, never bothered with the border establishments where rogues and packless wolves scraped by. Unless he was hunting something. Or someone. I forced myself to breathe normally, to move naturally as I set down the coffee pot. My hair was still dyed mousy brown, hanging limp around my face. Colored contacts hid my green eyes. Five years of staying beneath notice had taught me how to be invisible. "Alpha Silvermoon." Beth's voice trembled as she approached him. "We're honored. Can I get you a table?" Kane's eyes moved past her, scanning each face in the diner. When they passed over me, I felt it like a physical touch, but they didn't linger. Just another waitress. Nobody important. "Coffee," he said, his voice deep and controlled. "Black. We'll take that booth." He pointed to the corner booth—my section. My hands didn't shake as I grabbed the coffee pot. They didn't shake as I walked over to where the most dangerous man in the territory had just sat down. Five years of practice kept my heartbeat steady, my breathing even. "Coffee for three?" I kept my voice bland, forgettable. Marcus smiled at me, the friendly one of the brothers. "Just two. Jensen here doesn't—" A scream cut through his words. The three wolves from table six had jumped up, one of them grabbing Beth by the throat. "Nobody moves!" the leader snarled. "We're here for the Silvermoon brat." Everything happened at once. Kane started to rise, his body coiling with lethal intent. Marcus reached for something under his jacket. The rogue's hand tightened on Beth's throat, his claws extending. And a small figure darted from the kitchen—Amy, the owner's daughter. Seven years old and curious about everything. She must have heard the commotion. "Amy, no!" someone screamed. The second rogue lunged for the child, claws extended, moving faster than any human could track. But I was faster. My body moved before my brain could stop it. Twenty feet crossed in a heartbeat. My hand caught the rogue's wrist inches from Amy's face, and I heard the bones snap under my grip. Using his own momentum, I flipped him over my shoulder, sending him crashing through a table. The leader dropped Beth, spinning toward me with a snarl. "You little—" I ducked under his swipe, my fist connecting with his solar plexus. He doubled over, and my knee met his face with a satisfying crunch. Blood sprayed across the white diner floor. The third one was already shifting, his wolf form bursting free. I shoved Amy behind the counter and met him halfway, my own partial shift rippling through me. Claws met claws. Teeth snapped at my throat. We crashed into the wall, shattering the framed photos hanging there. His teeth found my shoulder, tearing through my uniform. Pain flared, but I'd had worse. Much worse. I twisted, using a technique my father had taught me years ago, and felt his jaw dislocate. He released me with a howl. A single move—heel to temple—and he dropped. The entire fight had taken less than thirty seconds. I stood there, breathing hard, blood running down my arm. Three rogues lay unconscious on the floor. The diner was silent except for Amy's quiet sobs behind the counter. Slowly, I turned around. Kane Silvermoon was standing now, his gray eyes locked on me with an intensity that made my wolf whimper. Marcus had his phone out, probably calling for backup. The enforcer looked like he'd seen a ghost. And I realized my mistake. No ordinary waitress could move like that. No packless wolf had those reflexes, that training. In trying to save Amy, I'd exposed myself. Kane took a step toward me, and I fought the urge to run. His nostrils flared slightly—scenting me through the blood and fear and spilled coffee. "What's your name?" His voice was soft, dangerous. "Aria Smith," I lied, meeting his eyes because looking away would be worse. "No," he said slowly, taking another step closer. "It's not." My wolf was screaming at me to run, but there was nowhere to go. The other enforcer had moved to block the exit. Marcus was watching me with growing recognition. Kane stopped inches from me, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body. His hand moved to my face, fingers gripping my chin, forcing me to maintain eye contact. "Take out the contacts," he ordered quietly. My heart stopped. "I don't know what you—" "Take. Them. Out." His Alpha command rolled over me, but I'd spent years building walls against Alpha commands. Still, my hands moved to my eyes, removing the brown contacts with practiced ease. Green eyes met gray. Kane's grip on my chin tightened. "Aria Blackstone." The name I'd buried five years ago hung in the air between us like a blade. "Daughter of Michael Blackstone," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow sounded more threatening than a shout. "The man who murdered my father."