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The Aurex Uprising, 1989. A coalition of packs led by Alric Faelan had begun organizing resistance against the Council's territorial restrictions. His mate, Lara Faelan, disappeared without a trace before their first summit. Days later, Alric called off the rebellion. A year after that, he was dead, a 'hunting accident' no one questioned too closely.
The Selwyn Incident, 2003. A young, progressive leader—Lysander Selwyn—challenged the Council's economic policies. He had been set to bond with a powerful female alpha, a union that would have solidified his influence. His bond snapped weeks before the announcement. The Council called it 'natural incompatibility.' Within a year, he had faded into obscurity, stripped of all political power.
I read faster, my pulse thundering in my ears, my grip on the phone tightening.
"This isn't just control," I murmur, voice unsteady. "It's targeted dismantling. They break people before they become a threat."
Zara nods grimly. "Every wolf on this list was either a political threat or had the potential to reshape power dynamics. And every single one of them had their mate bond tampered with."
My breath catches as something else clicks into place. Cassian's rejection. His sudden change.
I glance at Zara. "He told me," I say, voice hoarse. "Cassian. That they forced him to reject me. They told him I was a liability."
"What?" Zara asks, her brows furrowing.
"Cassian," I say, the name bitter on my tongue. "He told me the Council pressured him to reject me. They said I was dangerous because of my ideals."
A chill spreads through my chest. "If this is real... if they've been doing this for decades, then what if they've been watching me long before the project?" The thought slips out before I can stop it.
Zara's fingers tighten around her phone. "It's possible." She exhales. "But we don't know for sure. Could just be a coincidence."
Could it?
I try to push down the growing unease clawing its way up my spine.
Zara continues, swiping through the files. "One name keeps popping up—'Lucas.' No last name, just Lucas. He's mentioned in older records, tied to cases of... interference."
The air leaves my lungs. My pulse stutters.
I barely hear myself when I say, "That's my dad's name."
Zara's head snaps up.
I force out a strained laugh, shaking my head. "It's just a coincidence. Lucas is a common name."
Zara doesn't respond, just watches me carefully.
I swallow, but the doubt is already sinking in, the weight of it pressing on my ribs. My father died when I was thirteen. A car accident. A rainy night. That's what everyone said. That's what my mother believed—until she wasted away, the bond between them broken beyond repair.
But what if it wasn't just an accident?
My hands curl into fists.
Zara shifts, her expression unreadable. "You think it could be him?"
"I don't know," I admit. "I—I never thought he had any connection to something like this."
But the memories resurface, unbidden. My father's firm voice. His strong stance on doing what was right. The way he always seemed wary of people with too much power.
Zara studies me. "It might be nothing. It might be something. But if you want to find out, we dig."
I exhale sharply, nodding once. "Yeah. We dig."
CHAPTER 8
ADRIAN
T
he library hums with quiet energy—the rustle of pages turning, the occasional creak of a chair, the distant shuffle of footsteps. The scent of aged parchment and ink lingers, grounding and familiar, but none of it holds my attention.
I shouldn't be here.
My fingers tighten around the spine of an old record, but I haven't turned a page in minutes. The words blur, ink bleeding into ink, meaningless. I shift in my chair, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake the restless energy knotting beneath my skin.
This isn't where I work. I don't need public archives when I have access to the Council's private records. But I came anyway.
For research, I tell myself.
But my gaze keeps drifting.
And then, as if the universe has finally decided to stop taunting me—
She walks in.
Elara.
She moves through the entrance with the same quiet confidence she carries everywhere, like she belongs, like nothing can shake her. A bag slung over her shoulder, fingers idly toying with the strap, her expression focused. Her hair is tied back, but loose strands fall against her cheek, and she tucks one behind her ear without thinking.
Heat coils low in my stomach, unwelcome, familiar.
I force my gaze back to my book, jaw clenching, willing myself to focus.
But I still hear her.
She flips page after page, too fast to absorb the words, then exhales sharply, shifting in her chair. I look up and see a strand of hair fall loose, slipping against her cheek. She pushes it back, absentminded, before reaching for another book from the stack beside her.
The title catches my eye first.
Theories on Fated Bonds: Severance, Suppression, and Anomalies.
My breath locks in my throat.
Why the hell is she reading about severing bonds?
She lets out a quiet sigh, the sound barely audible but enough to make me push back from my chair. Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm crossing the room, the soft tread of my boots muffled by the thick carpet.
"Elara," I greet, my voice low enough not to disturb the few other patrons scattered throughout the space.
She stiffens at the sound of her name, her pen freezing mid-tap. Slowly, she turns, her green eyes narrowing as they meet mine.
"Adrian," she says, her tone flat, carefully neutral.
"Need help?" I nod toward the pile of records in front of her.
Her gaze flicks to the mess of documents, then back to me. "I'm fine."
I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest. "You don't look fine."
Her jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think she's going to snap at me. But then she leans back in her chair, exhaling slowly. "It's the historical zoning records," she admits grudgingly. "They're a mess. Half of them are mislabeled, and the rest are barely legible."
I glance at the stack, noting the faded ink and brittle edges of the papers. "Mind if I take a look?"
She hesitates, her fingers tightening around the pen. But eventually, she pushes one of the folders toward me. "Knock yourself out."
I pull out the chair across from her and sit, the worn leather creaking softly under my weight. As I scan the contents of the folder, I can feel her watching me, her gaze sharp and assessing.
The silence between us is heavy but not uncomfortable. I skim through the records, piecing together the fragmented information with a practiced eye. Years of analyzing intelligence reports for the Council have made me good at spotting patterns, at connecting dots most people miss.
"These documents are cross-referenced," I say after a moment, tapping one of the pages. "See here? This zoning regulation ties back to the municipal land grants from the same era. You'll need both sets to get a full picture."
Elara leans forward, her brow furrowing as she studies the page. "How did I miss that?" she mutters, more to herself than to me.
"You were too busy being frustrated," I say lightly.
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