Chapter 105

Moving silently through the shadows, Shea and Achilles approached the mill from its blind side. The distraction had worked—most of the guards had rushed outside to investigate the wolf calls that continued to echo through the forest.

"Two left inside," Shea whispered, her enhanced senses detecting their movements. "One by the main entrance, another patrolling the upper floor near Lyra."

Achilles nodded, his eyes gleaming with a predatory focus. "I'll take the one downstairs. You get to Lyra."

They slipped through a broken window at the back, landing softly on the dusty floorboards. The mill's interior was a maze of abandoned machinery and rotting timber, the air thick with the scent of mold and rust. Moonlight filtered through gaps in the roof, casting strange patterns across the floor.

Achilles touched her arm gently before they separated, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. No words were needed—his eyes said everything. Be careful. Come back to me.

Shea moved toward the rickety staircase while Achilles disappeared into the shadows. Her footsteps were impossibly light, each placement deliberate. The wood didn't dare creak beneath her—it was as if the building itself recognized her authority, her connection to the land it was built upon.

At the top of the stairs, she paused, listening. The guard's heartbeat was steady, unaware of the danger approaching. He paced back and forth in front of a closed door—where Lyra was being held.

Shea closed her eyes, drawing on the power that now flowed freely through her. When she opened them again, her vision had sharpened, the darkness no longer an obstacle. She could see the guard clearly now—a young werewolf, probably newly turned, nervously fingering a silver dagger at his belt.

She waited for him to turn his back before making her move. Three swift steps brought her directly behind him. Before he could react, she clamped one hand over his mouth and wrapped her other arm around his neck in a precise chokehold.

He struggled, but Shea held firm, applying pressure to the sides of his neck until his body went limp. She lowered him silently to the floor, checking to make sure he was merely unconscious before taking his keys.

The lock clicked open, and Shea slipped inside.

Lyra was tied to a chair in the center of the room, her head slumped forward. Dried blood matted her hair, and angry bruises bloomed across her visible skin. But her chest rose and fell with steady breaths.

"Lyra," Shea whispered, quickly moving to untie her. "It's me. We're getting you out of here."

Lyra's eyes fluttered open, confusion giving way to recognition. "Shea? You shouldn't... it's a trap."

"I know," Shea said, working on the ropes binding Lyra's wrists. "But we couldn't leave you here."

"No, you don't understand." Lyra's voice was urgent despite its weakness. "They let you find me. They wanted you to come."

A cold feeling settled in Shea's stomach. "What do you mean?"

"The ritual... they need both of you. Alpha mates." Lyra winced as the ropes fell away, revealing raw, chafed skin beneath. "Donovan said something about binding your powers together, channeling them through the sacred stones."

Shea helped Lyra to her feet, supporting her weight. "We need to find Achilles and get out of here."

They moved toward the door, but Lyra stumbled, nearly falling. "I can't... my leg. They broke it when I tried to escape."

Shea's jaw tightened with anger. Without hesitation, she lifted Lyra into her arms. "Hold on to me."

In the hallway, the guard was still unconscious. Shea moved toward the stairs, her enhanced strength making Lyra's weight manageable. But halfway down, she froze.

Below, Achilles stood in the center of the mill floor, surrounded by at least a dozen werewolves. Among them was Ryder, and beside him—Donovan himself.

"Ah, there she is," Donovan called up, his voice smooth and cultured. "The final piece of our puzzle. Please, join us, Ms. Wolfe. Unless you'd prefer we tear your mate apart limb by limb."

Achilles caught her eye, his expression a clear warning: Run.

But Shea couldn't leave him—wouldn't leave him. And with Lyra injured, escape seemed impossible anyway.

"Let them go," she said, descending the stairs with Lyra still in her arms. "This is between us, Donovan."

The older werewolf smiled, the expression never reaching his cold eyes. "I'm afraid that's not possible. The ritual requires both of you—the last pure-blooded descendants of the founding packs. Your power combined will restore the balance... under my control, of course."

"It was never about Lyra," Achilles growled. "You used her to lure us here."

"A necessary deception," Donovan shrugged. "Though she did prove quite resilient under questioning. Loyal to a fault."

Shea gently set Lyra down against a wall, making sure she was stable before turning to face Donovan. "And what makes you think we'll cooperate with this ritual?"

"Because the alternative is watching everyone you care about die." Donovan gestured, and two more werewolves dragged forward a struggling figure—Marcus.

His face was bloodied, one eye swollen shut, but his defiance remained unbroken. "Don't listen to him," Marcus spat. "He'll kill us all anyway."

"Such pessimism," Donovan sighed. "I assure you, I keep my word. Participate in the ritual, and your friends live. Refuse..." He made a slashing motion across his throat.

Shea's mind raced. They were outnumbered, outmaneuvered. Even with her newfound powers, fighting their way out seemed impossible without casualties.

Then she felt it—a subtle vibration through the floorboards, a distant rumble that wasn't quite thunder. She glanced at Achilles, who had tilted his head slightly, also sensing the change.

"Where's Lucius?" she asked suddenly.

Donovan's smile faltered just slightly. "Dealing with some... complications at his estate, I imagine. My associates should be keeping him quite occupied."

But Shea recognized the uncertainty in his voice. He didn't know where Lucius was—which meant there was still hope.

The vibration grew stronger. Outside, the wolves had fallen silent.

"You've miscalculated, Donovan," Shea said, her confidence growing. "The ritual doesn't work the way you think it does."

"Oh?" His eyebrow arched. "And I suppose a girl who only discovered her heritage a few months ago knows better than someone who's studied the ancient texts for decades?"

"I don't need texts," Shea replied. "I can feel it. The land speaks to me. And right now, it's telling me that help is coming."

As if on cue, the ground beneath them shuddered violently. The mill's timbers groaned in protest. Dust and splinters rained down from the ceiling.

Donovan's eyes widened in alarm. "What have you done?"

Shea smiled, feeling the approaching presence like a wave of power. "I didn't do anything. But my mother did."

The wall behind Donovan exploded inward in a shower of wood and glass. Through the dust and debris stepped a figure Shea had been waiting thirteen years to see fight—Emilia Wolfe, her eyes glowing with a fierce green light, power radiating from her like heat from a furnace.

"Get away from my daughter," she growled.