chapter 17

Rath.

Alpha Theron's body lay sprawled on the floor, with a white sheet doing its best to keep the horror underneath modest. Naturally, I pulled it back because curiosity never killed a wolf, right? There it was—his head, sitting a respectable distance away from his body. Surprisingly, not as much blood as I'd imagined. I leaned in closer, activating my wolf vision like some kind of murder detective superhero. The cut was clean but…off. Whatever did this wasn't a sword—maybe something from the "Creative Ways to Decapitate Your Alpha" handbook.

"What's the story here?" I asked, trying not to sound like this was my first beheading investigation.

"The maids found him this way," Chief Jake explained, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. "No signs of a break-in, no theft. Just this…mess."

I glanced around the room. Bed? Check. Desk? Check. Windows shut tight? Check. Nothing screamed, *Hey, I'm a clue!* Moving to the dressing room, my wolf nose went on overdrive. Big mirror, boring cabinets, and not a single thing interesting enough to make the cut in a crime drama. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my reflection looking back with "Oh no, still got lipstick from that human girl" vibes. Not my best moment.

Back in the room, Theron's headless body was carted off like a grim VIP on a stretcher. This investigation had to move fast. Theron's death was about to rock the pack like a scandal in a reality TV show.

---

Later, in my office, I stared at the crime scene photos like a broody detective in every cliché noir movie ever. Theron had enemies, sure, but who had the guts to turn him into a literal headliner?

"Any thoughts?" I asked Billie, as she casually poured tea into my cup like we weren't talking about murder.

She leaned over the pictures, squinting. "This cut? It's personal. He knew his killer. They wanted him to *know*. But here's the weird part—it looks like a scythe did this."

I blinked at her. "A scythe? Like...a farmer's 'harvest your crops' kind of scythe?"

"Yup," she said, dead serious. "Not a common assassination tool, but effective. The Grim Reaper would approve."

She wasn't wrong. A scythe wasn't exactly your standard issue murder weapon, but hey, who was I to judge creativity? ---

I downed the coffee Billie handed me in one dramatic gulp, slamming the cup down like I was auditioning for a caffeine commercial. The taste didn't register—just the weariness that clung to me like a bad cologne. Last night was a hazy mess, and I couldn't shake the sense that something wasn't adding up.

"Need me to balance your energy, sir?" Billie asked, calm as ever, standing there like a yoga instructor who secretly moonlights as a crime scene consultant.

I gave her a look. "Where's the human girl?" I asked, ignoring her offer. My brain might've been foggy, but I could still cling to the one detail gnawing at me.

"In her room," Billie said with a faintly amused tone. "She showed up exhausted and knocked out. Though she did manage to have a bowl of cereal first, if you're worried about her nutrition."

I grimaced. Concern for her wasn't exactly the vibe I was going for, but apparently, my subconscious had other plans. "Let's get this over with," I muttered, standing and trying to shake off the lingering disorientation.

Back in my room, I shrugged off my shirt, already regretting this whole "energy balancing" idea. Billie's hands traced along my abs and up to my shoulders, and suddenly I was wide awake, my senses on high alert. The touch wasn't unpleasant—just unsettling, like an itch you didn't realize you had.

She pushed her glasses up, her eyes meeting mine with unnerving focus. "Fragments of last night will come back to you," she said, her voice softer now. Then, like a perfectly scripted exit, she stepped back, bowed her head, and slid her glasses back down like the professional enigma she was.

Without thinking, I reached out and patted her head, the silky texture of her hair grounding me for a moment. Against all odds, a strange calm washed over me. Maybe energy balancing wasn't total nonsense after all.

*************

Dahlia.

My eyes shot open, feeling like I'd just run a marathon in my sleep. My entire body screamed exhaustion, but my brain wasn't offering any reasons why. Sitting up, I massaged my temples, trying to sort through the haze, while my hair fell stubbornly into my face.

"Good afternoon," Billie said, breezing into the room like she hadn't a care in the world. She set down a tray of food, her timing impeccable. "Glad to see you awake."

Yawning, I didn't bother with pleasantries before diving into the meal like it was my last. The gnawing hunger clawing at me made quick work of the food. Billie, always composed, signed her question as I chewed. "How are you feeling?"

"Drained. Like I got hit by a truck," I replied between bites. "No memory of last night, but I guess that nap helped."

"Any flashes of recollection?" Billie asked, her eyes searching mine.

I closed my eyes and tried. "Bits and pieces," I admitted. "I remember a wedding. I was sitting alone, and this man with brown hair asked me to dance. Then my husband swooped in, and we left. I took off my heels in the car, and… nothing after that." Frustration bubbled up as I signed the last part.

Billie gave me one of her trademark comforting smiles. "It'll come back in time. Don't force it," she reassured, her calmness like a balm to my frazzled nerves.

---

The cool afternoon breeze beckoned, so I wandered to my garden. It was my little sanctuary, the one place that always calmed me. The trenches were neat, and my plants thrived. Pride swelled as I inspected everything, my eyes lingering on the far end where my red roses—once lifeless—now bloomed with an almost otherworldly vibrance. Their petals caught the sunlight, a breathtaking burst of crimson.

Leaning in to inhale their sweet scent, I felt a sharp jab. A thorn had pricked my finger, and blood pooled instantly. A few drops splattered onto the soil before I straightened, cradling my injured hand.

Returning to the house, I paused at the sight of several sleek cars in the driveway. Men in black suits stood like statues—my husband's guests had arrived. Internally groaning, I turned towards the bathroom to clean my finger, only to bump into someone's back.

The man spun around quickly, his stance alert. I froze. It was the man from the wedding. My stomach flipped as his dark eyes locked onto mine.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his face rich with concern.

I nodded, mutely rubbing my forehead where we'd collided. My hands weren't cooperating with my attempt at a quick retreat, though, and before I could dart away, he reached for my injured hand.

To my surprise, he lifted it to his lips—not to kiss, but to inhale, his eyes fluttering shut like he was savoring some fine wine. My heart skipped a beat, not out of romance but pure bewilderment. Oh no. The blood. I just gave him a bloody hand.

When he opened his eyes, a smirk danced on his lips as he released my hand. He walked away without a word, leaving me standing there, utterly confused and faintly horrified.

Questions stormed through my mind. Who is he? What is his name? And why the hell is he smelling my blood?