One dinner I said finally. “One.
She smiled, sharp and polished. “I’ll make the reservation.”
+25 BONUS
Dinner was at one of the old high–end places in the Silverclaw business district. Not the kind of restaurant you pick at random. The kind with leather booths, linen napkins, and too many forks.
I picked the farthest booth. My back to the wall. I didn’t want surprises.
Cassandra arrived late, of course. Never more than five minutes Just enough to draw attention.
She wore a slate–gray sheath dress and gold jewelry. Hair down this time, loose and shining like it had been combed strand by strand.
She slid into the booth beside me, not across.
I didn’t move. “Really?”
“Old habits,” she said, brushing imaginary lint from her skirt.
The waiter came and she ordered a bottle of wine before I could speak. I didn’t argue. No point.
Once the server was gone, she leaned in, placing her hand lightly on my arm.
“Okay,” I said, pulling back slightly. “What’s the proposal?”
Her lips curved. “Think of it as an offer.”
CASSANDRA
Twenty years ago
I’d gotten the dagger three days earlier.
Polished silver. Slim and beautiful. Father had it made special–etched with protective runes along the hilt. “You’re not a child anymore,” he’d said. “You should know what it feels like to wield something deadly.”
It had felt… elegant. Powerful. Like a secret only I understood.
The forest that day was cool and sun–dappled. I moved with the knife in hand, admiring the way the light danced across the blade.
That’s when the rogue stepped out of the trees.
Thin. Hollow–eyed. Like someone carved from hunger and smoke
“Pretty blade,” he said. “Can I have it?”
Ifroze.
“It’s not for sale,” I replied.
Another shape emerged behind him. Then a third.
The first man smiled, slow and sad. “Didn’t ask if it was.”
He stepped forward and my hand tightened on the dagger.
“You don’t want to do this,” I said. “I’m the daughter of the Alpha of the Eastern Ridge Pack.”
1/2
+25 BONUS
One of the rogues laughed. “You think that name means something out here?”
The leader looked tired. “We’re not trying to hurt you. We’re just hungry. That dagger could feed us for two weeks?
I should have turned and run.
Instead, I lifted the blade.
“Then take it from me,” I said.
They did.
Quick. Efficient.
One grabbed my wrist, another caught my shoulder. The blade turned in my hand and slashed across my own skin. I cried out, falling back into the dirt.
I hit the forest floor hard, the wind knocked from my lungs.
Blood soaked into the sleeve of my coat, bright and hot where the blade had nicked my arm. My pulse throbbed against the fabric as I curled inward, cradling the wound, the silver sting still fresh and sharp. The world had gone suddenly quiet–just my breath and the rustle of movement as the rogues rifled through the satchel one of them carried.
The lead rogue tucked the dagger away with almost reverent care. His eyes, flat and yellowed at the edges, flicked to me only once before he turned away.
I tried not to shake. Tried not to cry. But fear crackled through me, icy and electric. I had never been in real danger before. Not like this. Not where no one could see or save me. I pressed my sleeve tighter to the wound, trying to slow the bleeding.
That was when I heard it.
Shouts. Somewhere deeper in the woods.
Teenagers. Laughter.
“Come on, Derek! Catch up!”
The sound struck like lightning.
All three rogues froze.
I lifted my head slowly. The voices drifted through the trees again, teasing and breathless.
A group of boys. Maybe six or seven of them, judging by the scattered voices.
The rogues turned toward the sound.
Then the lead one lifted his head and inhaled.
His whole posture changed. Alert. Focused.
A slow, chilling grin spread across his face.
“Come on, boys,” he said, eyes gleaming with something dark and hungry. “I smell a prince.”
