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Six years of my life are just... gone. I woke up in a hospital bed with a jagged scar on my neck and a gap in my memory where my husband used to be. They tell me Adrian Frost rejected me in front of the whole Pack. They tell me I almost died. I don't feel heartbroken; I just feel empty. Then Kit Ashford walked in. He’s a rival Alpha, a billionaire investor, and the man who pulled me from the wreckage. He’s offering me two million dollars to rebuild the tech company I forgot I lost. He claims it's strictly business. But business partners don't stand guard outside your hotel room all night. And when he handed me the pen to sign the contract, his fingers grazed mine—it was electric. The truffle risotto was perfect. Marlowe knew it without tasting—six years as Luna had taught her to recognize the exact moment Arborio rice achieved that delicate balance between creamy and al dente. She stirred the pot with practiced precision, the earthy aroma of black truffles filling the kitchen of Silvermoon Manor. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the September sun was setting over the Cascade Mountains, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Beautiful. She'd specifically timed dinner for this moment—Adrian always said the mountain view at sunset reminded him of their first date. Not that he'd mentioned it lately. Marlowe pushed the thought aside and reached for the roasted chicken. Three hours of preparation—brined overnight, rubbed with herbs from the garden she'd planted that spring, basted every fifteen minutes until the skin turned golden-bronze. She plated it alongside the risotto with the careful attention of someone who understood that presentation mattered, that every detail was a form of love made visible. The formal dining table was already set: Adrian's grandmother's china, the silver candlesticks polished to a mirror shine, fresh peonies from the florist in town because she'd remembered him mentioning once—years ago—that his mother loved them. Perfect. Everything had to be perfect. The front door opened. Marlowe's heart lifted despite herself, that Pavlovian response she couldn't quite kill even after months of his growing distance. "Adrian?" She smoothed her apron, checked her reflection in the glass of the wine cabinet. No flour on her face, hair still neat in its low bun. Presentable. "Dinner's ready. I made your favorite—" He walked past the dining room without looking in. Marlowe's smile froze. She followed him into his study, where he'd already claimed his leather chair, phone in hand, scrolling with the detached focus of someone reading something far more interesting than anything his wife might say. "I made truffle risotto," she tried again, hating the slight plea that crept into her voice. "And that roasted chicken you liked from our anniversary—" "I'm not hungry." Three words. Flat. Dismissive. He didn't even look up. Something cold slithered down Marlowe's spine. This wasn't just the usual distance, the cool politeness that had characterized the last few months. This was something else. "Adrian, what's wrong?" She stepped into the study, wiping her hands on her apron. "Did something happen at the Pack meeting? Is there—" "Gemma's back." The name hit her like a slap. Gemma. Gemma Thorne, the girl—woman now, she supposed—who'd been Adrian's childhood friend before she'd left for Europe six years ago. Right before Adrian had marked Marlowe, actually. She'd only met Gemma once, briefly, at some Pack function. "Oh." Marlowe's mind raced, trying to find the appropriate response. Should she be concerned? Happy for him? "That's... nice? I'm sure you're glad to see an old friend—" "She's sick." Adrian's voice was different now. Softer. There was an emotion in it Marlowe hadn't heard in months. Care. "Stage four cancer," he continued, still not looking at her, his thumb frozen mid-scroll. "She came back to... to say goodbye to everyone. The doctors gave her six months. Maybe less." "Oh my God." And despite everything—despite the months of loneliness, despite the growing chasm between them—Marlowe felt genuine sympathy. "Adrian, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do? We could—" "No." He finally looked up, and Marlowe wished he hadn't. His eyes were cold, assessing her like a stranger."Actually, there is something." He stood, pocketing his phone. Six feet three inches of Alpha werewolf, built like he'd been carved from the mountains themselves. Once, that size had made her feel safe. Protected. Now she just felt small. "Tomorrow at moonrise," Adrian said, his voice taking on that formal tone he used for Pack business, "I'm calling the Council. I'm revoking your Luna status." The words didn't make sense. Marlowe heard them—the individual syllables registered—but her brain refused to process their meaning. "I... what?" "Our bond. I'm severing it." He straightened his tie, casual, like he was discussing the weather. "The rejection ceremony will be held tomorrow night. Full moon, traditional rites. You'll need to be there." "Adrian." Her voice cracked. "Adrian, I don't understand. What are you—did I do something wrong? Whatever it is, we can fix it, we can—" "You didn't do anything wrong." And somehow that was worse, the way he said it. Gently. Pityingly. "You were never meant to be my Luna, Marlowe. I see that now." "But you marked me. Six years ago, you chose me, you said I was—" "I was wrong." Three more words. These ones shattered something fundamental in her chest. "Gemma is my mate." Adrian walked past her, heading for the stairs. "My real mate. I felt it the moment I saw her again. That pull, that certainty—" He paused on the bottom step, actually smiled. Marlowe couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled at her. "I never felt that with you. I thought I did, but now... now I know what it's supposed to feel like." Marlowe's hand went to her neck, to the scar hidden beneath her collar. The mark he'd given her. The bite that had bound her to him, that had made her his Luna, his mate, his wife in the eyes of Pack law. The mark that had destroyed her original dreams—college abandoned, her tech startup dissolved, six years of her life poured into being the perfect Luna for a man who was now looking at her like she was an inconvenience. "You have until tomorrow evening to prepare," Adrian continued. "I've already had my lawyers draft a settlement. You'll be well compensated—the house in Portland, a car, a monthly stipend. I'm not a monster, Marlowe." He climbed the stairs, each footstep an execution. "Pack gathers at moonrise. Don't be late." And then he was gone, leaving her standing in the doorway between the study and the dining room, where the truffle risotto was getting cold, where the roasted chicken was congealing on its perfect plates, where the peonies were already starting to wilt. In the sudden silence, Marlowe became aware of a strange sensation in her chest. Not pain—not yet. Something deeper. A pulling, like a thread being slowly drawn taut, preparing to snap. She touched her mark again. Tomorrow at moonrise. Rejection ceremonies had a seventy-three percent fatality rate for the rejected party. She'd learned that in the mandatory Luna training, back when she'd still been naive enough to think knowledge would protect her. Tomorrow night, Adrian Frost was going to sever their bond. And there was a very good chance it would kill her. Marlowe stood frozen in the doorway long after Adrian's footsteps faded upstairs. Her mind felt like a computer trying to process corrupted data—information coming in, but none of it making sense. Rejection ceremony. Tomorrow. Moonrise. Her legs moved on autopilot, carrying her back to the kitchen. The truffle risotto stared at her from the stove, obscenely cheerful in its copper pot. Three hours of work. She'd hand-grated the Parmigiano-Reggiano. She'd tracked down actual black truffles from a specialty importer in Seattle. For nothing. The laugh that escaped her throat sounded wrong. Brittle. She turned off the burner. The click of the knob seemed too loud in the silent kitchen. Through the windows, the sunset had deepened to bruised purple. Almost beautiful. Almost. Footsteps on the stairs. Adrian was coming back down. Marlowe's heart lurched stupidly, hopefully. Maybe he'd changed his mind. Maybe this was some kind of test, or a mistake, or— He walked into the kitchen carrying a manila folder. Legal-sized. The kind lawyers used. "Here." He set it on the marble counter between them, careful not to touch her hand. Had he always been so careful not to touch her? "The settlement agreement. My lawyers worked quickly." Marlowe stared at the folder like it might bite. "I don't want your money, Adrian." "Read it anyway." His tone was that of a CEO wrapping up a business meeting. Efficient. Detached. "You'll find it's generous. The Portland house is worth 1.2 million—it's yours, free and clear. Plus a Tesla and fifty thousand a month for the next ten years. That's six million dollars, Marlowe. You'll be comfortable." Comfortable. The word tasted like ashes. "I don't want to be comfortable." Her voice was steadier than she felt. "I want to understand. Six years, Adrian. Six years of marriage. Six years of me trying to be the perfect Luna, and you're ending it for—" She couldn't say the name. "For someone who's dying?" Something flickered across his face. Anger, maybe. Or guilt. "Don't talk about her like that." "Like what? Like she's a stranger who suddenly appeared and destroyed my marriage?" "She's not a stranger." Adrian's jaw tightened. "I've known Gemma since we were children. She was my first friend, my closest confidant before she left for Europe. And now she's back, and I finally understand what I was missing all these years." "What you were missing?" Marlowe's hands curled into fists. "What about what I was missing? What about the man who used to hold me, who used to talk to me, who used to at least pretend he cared?" "I did care." He had the audacity to sound offended. "I do care. That's why the settlement is so generous." "I don't want your settlement!" "Then what do you want?" Adrian's voice rose, his Alpha authority bleeding through despite himself. The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken, to press down on her shoulders. "You want me to lie? To pretend I feel something I don't? I tried, Marlowe. For six years, I tried. But she's my mate. My real mate." Each word was a knife. "You marked me," Marlowe whispered. "You stood in front of the entire Pack and you marked me and you said I was yours—" "I was wrong!" The words exploded out of him. "Is that what you want to hear? I made a mistake. You were young and sweet and I thought— I convinced myself it was the bond. But it never felt right. Not the way it's supposed to." Marlowe's hand went to her neck again, to the scar hidden beneath her collar. The mark that had changed everything. "How is it supposed to feel?" Adrian's expression softened. For the first time in months, he looked at her with something like kindness. It was worse than the indifference. "Like coming home," he said quietly. "Like breathing. Like your wolf recognizes something in her soul that matches yours." He paused. "I feel that with Gemma. I never felt it with you." The truth of it rang in the air between them. Undeniable. Devastating. "But you marked me anyway." Marlowe's voice was barely audible. "You bound me to you anyway." "I thought it would grow. The bond, the feelings. I thought—" He ran a hand through his dark hair, frustrated. "I was twenty-nine years old and the Pack was pressuring me to choose a Luna. You were there, you were suitable, you seemed to care about me. I thought it was enough." "Suitable." The word landed like a slap. "I was suitable." "Marlowe—" "Get out." "This is my house—" "GET OUT!" The shriek tore from her throat, surprising them both. Adrian took a step back, eyes flashing gold for just a second—his wolf rising to the challenge before he forced it down. For a long moment, they stared at each other across the kitchen counter, the manila folder sitting between them like a tombstone. "The ceremony is at moonrise," Adrian said finally. "Be there, Marlowe. If you're not, the Council will consider it a hostile rejection, and the consequences are... worse." He left. This time, Marlowe heard the front door close. Heard his Mercedes start in the driveway, heard the crunch of gravel as he drove away. To Gemma, probably. To his real mate. To the woman who made him feel like coming home. Marlowe looked down at the manila folder. Her hands were shaking as she opened it. The papers inside were dense with legalese, but certain phrases jumped out: "...hereby relinquishes all claims to Pack status..." "...acknowledges the dissolution of the mate bond..." "...waives all rights to challenge the rejection..." At the bottom of the last page: a line for her signature. Marlowe closed the folder. Then she walked to the dining room, to the table set with peonies and ancestral china and six years of trying to be enough. She picked up one of the silver candlesticks. And threw it through the window. The glass shattered with a sound like breaking ice. The evening air rushed in, carrying the scent of pine and mountain stone. Marlowe stood there, breathing hard, surrounded by the ruins of her perfect dinner. Then she grabbed her phone and her keys. She had to get to Sloane. The drive from Silvermoon Manor to Sloane's apartment normally took forty-five minutes. Marlowe made it in thirty, her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel of the Range Rover Adrian had given her for their anniversary last year. "Suitable," her mind kept repeating. "You were suitable." The city lights of Portland blurred past. She'd grown up here, back when her biggest worry was debugging code and choosing which tech startup to join after graduation. Before Adrian. Before everything. Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "Don't make this difficult. Sign the papers. - A" Marlowe threw the phone onto the passenger seat. The mark on her neck was starting to ache. Or maybe it had been aching all along and she'd just been ignoring it, the way she'd ignored so many other warning signs. She parked haphazardly in front of Sloane's building—a converted warehouse in the Pearl District—and practically ran to the entrance. Her hands shook as she punched in the code. Third floor. Apartment 3C. She made it to Sloane's door before the tears finally came. Marlowe knocked—pounded, really—her vision swimming. "Sloane!" Her voice cracked. "Sloane, please, I need—" The door flew open. Sloane Reid stood there in flannel pajamas and an oversized Army t-shirt, her dark blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun. Five years older than Marlowe, six inches taller, and carrying herself with the coiled readiness of someone who'd done two tours in Afghanistan before becoming a social worker. She took one look at Marlowe's face and pulled her inside. "Mar? What happened? Are you hurt? Did Adrian—" "He's leaving me." The words tumbled out. "He's— There's a rejection ceremony tomorrow and he says she's his real mate and I was just suitable, I was just—" Her legs gave out. Sloane caught her, strong arms wrapping around her the way they had when Marlowe was ten and had fallen off her bike, when she was fifteen and her first boyfriend had dumped her, when she was eighteen and their parents had died in a car crash. "Okay," Sloane murmured, guiding her to the couch. "Okay, I've got you. Just breathe." But Marlowe couldn't breathe. Six years of carefully maintained composure shattered all at once. She sobbed into her sister's shoulder—ugly, gasping sobs that hurt her ribs. "Tell me what happened," Sloane said quietly. "All of it." So Marlowe did. She told her about the truffle risotto. About Adrian's coldness, his detachment. About Gemma Thorne returning with cancer and apparently being Adrian's real mate. About the settlement papers and the rejection ceremony and how she'd apparently never been anything more than suitable. When she finished, Sloane was quiet for a long moment. "That son of a bitch," she said finally. "He says the settlement is generous." "Fuck his settlement." Sloane stood, started pacing. "Mar, do you understand what a rejection ceremony means? The mortality rate—" "Seventy-three percent. I know." Sloane stopped, turned to stare at her. "You know, and you're just going to show up?" "If I don't, it's worse. Hostile rejection. The Council—" "Screw the Council!" Sloane's voice was sharp enough to cut. "Marlowe, you could die. Tomorrow night, that bond snaps, and statistically you have a one in four chance of surviving it. Those aren't odds, those are a death sentence with a margin of error." Marlowe touched her mark. Through her shirt, through her skin, she could feel it pulsing. Six years of connection to someone who'd apparently never wanted her. "What else can I do?" she whispered. "Run? Where? He's an Alpha. The Pack laws—" "There are places." Sloane knelt in front of her, gripped her hands. "Vancouver. San Francisco. Packs that don't recognize the Council's authority. We could leave tonight. Right now. You don't have to—" "He'll find me." Marlowe's laugh was bitter. "And then it will be worse. At least this way, it's legal. Clean. I sign the papers, I show up for the ceremony, and maybe—maybe I survive it." "Maybe isn't good enough." "It's all I have." They sat in silence. Outside the windows, Portland's skyline glittered. Somewhere out there, Adrian was with Gemma, feeling what coming home felt like. Feeling what Marlowe had apparently never inspired in him. "I was so stupid," Marlowe whispered. "I gave up everything for him. College, my company, my friends. I learned how to run a Pack household and organize charity events and smile through dinners with people who whispered about how I wasn't good enough, wasn't strong enough, wasn't worthy of an Alpha. And I thought—" Her voice broke. "I thought if I just tried harder, if I was just perfect enough, he'd love me the way he did in the beginning." "Did he?" Sloane's voice was gentle. "Love you in the beginning?" Marlowe thought about their first months together. Adrian's charm, his attentiveness. The way he'd swept into her life and made her feel special, chosen, important. But had he loved her? Or had she just been suitable? "I don't know anymore," she admitted. Sloane pulled her into another hug. "We run tonight." "Sloane—" "We run tonight," her sister repeated firmly. "Pack some clothes. Essential documents. We go to Vancouver, get you somewhere the Council can't reach, and figure out the rest later. I'm not watching my baby sister die for some Alpha's convenience." For a moment, Marlowe almost agreed. Almost let herself believe they could escape. Then her phone buzzed again. Another text from Adrian: "Council has been notified. Ceremony is official. You have 24 hours." The weight of it settled over her. Pack law. Council authority. The bond that tied her to Adrian whether she wanted it or not. "I need legal closure," Marlowe heard herself say. "If I run, I'm a rogue for the rest of my life. No Pack will take me. No city will be safe. But if I show up, if I do this right, I'm free. Legally, officially free." "You might be dead." "Or I might survive." Marlowe stood on shaky legs. "And if I do, I'll be free of him. Free of all of it. No more being suitable. No more trying to be enough for someone who never wanted me." Sloane looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. "You're as stubborn as Mom was." "You say that like it's a bad thing." "It's how she died, Mar. Driving through a snowstorm because she was too stubborn to wait it out." The reference to their parents hit harder than expected. They'd been gone eight years now, but grief was like that—waiting in ambush when you least expected it. "I have to do this," Marlowe said quietly. "The right way." "Then at least let me come with you. Tomorrow night, I'll be there." "Sloane, you don't have to—" "You're my sister." Sloane's voice was fierce. "I'm not letting you walk into that alone." Marlowe's throat tightened. "Okay." "And Mar?" Sloane gripped her shoulders. "If you survive this—when you survive this—we're getting you out of here. You, me, and whatever life you want to build that has nothing to do with Adrian Frost. Deal?" "Deal." They stood there in the quiet apartment, two sisters against the world. The way it had always been. Outside, the moon was rising. Twenty-four hours. Marlowe didn't sleep. She lay on Sloane's couch, staring at the ceiling, her hand pressed against the mark on her neck. It was definitely hurting now—a low, constant ache that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. The bond knew what was coming. Around three AM, she gave up on sleep and opened her laptop. Muscle memory carried her to the files she hadn't looked at in six years: her original business plan for Reid Tech Solutions. The patents she'd filed. The code she'd written. "You need to focus on Pack duties now," Adrian had said when she'd mentioned wanting to keep working. "A Luna's responsibilities are to her mate and her Pack. You can play with your computers later." She'd never played with her computers later. "Can't sleep?" Marlowe looked up to find Sloane padding into the living room, carrying two mugs. "Hot chocolate," Sloane said, handing her one. "With those tiny marshmallows you like. I keep them here for when you visit." "I haven't visited in months." The guilt of it hit belatedly. Between Pack duties and Adrian's increasing distance, she'd been isolating herself without even realizing it. "I know." Sloane settled into the armchair across from her. "I thought about calling, but every time I did, you sounded so tired. So I figured you'd reach out when you were ready." "I should have reached out sooner." "You're here now." Sloane sipped her hot chocolate. "What are you looking at?" Marlowe turned the laptop so her sister could see. "My old business plan. I was going to revolutionize sustainable building materials. Smart concrete that could self-repair, green insulation that actively cleaned air quality. I had investors interested, three patents pending, and a team of engineers ready to go." "What happened?" "I met Adrian." Marlowe stared at the screen. "And suddenly there wasn't time for any of it. Luna duties, Pack politics, learning how to host the perfect dinner party. My dreams got... small." "They weren't small," Sloane said softly. "He made them small." The truth of it sat heavy between them. "If I survive tomorrow," Marlowe said slowly, "I want to rebuild it. All of it. Maybe not the exact same company, but something. I want to remember what it feels like to create something that's mine." "When you survive tomorrow," Sloane corrected. "And hell yes. I'll help however I can." They sat in comfortable silence, drinking hot chocolate while Portland slept around them. Around five AM, Marlowe's phone buzzed. A text from Rowan Pierce, her old roommate from college: "Just heard. I'm so sorry. Do you need anything? I'm here." Then another, from an unknown number that turned out to be the Silvermoon Pack's event coordinator: "Mrs. Frost, the Council has requested you arrive by 7 PM for the ceremony. Formal dress is required. Please confirm receipt." Marlowe showed the message to Sloane, who made a disgusted sound. "Formal dress. For your own execution. These people are psychopaths." "They're traditional," Marlowe said, but her heart wasn't in the defense. "The ceremony has protocols. Witnesses, ritual words, the—" Her phone rang. Unknown number. She answered cautiously. "Hello?" "Marlowe Reid?" The voice was male, unfamiliar. "This is Rowan's friend Jasper. I'm a lawyer with Clearwater & Associates. Rowan asked me to call." Marlowe's eyes widened. "I didn't ask for—" "Pro bono," Jasper interrupted. "Just hear me out. I've handled several supernatural dissolution cases. If you're being coerced into a rejection ceremony, there are legal options. We could petition the Council for a standard divorce instead. It would take longer, but the mortality rate is significantly lower—" "How much longer?" "Six to eighteen months, depending on—" "No." Marlowe's voice was flat. "I can't stay in this bond for eighteen more months." "Mrs. Frost, I understand you're upset, but please consider—" "He doesn't want me." The words came out raw. "He has a new mate. A real mate. Staying in this bond means eighteen months of watching him be with her, eighteen months of Pack members pitying me, eighteen months of being the unwanted Luna. I'd rather take my chances with the ceremony." Jasper was quiet for a moment. "I understand. But if you change your mind, or if you need help with the settlement review, call me. Day or night." He hung up. Sloane was watching her. "You could take the divorce option." "I could." Marlowe set down her phone. "But I won't." "Stubborn." "Mom's daughter." The sky outside was starting to lighten—that gray pre-dawn glow that meant morning was coming whether you were ready or not. "I need to go back," Marlowe said. "To the Manor. Get proper clothes, sign the papers, prepare for tonight." "I'll drive you." "Sloane—" "I'll drive you," her sister repeated, in a tone that brooked no argument. "And I'll be there tonight. Front row. If that bastard tries anything beyond what's legally required, he'll have to go through me." Marlowe almost smiled. "You know he's an Alpha werewolf, right? With superhuman strength and healing and—" "I have a Glock and zero patience for men who treat my sister like garbage. We'll see who wins." This time Marlowe did smile. It felt strange on her face, like a muscle she'd forgotten how to use. They finished their hot chocolate as dawn broke over Portland. In twelve hours, Marlowe would stand in front of the Silvermoon Pack and let Adrian sever the bond that had defined the last six years of her life. Seventy-three percent fatality rate. She touched her mark one more time. "I'm going to survive this," she said quietly. "And when I do, I'm going to build something so successful, so brilliant, that Adrian Frost spends the rest of his life wondering how he was stupid enough to let me go." Sloane raised her empty mug. "I'll drink to that." "We're out of hot chocolate." "Then I'll drink to it later. The sentiment stands." They sat together as the sun rose, two sisters preparing for war. Six years ago The bar was called Timber, one of those trendy Portland establishments that tried too hard to look rustic with its reclaimed wood and Edison bulbs. Marlowe sat at a high-top table with three of her college friends, celebrating the end of finals with overpriced cocktails and too-loud laughter. She was twenty-two. A senior at Portland State, double-majoring in Computer Science and Environmental Engineering. Her senior project—a prototype for self-healing concrete—had just won the university's innovation competition. Three different investors had reached out. Her future was bright, mapped out, full of possibility. "Another round?" Chelsea shouted over the music. Marlowe checked her phone. 10:47 PM. She had a meeting with a potential investor tomorrow at nine. She should probably go home, get some sleep, review her pitch deck one more time. "One more," she heard herself say. "But something without tequila this time." Chelsea laughed and headed for the bar. That's when Marlowe noticed them. Three men—wolves, she corrected mentally. Three werewolves in the corner booth, watching the dance floor with predatory interest. Since the Great Reveal twenty years ago, supernaturals had been living openly among humans, protected by law but still... different. Dangerous. Portland had a significant werewolf population. Marlowe had taken the required inter-species relations course, knew the basics: respect Pack hierarchy, never challenge an Alpha, avoid making eye contact during a full moon. These three were clearly trouble. Rogues, probably—wolves without Pack affiliation who often operated outside supernatural law. Their eyes were tracking a group of girls near the dance floor, and something about their body language made Marlowe's skin crawl. She pulled out her phone, pretending to text while watching them peripherally. One of the Rogues stood. Started walking toward the dance floor. Toward Chelsea, specifically, who was waiting at the bar in her short dress and high heels, completely oblivious. Marlowe was on her feet before she consciously decided to move. "Chels," she said, sliding between her friend and the approaching Rogue. "We should probably head out. Early meeting tomorrow and—" "Well, hello there." The Rogue's voice was oil-slick smooth. Up close, Marlowe could see the faint glow in his eyes—wolf rising to the surface. "No need to rush off. Night's just getting started." "We were actually just leaving," Marlowe said firmly, gripping Chelsea's arm. "Didn't ask what you were doing." The Rogue stepped closer. Too close. "Asked if you wanted to stay. Have a drink with me and my friends." "No, thank you." Marlowe kept her voice level, non-confrontational. Everything she'd learned in that inter-species course: don't challenge, don't provoke, don't show fear. "We appreciate the offer, but—" His hand shot out, grabbed her wrist. "Wasn't really a question, sweetheart." Chelsea made a small frightened sound. The other two Rogues were standing now, moving to flank them. The bartender—human—was studiously looking elsewhere. No help there. Marlowe's heart hammered. She'd read about this. Rogues who targeted human women, who used Pack dynamics to intimidate, who— "Let her go." The voice cut through the bar noise like a blade. Marlowe turned to see a man she'd never noticed before, standing maybe ten feet away. Tall—easily six-three—with dark hair and the kind of build that suggested he spent significant time in a gym. Or hunting. His eyes were fixed on the Rogue holding her wrist, and they were hard as stone. "This doesn't concern you," the Rogue growled. "It does now." The stranger took a step forward, and something in the air changed. Thickened. Marlowe felt it press against her skin like static electricity before a storm. "Let. Her. Go." The Rogue's grip loosened. No—not loosened. Released. Against his will, his fingers opening like he'd been commanded by a force he couldn't resist. Alpha Command. Marlowe stumbled back, Chelsea catching her. The stranger—the Alpha—moved between them and the three Rogues with fluid grace. "Leave," he said quietly. "Now. And if I ever see you harassing women in this city again, I'll have you brought before the Pack Council for disciplinary action. Understood?" The lead Rogue's jaw worked like he wanted to argue. But whatever he saw in the Alpha's face made him think better of it. "Whatever," he muttered. "Bitches weren't worth it anyway." He and his friends slunk toward the exit. The Alpha watched them go, tension radiating from his shoulders. Only when the door closed behind them did he turn to Marlowe and Chelsea. "Are you both alright?" His voice was different now. Softer. Concerned rather than commanding. "Y-yes," Chelsea stammered. "Thank you. Oh my God, thank you. They were—" "Rogues." The Alpha's jaw tightened. "They shouldn't be operating in Portland. I'll report them to the local Pack." Marlowe found her voice. "You didn't have to do that. Step in, I mean." "Yes, I did." He met her eyes, and something strange happened in Marlowe's chest. A flutter, like her heart had skipped a beat. "Those men were dangerous. You should be more careful about—" He stopped, shook his head. "Sorry. You don't need a lecture. You handled yourself well. Stayed calm, didn't escalate." "Inter-species relations course," Marlowe said, surprised she could form coherent words. "Freshman year requirement." He smiled. It transformed his entire face, softening the harsh lines into something almost boyish. "Sounds like they're teaching useful skills at Portland State these days." "You went to PSU?" "Graduated a few years ago. MBA program." He extended his hand. "I'm Adrian. Adrian Frost." Marlowe shook his hand. His grip was warm, firm, careful. "Marlowe Reid." "Reid?" His eyebrows rose. "Any relation to the Reid who just won the innovation competition? The self-healing concrete project?" Marlowe blinked. "That's... that's me, actually. How did you—" "I keep tabs on PSU's engineering programs. My company invests in sustainable technology." His smile widened. "Your project was impressive. The environmental applications alone could revolutionize construction." Her cheeks warmed. "You really think so?" "I know so. Actually—" He pulled out a business card. "If you're looking for investors, my Pack has a venture ca