“Then maybe worry about your own mess. The only thing you’re good at is draining pack funds.”
We’re nose to nose now, the tension crackling. My pulse races. Lydia’s always known how to bait me—but today, she’s pushing harder.
“I’m trying to protect you from making a mistake with that mongrel,” she snarls. “God only knows what he did to Deacon, and you’re defending him?”
I grit my teeth. “Not this again. I don’t know where Deacon is. Wherever he is, he’s not looking for me—or you.” Her eyes flash with fury.
“Hey,” Maya cuts in, voice soft. “Let’s all take a breath—”
Lydia’s already pointing at me. “You were the last one seen with him. And now you’re covering for Zayn. He followed Deacon out that night.”
“Bullshit,” I snap. “We checked the tapes. If you’re so worried, go find him. I’m done with this drama.”
I turn to leave, when her voice stops me cold.
“How dare you! You call me dramatic? You started a pack war! You’re just like your whore mother—always stirring trouble!” The word hits me like a slap.
My vision goes red. Everything else fades—students, walls, even the enforcers. All I see is her. The smug look. The venom behind her words.
A snarl rips from my throat.
I lunge.
My hand tangles in her hair, yanking her forward until our faces are inches apart. Her eyes widen in panic, but I don’t care.
“You don’t get to talk about my mother,” I hiss, low and shaking.
“Let go of me!” Lydia screeches, trying to wriggle free.
The enforcers freeze, unsure what to do. Maya gasps behind me.
My other hand clenches into a fist.
Lydia’s scream barely registers as I slam her forward. Her face connects with the brick wall, the impact sickening.
Chapter 13
• Zayn •
The roar of my engine breaks the morning silence as I pull into Alpha Greyson’s territory. The scent of pine and wet earth fills my lungs—familiar, grounding.
As I step out, boots crunching on gravel, Greyson’s laugh rolls down the steps of his packhouse. “Word is, you stirred up Dane and Joseph at that meeting.”
His tone is light, yet the tension crawling up my spine doesn’t ease. I’m not here to entertain.
“News travels fast,” I say, slamming my car door shut. The smell of rain lingers— storm brewing, inside and out.
Greyson smirks. “Joseph looked ready to rip someone’s throat out when he left.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I mutter, thinking about what happens when ambition clashes with power.
Greyson’s arms cross, eyes sharp beneath the easy posture. “So, what brings you here?”
I glance around—the packhouse looms behind him, nestled in dense trees like a fortress. “You need my help, don’t you?” he says before I can answer.
“I might,” I admit.
Greyson nods, his expression turning serious. “Whatever it is, you’ve got my support.”
