Cecily led Cyrus out of the prison cell. The corridor outside was narrow and cold, its stone walls damp with age. The air still carried the weight of mildew and silence. At the far end, a heavy iron door stood guarded by two werewolves in dark uniforms. They stiffened as Cecily approached.
She gave them a silent nod.
With synchronized precision, the guards pulled the bolts and pushed the door open. As Cyrus stepped past, both wolves eyed him warily—one with suspicion, the other with something closer to fear. They didn't speak, but their body language screamed outsider.
The door creaked open into a sprawling study—rich, warm, and old as bloodlines. It was lined with towering oak bookshelves, packed tightly with leather-bound tomes. An antique chandelier spilled golden light over polished wood floors and deep crimson rugs. Victorian furniture, ornate and perfectly maintained, filled the space. Every chair looked like it had a history, every lamp a story.
Cecily led him into an adjacent sitting room. Here, the mood shifted. The lighting was softer, firelight flickering in a carved stone hearth. Velvet armchairs flanked a low marble table. The air was scented with aged wood, ash, and something faintly floral.
Gerald sat sprawled across a velvet sofa, his legs stretched out, arms crossed. His brow was drawn low in brooding thought—but the moment he saw Cyrus, his expression darkened with sharp resentment. He sat up, a scowl tightening his face.
"What's he doing here, Mother?" Gerald asked coldly, his voice brittle with disbelief.
Cecily didn't answer him at first. She smiled faintly, glancing at Cyrus as if presenting a prized acquisition.
"Cyrus is one of us now," she said smoothly. "He's part of the pack."
Gerald scoffed, his lip curling in disdain. The disapproval was etched deep in his features—creased forehead, clenched jaw, eyes narrowed like a predator sizing up a threat.
"This hunter boy will never be one of us," he muttered.
"He will be," Cecily replied, her voice snapping like a whip. Her golden eyes sharpened, her jaw tense with command. "Because I say so."
Gerald tilted his head slightly. "So, he passed your little test, then?" His tone carried a flicker of defiance.
"Not yet," she said, her smile thinned. "But we will see."
Gerald's eyes turned to Cyrus, narrowing with disdain.
"You will never be a werewolf, pup," he said with venom in his voice. "Red Alpha or not, you'll always be what you are. A hunter pretending to wear a wolf's skin."
Hatred burned in his gaze—hot, bitter, and deeply personal.
Cyrus didn't flinch. He took a single step forward, his lips twisting into a mocking smile.
"I don't know if I was lied to," he said coolly, "but I hear I already paid you back for what you did to me." He leaned slightly forward, voice low and needling. "Next time I kick your ass, I'll be awake to enjoy it."
His face was all mockery now—eyebrow arched, grin crooked with challenge.
Gerald sprang to his feet, fists clenched, rage flaring in his posture.
Cyrus took a step forward too, ready to meet the storm head-on.
Then—
Cecily growled.
It wasn't human. It wasn't even remotely civil. It was the deep, thunderous sound of an Alpha—a sound that rolled like a stormcloud through the room and stopped everything.
Gerald's face froze. His gaze dropped. He looked away, every part of him surrendering without a word.
Cyrus felt something slither through his chest—a sensation that wasn't his own. A low ripple of instinct, warning him. Danger. The kind that didn't need to speak.
"You will squash this petty feud. Right now," Cecily said, her voice glacial and absolute. "If either of you cause trouble again, you'll answer directly to me."
She didn't shout. She didn't have to.
The power in her voice was sovereign.
Cyrus believed her. Every part of her presence screamed dominance—her posture, her scent, her eyes. This wasn't a suggestion. It was law.
Gerald gave a short nod and stormed out of the room, his pride clearly wounded. But the way his shoulder brushed the doorframe told Cyrus this wasn't over. Gerald still saw him as a weak intruder, a mistake that needed correction. And worse—he hadn't forgotten his defeat at Cyrus's hands.
Cecily watched him go, then turned back to Cyrus.
"He'll come around," she said softly.
"I hope so," Cyrus replied, his voice cautious.
Just then, the door creaked open again.
Tabeth stepped into the room.
She was no longer wearing her usual black uniform. Instead, she wore a deep red dress that clung to her curves like it was sewn from wine and shadow. The slit along her thigh offered a glimpse of skin that made Cyrus's throat go dry. Her dark hair spilled over one shoulder, and her emerald eyes gleamed under the firelight.
She was stunning. Lethal. Unapologetically confident.
Cyrus blinked, caught completely off-guard. His smirk faltered for a moment.
"Well," Tabeth said, one corner of her mouth lifting, "you clean up nicely for a prisoner."
Cyrus chuckled, shaking his head. "And you clean up… distractingly."
Cecily rolled her eyes but said nothing. Tabeth breezed across the room like she belonged in that dress, in this moment, in this house filled with power.
"Mother," she said casually, "your council is assembling. The others want to hear what's to be done with our guest."
Cecily sighed. "Let them wait a little longer. I need to explain a few things to our Red Alpha first."
She glanced back at Cyrus.
"This is only the beginning," she said. "You may have joined the pack, but earning their trust—that's another war entirely."
Cyrus exhaled slowly, eyes darting from Tabeth to the door Gerald had stormed through.
"I didn't expect it to be easy," he said. "Just didn't expect it to feel like walking into a den of wolves... with blood on my hands."
Tabeth grinned. "That's exactly what it is."
Cecily paused at the doorway, then turned to face Cyrus once more. Her expression had hardened—jaw tight, golden eyes sharp like twin blades under moonlight. No softness remained in her voice.
"Another thing, Cyrus," she said, her tone flat and unwavering. "You are not to leave this house without an escort. Do you understand me?"
Her face was all steel—eyebrows low, mouth drawn into a thin, straight line. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command.
Cyrus frowned. "And why's that?"
"I'm not taking any chances," she replied, her voice firm. "The other packs cannot know you exist. Not yet. If word spreads that the Red Alpha has returned, it'll start a war—and we won't be ready."
The weight of her words sank in.
Cyrus said nothing. He simply stared at her, his thoughts turning dark. So he was still a prisoner here. Free in name only. And if he couldn't leave, that meant he couldn't visit Abby. Not without risking her life. He clenched his jaw.
I'll go to her when it's safe. Not before. I won't drag her into this.
"Understood?" Cecily snapped.
Cyrus nodded once. "Yeah," he muttered.
"Good." She turned on her heel and walked toward the next room.
As she left, Cyrus leaned closer to Tabeth, keeping his voice low.
"Your mother is scary," he whispered.
"She can hear you," Tabeth whispered back, smirking.
Cecily, without turning, smiled knowingly.
"You'll get used to her," Tabeth added with a wink. Then she nodded toward the doorway. "Come on."
They stepped into a grand dining room, lit by a flickering chandelier and warmed by a long fireplace along the wall. A long oak table ran down the center of the room, carved and polished to a gleam. Heavy chairs with high backs circled it.
Five werewolves were already seated.
At the far end sat Ramsey, a wiry old man well into his fifties, with yellowed eyes, uneven shoulders, and a set of crooked teeth that made his grin more unsettling than friendly. He wore an old wool coat patched at the elbows and had the air of someone who'd lived too long and seen too much.
Beside him were two males, one about thirty-seven with a scar running down his cheek—Otis, a grizzled wolf with short black hair and a thick neck like a bull. He seemed to size Cyrus up the moment he walked in. The other, around forty-two, had a leaner frame and piercing gray eyes—Silas, a quiet observer with calloused hands and a stillness that made him seem perpetually ready to pounce.
The two remaining members were younger—a woman in her early thirties with braided brown hair and tattoos on her forearms, and a blond man with a twitchy eye and a smirk that never quite reached his eyes.
Cyrus glanced around the room, then leaned toward Tabeth again.
"Where's the madman?"
"Madman?" she asked, raising a brow.
"Gerald," Cyrus said with a smirk.
Tabeth snorted softly. "Oh. Him. Gerald doesn't do meetings. He prefers sulking over strategy."
Cyrus smirked wider. "Figures."
They took their seats. Cecily sat at the head of the table, her posture regal, commanding.
"I'm sure you've all heard of Cyrus by now," she began, her voice smooth but laced with authority. "He's joining our pack."
A brief silence swept through the room like a ripple in still water. The air thickened.
"He is to be treated with the respect due to a pack member," Cecily continued, her eyes sweeping across the table. "That doesn't mean we trust him yet. It means we observe. We protect. We prepare."
Her tone left no room for interpretation.
"Any objections?"
The way she said it made clear she wasn't asking for permission. The werewolves exchanged cautious glances, but none dared to speak.
Then, slowly, Ramsey raised a gnarled hand.
All eyes turned to him.
Cecily arched a brow, amused. "Yes, Ramsey?"
"I… don't… like… him," Ramsey drawled, his voice slow and sandpaper-rough. Each word took its sweet time, as if the sentence didn't want to be born.
Cyrus blinked.
Cecily's lips curled into a dark chuckle. "I know."
She turned toward her daughter. "Tabeth."
"Yes, Mother?"
"You're going to help our guest control the Red."
Tabeth's eyes widened just a little. "Me?"
"Who else?" Cecily said. "You're the only one who isn't afraid of him."
Tabeth exhaled through her nose, then gave Cyrus a playful sideways glance. "I'll try not to let him bite anyone."
Cyrus shrugged. "No promises."
Ramsey groaned. "We're all going to die…"
Otis laughed once, deep and hollow. Silas simply kept watching Cyrus like a man reading a dangerous book.
Cecily stood from her seat. "Tomorrow morning, you begin training."
She looked at Cyrus. "You've agreed to join the pack. Now you'll prove you belong."
Cyrus met her gaze evenly. "Let's see if I do."
Tomorrow, he'd start training. Not just to prove himself to them—but to find out what he really was.