Claimed by the scarred Alpha

LUCIAN

I stopped pacing. My free hand curled into a fist at my side while I processed the information. A full house burning. That meant dozens of deaths. Victims, buyers and staff all consumed together.

"And after that," the lackey continued, "someone’s been hunting us down. Picking off survivors one by one."

"Sounds like your competitors making a move." I resumed pacing. "Hostile takeover. It happens in your line of work."

"No." The certainty in his voice was absolute. "This feels personal. Like someone with a grudge."

Personal. The word echoed in my head while I tried to calculate what that might mean for my own exposure. Business relationships with criminal enterprises always carried risks. You accepted that when you entered into arrangements with people who operated outside the law. But personal vendettas were different. Those had a way of expanding beyond their original targets.

"That’s unfortunate for you all." I kept my tone sympathetic despite not feeling anything close to sympathy. "I hope you survive these dark and trying times."

"If I were you," the lackey said slowly, "I’d watch my back too."

My hand tightened on the phone. "Why? I’m just a freelancer. A referral source and a once in a blue moon seller. Nothing more."

"Well, your hands are still dirty."

The statement hung in the air between us. True enough. My involvement with the trafficking ring went beyond simple referrals. I’d helped establish supply lines. I’d provided occasional protection from the law through my connections to Beaumont. I’d make sure myself and others looked the other way when certain shipments moved through Beaumont territory.

Dirty hands indeed.

"Can we talk physically?" I needed to see his face. Read his body language. Determine exactly how much danger I might be in and whether this paranoia was justified or just the ramblings of a man who’d watched his entire operation collapse.

The lackey laughed. The sound came out harsh and bitter. "I knew it. I fucking knew it! I knew that bastard got to you to smoke me out."

"Wait— what bastard—"

The line went dead.

I pulled the phone from my ear and stared at the screen.

Call ended.

I tried to dial back immediately and got an automated message informing me the number was no longer in service.

Fucking hell! Had I been blocked?

I lowered the phone slowly. My mind raced through possibilities and implications while my pulse hammered harder than it should have. Their boss was dead. The operation probably destroyed. Survivors were now supposedly being hunted. And now the lackey thought I was part of whatever force was picking them off one by one.

I dressed quickly in jeans and a dark shirt. Nothing that would draw attention. My jacket went back on because the weight of it felt necessary somehow. Armor against whatever I was about to discover.

The estate was still quiet when I slipped out through the side entrance. No one stopped me or asked where I was going. The Sentinels on patrol barely glanced my way as I climbed into my car and pulled out of the drive.

The biggest hive of the traffickers sat forty minutes outside Beaumont territory. It was neutral ground that belonged to no one. So that meant it was open season for rogues and criminals who’d carved out space for themselves in the gaps between pack lands. I’d been there a handful of times over the years. Always at night. Always for business that couldn’t be conducted in more legitimate settings.

The drive felt longer than usual. Every mile stretched while my thoughts spiraled through scenarios I didn’t want to consider. What if the lackey was right? What if someone with resources and motivation had decided to dismantle the entire trafficking network? What if they had records? Names? Evidence that could connect me to transactions I’d worked very hard to keep buried?

Fuck! Why did I never hear news of this too?

The turn-off came up on my left. An unmarked dirt road that wound through a dense forest for another ten minutes before opening into a clearing where the hive had been built. Or where it should have been.

I slowed the car to a crawl as the ruins came into view.

It had Indeed been burned. The lackey hadn’t been exaggerating. The entire structure had been reduced to blackened skeletal remains. Charred beams jutted toward the sky like accusing fingers. The walls had collapsed inward. The roof was gone completely. What remained actually looked like the aftermath of a bombing rather than a simple fire.

I parked the car and climbed out slowly. The smell hit me immediately. Old smoke and something worse underneath. The scent of death that had soaked into the ground and refused to wash away even after time had passed.

I walked closer. My shoes crunched against debris scattered across the clearing. Broken glass. Twisted metal. Pieces of furniture that had been expensive once. All of it reduced to garbage by flames hot enough to melt through reinforced doors.

This had happened years ago. The vegetation growing through the wreckage told me that much. Weeds had reclaimed parts of the foundation. Small trees had started to sprout where the main entrance used to be. Nature covering the evidence of what had occurred here.

So why didn’t I know about this?

I stopped at what used to be the front entrance and stared into the darkness beyond. The structure had been three stories tall. Dozens of rooms spread across each floor. Soundproofed walls and reinforced locks and all the infrastructure necessary to keep victims contained and buyers satisfied.

Gone. All of it consumed in a single night.

During peak hours, the lackey had said. Full house. I could picture it too easily. The screaming. The panic as people realized they couldn’t escape. Flesh melting against metal as they tried to force their way through doors that had been designed to keep them trapped.

Personal, he’d called it.

I turned in a slow circle and surveyed the entire clearing. Someone had done this deliberately. Chosen the timing to maximize casualties. Waited until the building was packed with both victims and abusers before lighting the match or the bomb.

And then they’d started hunting survivors.

My hands curled into fists. I needed information. Real information, not the paranoid ramblings of a man on the run. I needed to know who was behind this and what they knew and whether my name appeared anywhere in their burn book.

But everyone who might have answers was either dead or now convinced I was trying to kill them.

I walked back to my car and climbed inside. My phone sat in the cup holder where I’d left it. There was no new messages. No missed calls. Just the same silence that had greeted me when I’d first tried to make contact.

The Étienne boy came back to mind unbidden. He had been a teenager when I’d handed him over. Traumatized from watching his parents executed. Broken in ways that had made him perfect merchandise for the kind of patron who frequented places like this.

I’d told Vivianne I hadn’t saved him. That was true. But I hadn’t mentioned what I’d done instead. The transaction. The money that had changed hands. The way the trafficking boss had smiled and assured me the boy would generate excellent returns given his bloodline and appearance.

A Beta’s son. Rare genetics. Young enough to be molded. Old enough to be used immediately.

Prime inventory.

I started the car and pulled away from the ruins. The forest closed around me as I drove back toward the main road. My thoughts churned through possibilities I didn’t want to examine too closely.

The boy would be dead by now. Obviously. The life expectancy of trafficking victims wasn’t high. Especially male Betas. They got used hard and fast until there was nothing left worth selling. Then they got disposed of.

Sucked dry by the lust of others, as the saying went.

So there was no connection. No reason to think this had anything to do with decisions I’d made years ago. The timing was coincidence. The paranoia was understandable given the circumstances but ultimately unfounded.

I repeated those thoughts like a mantra while I drove through the darkness.