Chapter 3 She betrayed me

(Lucien's POV)

The pounding on the door grows louder, and I watch Thalia's hand hover over the lock. Something in my chest constricts, not the mate bond, though that's there too. This is betrayal.

She pressed the beacon. After everything I showed her, every piece of evidence, every vulnerability I exposed, she still called for help. Still chose them over me.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, and the anguish in her voice almost makes me believe it. Almost.

"Don't be." I'm already moving, my body making calculations my mind hasn't finished processing. Window's still locked but that won't stop me. The fall will hurt but I'll heal. Better broken bones than a silver bullet to the brain.

"Wait... Lucien, please..."

I grab the desk chair and hurl it at the window. The glass explodes outward in a glittering cascade, and cold London air rushes in. Fifteen floors. I've survived worse.

"LUCIEN!" Thalia's scream follows me as I dive through the window.

The freefall lasts maybe three seconds. Long enough for my wolf to surge forward, bones shifting just enough to reinforce my skeleton for impact. I hit the fire escape on the twelfth floor, the metal screaming under my weight, then vault over the railing into another controlled fall.

Behind me, I hear shouting. Garrett's voice: "He's on the fire escape! South side! MOVE!"

I don't look back. Can't afford to. My boots hit the ninth-floor landing and I'm running, taking the stairs three at a time, the rusty metal clanging like alarm bells with each step. The mate bond stretches between Thalia and me like a rubber band pulled taut, the distance already causing a dull ache in my chest.

I should have known better. 

She betrayed me.

My mate, the woman my soul chose, the one I've been searching for since I was old enough to understand the concept, pressed that button knowing exactly what would happen.

Thirteen days. Two weeks ago it was four weeks. Time is hemorrhaging away, and I'm no closer to completing my mission.

My phone chimes. Different number, this one I recognize.

Damon: Where the hell are you? You've been gone four hours. The store is literally ten minutes away.

Shit. The groceries. I was supposed to pick up groceries before everything exploded into chaos at Camden Market.

 Damon Blackwell is human, a genuinely decent human who thinks I'm his eccentric Russian flatmate who works odd hours as a "security consultant." He doesn't know about werewolves or ancient pack feuds or assassination missions. He definitely doesn't know I'm supposed to murder a nineteen-year-old girl in the next two weeks.

I push to my feet, testing my weight on the injured ankle. It protests but holds. 

I need time to compose myself. To figure out what I'm going to tell Damon.

I let myself into the flat using the key hidden above the doorframe. 

"Finally!" Damon appears in the kitchen doorway, still wearing his work clothes, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He's holding a beer and grinning. "I'm starving, mate. Please tell me you at least got the..."

He stops. His smile falters as he takes in my appearance: torn jacket, dirt-streaked jeans, the way I'm favoring my left ankle.

"Lucien, what the hell happened to you?"

"Accident. Some idiot wasn't watching where he was going, knocked me down a flight of stairs."

"Are you okay? Do you need to go to hospital?"

"I'm fine. Just bruised." I limp toward my bedroom, desperate to escape his concerned scrutiny. "Sorry about the groceries. I'll go back out later."

"Forget the groceries. Sit down, let me at least get you some ice for that ankle."

"Damon..."

"Sit. Down." He uses the voice he reserves for particularly recalcitrant clients at his law firm, the one that suggests arguing would be futile. "I'm not asking."

I collapse onto the sofa, too exhausted to fight. Damon disappears into the kitchen and returns with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel. He crouches beside me, gently propping my ankle on the coffee table and applying the ice.

"You're a terrible liar, you know that?" he says conversationally. "In the eighteen months we've lived together, you've had more 'accidents' than anyone I've ever met. Last month it was a 'cycling collision.' Month before that, you 'fell down an escalator.' I'm starting to think you're either the unluckiest person in London or you're into something dodgy."

"I'm just clumsy."

"You have the reflexes of a cat. I've seen you catch falling glasses without even looking." He sits back on his heels, studying my face. "If you're in trouble..."

"I'm not in trouble." Another lie. I'm in so much trouble I can't even calculate the full scope of it. "I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine. Really."

Damon doesn't look convinced, but he's also not the type to push. It's one of the things I like about him, he respects boundaries even when he disagrees with them.

"All right," he says finally. 

"Yeah. Thanks."

He returns to his football match, and I'm left alone with my thoughts and the persistent ache of the mate bond.

I need to talk to someone who understands. Someone who knows what I am and what I'm facing.

I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find the number I'm looking for. It rings four times before he picks up.

"Tell me you've completed the mission." Nikolai's voice is gravelly, tired. My oldest friend sounds like he hasn't slept in days.

"I can't do it."

Silence. Then: "Lucien, this isn't the time for jokes."

"I'm not joking." I keep my voice low, conscious of Damon in the next room. "I found her. Made contact. Gathered all the intelligence we need. But I can't kill her, Nik."

"Why not?" His tone sharpens. "Is she more heavily guarded than we thought? Because we can send backup..."

"She's my mate."