When she woke up, Alex stretched. She opened her eyes and looked at the clock hanging on the wall: seven o'clock.
"Fuck!" she exclaimed, springing to her feet—only to collapse almost immediately as a sharp pain in her leg stopped her in her tracks.
She grabbed the doorframe mid-fall and forced herself upright again. Taking a deep breath, she limped cautiously to the bathroom to get ready. She tossed some underwear and spare clothes into a bag, then grabbed her jacket and helmet and headed out.
Dragging the motorbike outside was a struggle, but as the morning air—still untouched by smog—caressed her face, she felt better. She inhaled deeply, slipped on her helmet, and started the engine.
On the way, she stopped at a perfume store and asked the saleswoman for something that could cover the bluish bruise on the left side of her face.
Once outside the city, the grey concrete gave way to green fields. A smile spread across Alex's face as the scent of wet grass filtered through her helmet. She loved that smell—it gave her a sense of freedom, of space. She breathed it in deeply, then twisted the throttle and enjoyed the ride.
At the hotel, she found Jim directing staff in the lobby, sending people this way and that. When he saw her, his face lit up with a smile—only to fade instantly as he caught sight of her swollen, bruised face.
"What happened to you?" he asked.
"Just a little accident. Don't worry, it won't show."
He looked at her skeptically.
"I doubt that," he muttered, "but it's too late now to find someone else. At reception, turn left. Immediately on the right is a door. They'll give you your badge and uniform. Here's your room key—go get changed. Quickly!"
He placed a large wooden key fob in her hand, engraved with the number 11.
When she came back down, Alex looked perfect—or almost. She was limping slightly, but her face, now an even amber tone, looked only slightly tanned. The bruise had vanished under the makeup.
"Wow," Jim said, scrutinizing her face more closely. "I didn't think you'd pull it off!"
"For the bar, go past the lobby. It's just beyond the glass door."
---
The following day, Michael stayed on the estate. In the library, he picked out a book and wandered through the park. With slow, thoughtful steps, he retraced old paths: the ancient woods on the eastern side, the quiet pond where ducks swam peacefully. He sat on the bank, letting his gaze drift between the scenery and his thoughts.
When he returned, just before lunch, Christopher approached him.
"I had them call you. She's arrived," he said.
Michael clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on the book. Then he nodded.
The sound of a car braking on the gravel made them both turn.
Moments later, Eleanor appeared on the porch. Her blonde hair was impeccably styled, as was the cream-colored skirt suit she wore.
Christopher stepped toward her.
"Mother," he greeted.
"Christopher. I want you to update me immediately on what has happened."
Her icy blue eyes flicked past her eldest son to settle on Michael.
"Michael."
His name was spat out with thinly veiled irritation and disdain.
Christopher gently took her arm and led her toward the study.
"Let's go. We have urgent matters to discuss."
He signaled for Michael to follow.
"I will speak with Lord Byrne and Lord Blackhood about this," Eleanor announced once inside.
"But it's our territory!" Christopher objected. "It's our duty—and our responsibility—to monitor pack territory."
Eleanor's features hardened, and her tone turned sharp.
"Don't speak to me like that, Christopher. I am the pack leader, and the decision is mine. I won't risk the lives of trusted wolves over something that may not even concern us."
"You can't be serious."
"And you can't act without my approval."
"The pack doesn't consist only of your family and your loyalists. It includes all the individuals living permanently in our territory. You can't just abandon ordinary civilians."
Eleanor clenched her jaw.
"We can't care for every werewolf. We are the hand of justice when crimes are committed. But right now, I'm not aware of any crime..."
"Aside from someone trying to kill your own son," Christopher interrupted.
"We'll investigate the attack and bring the culprits to justice. That's all."
Eleanor stood.
"I leave for Glasgow in the morning."
Without another word, she walked out, leaving the door open behind her.
---
"Sorry."
Christopher's voice broke Michael's silence.
"For what?" Michael replied, rising from the chair he had sunk into.
"Maybe she's the mastermind!" he added with a wry smile, trying to lighten the mood.
But when Christopher looked at him—still leaning against the desk—he realized he hadn't succeeded.
"I was joking," he said, laying a hand on his brother's shoulder.
"We'll find a way to get you elected alpha. It's time for a policy change.
Now, if you don't mind, I'll head to my room—I'd rather not risk running into her again before she leaves."
"Wait!"
"What?"
Christopher closed the door.
"Rider told me your human left this morning."
"Left? Where the hell did she go?"
Christopher shrugged.
"I didn't have her followed. Rider saw her leave on the motorbike early this morning. She had a duffel bag with her."
Michael let out a curse.
"I'm sorry I didn't have her followed, but I couldn't spare Rider from Oldgrove. Besides, I thought we were protecting her while she was in town. Whoever's after you, I doubt they'd chase after her."
"I get that. I'm not mad about that. It's just that Alex was hurt. She shouldn't have set off in her condition."
"Injured? What happened?"
"I wish I knew! She came back the other night with a stab wound in her thigh and a swollen face. She works as a bouncer, but I doubt a club fight would have left her looking like that."
Christopher narrowed his eyes.
"What do you think, then?"
Michael shook his head.
"I don't know."
"Do you want me to investigate her?"
Michael remained silent. The temptation to know more about Alex was strong—but he felt conflicted. It felt like a betrayal of her privacy, her trust.
"I'll think about it," he finally replied.
Christopher nodded, understanding his reluctance.
"Rider and Gerard will keep watching the house. I'll let you know if anything comes up."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome. If you'd like, I'll have your meals brought to your room until our mother leaves."
"Thanks."
---
Many smiles and many drinks later, Alex was still behind the bar, beginning to feel the toll. Her injured leg throbbed, and her patience was wearing thin.
Aperitif hour had lasted much longer than in a normal pub, and after the dinner break, all the high-ranking managers had returned en masse—and showed no sign of leaving.
There were only two of them behind the bar, and the line of customers didn't seem to shrink. On top of that, table orders kept pouring in. In short, it was chaos.
And all those men in dark pinstriped suits talking about how much they were worth... they didn't exactly inspire sympathy. She much preferred pub chatter, where romantic and career disasters went hand in hand with successes—or just drunken laughter among friends.
The only thing that hadn't changed that night was the size of the tips: barely anything. It felt like serving broke college students.