It seemed to Cyrus as if the volume of the room suddenly turned down, as if the colors dulled to shadows, except around her. Because even better than those stunning looks was the faint but unmistakable scent of Clan. It wreathed his head like the finest of drugs, cutting easily through the smoke and alcohol and cheap cologne of the bar. It caught him off guard, with no defenses up, and landed like a sledgehammer.

It was hard to believe that it had only been two months since he found himself out on the street: a pack animal with no pack. He’d told Sebastian he could handle it—hell, this whole thing had been his idea. It would be hard, he’d assured his brother, he wasn’t kidding himself about that, but the goal was worth it. He’d been so certain he was right, so sure of himself, so cocky.

He almost pitied that man now.

Of course, that man had never had people he’d once called friends turn away in disgust at the sight of him. He’d never had his own family refuse to look him in the eye, their glances jumping over him as if he was an interruption, a glitch in their visual field. An error. He’d never lain awake at night with the gnawing, ever-present, sickening absence of something as vital to him as the air he breathed. That man had been Cyrus of Arnou, High Clan and wolf born, with the whole weight of a prestigious house behind his every word and action.

This man was just Cyrus. And he’d been appalled at what he’d discovered about him.

Just Cyrus avoided places where he was likely to meet Clan, dodging confrontations he knew he couldn’t win. Because he fought alone now, while even the feeblest member of the weakest clan had dozens of brothers behind him. Just Cyrus ducked his head and turned away when he saw family coming, before they could do it to him. Just Cyrus desperately wanted to slink back, tail between his legs, begging to be taken in, even knowing what it would cost his brother.

Because Just Cyrus was weak.

The only thing that still allowed him to look at himself in the mirror everyday was the knowledge that wanting and doing were two different things. He might not be the man he’d thought he was, but he wasn’t quite that sniveling creature that haunted his nightmares, either. Because he hadn’t done it. Not yet.

And now he found himself by the bar, with no memory of how he got there, staring at an obviously High Clan woman like she was the last oasis in the desert. He expected to be ignored, rebuffed, cursed, although there was no way she could immediately know what he was. Lately, it had started to feel like he had his shame permanently tattooed across his forehead.

She swung her legs around and tipped her head sideways to look at him. “Buy you a drink?”

“I thought that was my line,” he said, not trying, because this wasn’t going anywhere.

“Yeah, but I’m the pushy type. I like to get it out there early.”

“You’re Clan. It goes with the territory.”

“I’m not, actually.”

He leaned in despite himself, the heady scent of a fertile female of his people flooding his senses. “Oh, you are,” he said, already half drunk with it. “You very definitely are. To whom do you belong?” The usual Clan courtesy slipped out before he could stop it.

“Myself. How about you?”

Her answer didn’t make sense, but the question did. It was almost the first thing two strange Weres asked each other, because the answer would influence everything that followed: who are you, where do you rank, who are your people?

Where do you belong?

“I’m vargulf,” he said shortly. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

It came out sounding harsh, even to him. He waited for it, the look of disgust, the hastily mumbled excuse, the rapid retreat. And didn’t get it. “Good,” she said, leaned over, cupped the back of his head, and kissed him.

And she was right, he thought vaguely, his hands on her waist, sliding over silk and skin-tight leather. She was the pushy type, at least until he got on board. Then the practiced tricks gave way to something soft and startled. It went through him in a rush, a tidal wave of emotions carrying him along with it, even as part of him wondered what the hell he thought he was doing.

“Got someplace to be?” she asked as she broke it off.

“I’m all yours,” he told her hoarsely, already sliding off the seat.

The bar dissolved into a dank, smoke-blackened room. I fell back against the wall, eyes stinging hot and watering. I remembered that night, but it was a little different seen through Cyrus’s eyes.

I’d kept getting saddled by the Corps with any and all cases involving Weres, supposedly because of my “special insight.” But the fact was that Mom rarely spoke about her other life, and she’d been so ill those last years that I’d hated to constantly bother her with my problems. I’d decided I needed an outside source, someone I could pay for insights into the Were world. And as luck would have it, a few days later a patrol logged a report about a brutal beating behind a bar involving an “unaffiliated Were” and members of a local clan. I’d gone to check it out.

It had been a night of surprises, starting with how I’d reacted. Cyrus was handsome enough to turn heads, but I’d met plenty of attractive men before. And none of them had made my stomach tighten at one glimpse, had need crawling over my skin, had my fingers itching with the urge to stroke. And when we kissed, heat and power, hunger and desire thrust into me in a wave of sensation that had left me reeling. I’d spent the entire evening—at a restaurant, because I didn’t dare take him home—quietly freaking out about my sudden lack of self-control.

It had also been a surprise to learn that he was vargulf. The report had seemed to suggest it, but most outcast wolves look like the guys I’d met in the drain. They weren’t hard-muscled types with thick dark hair and assessing brown eyes. And although the few I’d come across still smelled like Clan, there had always been a faintly sour undertone to it. Cyrus had smelled good, rich and male and musky-sweet.

I looked around and wondered what surprise I was supposed to find here.

I decided to start with the couch, because it was the most disgusting thing in the room and I wanted to get it out of the way. I’d already been over it once and had found nothing under the dust and ash except a few hundred cigarette butts shoved between the seats. The fire had eaten away one side, but given up halfway, probably because of the soggy state of the moldy cushions.

The remaining fabric was coming apart and a hole gnawed in one end raised the possibility of rats. I pushed my useless flashlight in there and rattled it around. Nothing ran out, so I formed a shield around my hand and poked it through the hole. And immediately felt something weird.

I pulled out a small velvet pouch that looked pretty new—no mold, no smoke damage, no bite marks—and opened it. Inside were three gold charms, each in the form of a miniscule wolf. All were different, all were beautifully made, and all were powerful. I could feel the hum of their energy even through the shield, a thrumming beat, almost like the pulse of tiny hearts.

Despite working with Caleb and Jamie for two weeks, I wasn’t an expert on wards. But I knew quality when I saw it. These had to be worth a small fortune, especially now, with prices inflated due to the war. So what the hell were they doing here? And what, if anything, did they have to do with Cyrus?

I wrapped them in one of my socks, having run out of handkerchiefs, and stuffed them in an inner pocket of my coat. I tagged the body on the way out, to let patrol know it was mine, and picked up the slug ward—now extra slimy—off the floor. I stuck it back on my skin without looking at it.

Calling in had to wait until I made it back to the mouth of the drain, where I was able to get decent reception. Caleb must have still been at lunch, because I actually got through.