Page 1 of Lone Wolf (Red Rivals)

CHAPTER 1

Ariadne

Elysium is quietest just before the dawn. That’s when the night owls are heading to bed, and the early birds are still catching zees rather than worms. There’s still activity, of course, but it’s in that change between night and day that I prefer to rise.

It’s where I feel most alive. A time of day that doesn’t really exist.

Just like I don’t really exist.

I press my fingertips against the cold glass of the window, momentarily transfixed by the contrast between the warmth of my skin and the cool of the outside world. A shiver runs through me, but it’s not unpleasant. Cold is familiar.

Cold is reliable.

The dream from last night flickers back to life, a retrieved memory I would rather have left in my unconscious: Grandmother’s voice, the sharp crack of a wooden cane against flesh, a line of girls standing perfectly still despite the screams.

My hand trembles against the glass, and I pull it away, clenching it into a fist, tighter and tighter until my knuckles complain.

Pain is clarity.

Another lesson from Grandmother that I can’t seem to unlearn.

I wake at the same time every day in the recruit dorms, no alarm needed. I never needed one in Grandmother’s house, and I saw no reason to change my habits and wake at a different time just because I live under Hadria’s rule these days. I pull on my training gear mechanically—no thought necessary, because I set out everything the night before—compression leggings, tank bra, tight sleeveless top, all in black. And then I head to the main house, the mansion, and into the gym.

The gym is not the training room. The gym is a smaller facility, filled solely with exercise equipment, machines, weights. I feel equally at home in both the gym and the training room—which is to say, not much. But it sure feels more familiar than the dorms I’m staying in with all the other recruits. The air in the gym is thick with the scent of sweat, even though this room is basically brand new: a whole mansion full of brand-new rooms for Hadria Imperioli’s brand-new empire.

Sometimes I wish I could have seen it before. That dark, night-based kingdom of concrete and steel, when everyone woke and worked during the darkest hours. I feel like it might have suited me better. When I hear Mario and Ricky reminiscing sometimes—when I hear my mother talking about how much nicer everything is now—I get a sense of faux-nostalgia for a world that would have suited me much better.

But I’m here now. I’m here in the gym, and I’m working my body, fully present in the moment, focused on my muscles, my tendons, my blood flow.

My mind doesn’t wander. It doesn’t have time.

I move through my drills—the ones given to us by Lyssa and Scarlett—and then I move into the more complex routines that I used to perform under Grandmother. My body flows through the patterns, muscle memory taking over as I execute perfect roundhouse kicks against the heavy bag, the impact reverberating up my legs and into my core. The mirror-lined wall reflects my form—compact and lethal. A well-maintained weapon, which is exactly what Grandmother designed me to be.

But as I execute a flawless spinning back kick that would have shattered a human spine, I catch sight of something in the mirror opposite that doesn’t belong: a hint of a smile on my own lips. I instantly suppress it. Enjoyment was never part of the equation. Perfection was.

I used to train others. I was the master. Still am, let’s be real. But I’ve been kicked back down to student status, training with fresh-eyed new recruits, while everyone waits breathlessly to see if I’ll lose it. Go postal. Try to kill Lyssa.

Again.

I still want to. There’s still a burn in my belly when I look at that bitch. But it’s a cold burn these days, like I recognize it was put in me by someone else. It’s not my own rage.

It’s still there, though.

A movement by the high window catches my eye—a small brown bird has landed on the sill outside, its head tilting as it watches me through the glass. For a moment, I freeze, mesmerized by its delicate freedom. Then it flies away, and something in my chest tightens.

But I shake it off. Sentiment is weakness.

The door opens just as I’m unwrapping my hands and flexing them out. I’m finished for the morning; these other recruits are just getting started. I recognize them—they’re in my group—and I ignore their greetings. They enter in a pack, loud and laughing, ruining the peace.

“Don’t you ever take a day off?” Enzo Rittoli calls over with a smirk. He’s tall with olive skin and dark curls, built like the college football player he probably was before whatever circumstances brought him here.

I ignore him. Ignore the way he mutters something to his friends that makes them snicker.

They stop snickering the second I walk by, the moment my gaze flicks their way—a warning. Their bodies instinctively create space for me to pass, shifting away as if I’m radioactive. I could take all five of them at once if I needed to. They know it.

Silence follows me out of the gym. And that’s how it should be.

After I shower and dress, I head down to the dining area, where there’s always food on offer, since the Syndicate works all day and night. We eat through a mountain of food each week, and the menu is overseen by my own dear mother. The scent of coffee and bacon hangs in the air, mingling with the lemon-scented cleaner the staff uses on the tables.

On Sundays there are waffles. But you have to make them yourself on the waffle iron, and I don’t know how to use it.

Today is Wednesday, so I heap scrambled eggs onto my plate, some turkey bacon, fried mushrooms, and grab a fresh-squeezed OJ to wash it down. I sit alone, an island even as the room starts to fill up with mercenaries returning from a good night’s work, and sleepy recruits too lazy to head to the gym before they stuff their mouths.

They won’t last, those ones. No discipline.

After breakfast, I have a mandatory therapy session. The Syndicate brings in Dr. Diana Khatri three times a week. It used to be daily; I pretended well enough to have it dropped back. But I struggle to pretend well enough to get her to sign off on me altogether.

The office she uses is always too warm, too intimate, too calm . I prefer cold spaces—they keep you alert, focused, ready for anything. Warm rooms like this are designed to make you relax, lower your guard. There’s a happily-steaming humidifier in the shape of a lotus flower on the coffee table between us and the faint scent of sandalwood and jasmine in the air. I can never tell if it’s her perfume or if she spritzes something around before I get there. We sit opposite each other, and I have to force myself back in the chair instead of perching on the edge, ready to flee as soon as we’re done.

I know that Johnny de Luca was the one who recommended this therapist, and everyone acted like I should be awed that he took any kind of interest at all. But I’m not. I don’t like him and I don’t like his therapist and I’m tired of pretending I need fixing when I’m not broken.

No one acts like Scarlett needs fixing. Or Lyssa, for that matter. They get treated like rock stars.

And I get…

Therapy.

“Good morning, Sarah.” Dr. Khatri’s voice is deliberately modulated, soft but firm. She sits with perfect posture, as if she’s posing for a professional photo.

“Good morning.”

“How are you sleeping?” She smiles encouragingly, her head tilting at a precise angle that she probably practiced in front of a mirror.

“Fine.”

“Any nightmares? Because when we first started?—”

“No.” I’ll be damned if I’m going to describe my dreams to this sleek-haired woman whose only problems revolve around getting her manicure perfected each week. I know she gets it done each week because they’re a different color each time, thick talons coated in shiny polish, sometimes with fucking sparkles on them.

I guess I do like the sparkles. I had a sparkly rug at Grandmother’s house.

Sparkles and pink and girlie things that made me feel…

I don’t even know anymore. My current dorm room is spartan. Even the teddy bear, Mr. Fluffikins, I left with my mother. She has him sitting on a bed in a spare room that she keeps telling me I’m welcome to move into any time I like.

Dr. Khatri leans forward and finally drops the cutesy act. “Any meaningful connections with the other recruits?”

This is when she starts digging, third question in, each time. I almost laugh at this one—because meaningful connections?

With these losers?

Right.

“Oh, sure,” I say blandly. “I’m getting along real well with everyone.”

She tilts her head to one side and, for the first time, I see the flicker of something in her eyes that makes me wary. “I see,” is all she says.

And as I leave the office, I get the feeling I might have fucked myself over with that last little piece of sarcasm. But it’s time for training now, my favorite time of day, because I get to beat up all these wide-eyed morons who think they’re badasses just because they made it through round one of the Syndicate’s intake process.

The training room is the largest space in Elysium, with soaring ceilings and walls lined with weapons. Training mats are everywhere, there’s a full-sized MMA cage at one end, and a boxing ring down the other end of the room. Lyssa stands at the front of our group, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, dark eyes scanning the room. Scarlett moves among the recruits, adjusting stances with a gentleness I find contemptible.

I kick major ass—literally. When I’m paired up for sparring with Enzo Rittoli, I send him flying several feet through the air. He wheezes as he lands, winded, and I allow myself the tiniest of smirks. His style is pure aggression—no subtlety, all force. A common mistake among men who rely on strength over skill.

I wipe the smirk away quickly, but one person has noticed. Lyssa, who never takes her damn eyes off me during training.

“Nice kick,” says a voice to my left, and I whip around to see—ah, yes. The golden fucking retriever of the group, Susana “Sunny” Santiago, with her crazy-dyed hair and wide grin, her golden- brown eyes sparkling as usual. “Think you can teach me?” she goes on.

“Step right up,” I offer coldly.

“Enough.” Lyssa’s voice cuts in sharply “That’s enough for now, everyone. Hit the showers and then go get something to eat.”

I watch Sunny’s black-and-blonde-and-pink dyed hair moving with the crowd as people flock to her. Sheep who like to get complimented, because she’s always so full of compliments. Girl needs to learn that the world isn’t so full of light as she thinks it is. She moves differently than the rest—lighter, almost dancing through the crowd, touching shoulders, laughing at comments I can’t hear. The others absorb her into their midst while maintaining their distance from me.

For a split second, she glances back at me, and I turn away quickly. That’s when I notice Lyssa is still looking at me, and I don’t like the look on her face—speculative—so I head after the group to get lunch.

Unfortunately for me, my mother is helping out in the dining room this afternoon, overseeing the food and making sure nothing needs refilling. She smiles brightly when she sees me, and I give her the slightest of up-nods. I know what’s coming and I wish she’d give it a rest. Maybe I can avoid it if I fill up my tray fast enough and find a seat.

I slop any old thing on there and head for a table at the back. It’s where I usually sit. Only two other people are ever there: Elijah, a stocky guy with a killer fade and a decent right hook from what I’ve seen in training, and Zach, thin and blond and almost as quiet as I am half the time. He’s fast, though. Fast and sneaky when we train, and pretty enough to be a decent honeypot. He’s also good with tech. If he plays his cards right, he could be a very useful Syndicate member.

None of us ever talk to each other, rarely even look at each other, but there’s a sense of cautious acknowledgment. But today as I sit, my attention is drawn back despite myself to Sunny—but then, she’s always the center of attention. Right now, Sunny is throwing an arm around Enzo and playfully stealing a fry from his plate. She’s like a flame that others can’t help but gather around, seeking warmth.

The dining hall feels divided into two temperature zones—the cold, shadowed corner where I sit, and the rest of the room where Sunny’s warmth and light seems to radiate. She’s wearing a bright yellow top today that somehow makes her look even more luminous, a stark contrast to my black attire. She’s always loud, always laughing, always desperate for people to like her. I bet that’s why she only ever flatters them. I’ve never heard her say a mean word about anyone, but I know she must think them.

Because I know what people are really like under the masks they wear.

I catch Elijah smiling a little as he watches the other table, and I have the sudden urge to tell him to go fucking sit with them, if he likes them so much. Instead, I get up from the table, meal only half eaten, and dump the remains in the trash before shoving my tray home in the receptacle we’re supposed to leave them in. I glance back once, just out of habit—never leave your back exposed—and to my chagrin I meet Sunny’s eyes. She actually has the audacity to smile at me. Not her usual megawatt grin, but something smaller, more genuine.

I look away at once, annoyed at myself. I just want to go back to the gym now, but I can’t even do that; my mother puts herself bodily in my way before I can leave the dining room.

“Sarah,” she says warmly. “Do you have a minute?”

“I—”

“Please.” She’s too firm and too pleasant, taking my arm before I can back away and leading me back into the foyer of the mansion and into a side room. This is her room in the big house: a sitting room with a cozy fireplace and big, over-stuffed armchairs that envelop you like a hug. Exactly what I don’t want from her. The warmth of the room is stifling after the cooler air of the dining hall and I feel instantly claustrophobic.

I shake off her hand as soon as we get in there. “What do you want?” I ask. “I need to get to the gym.”

“You just ate,” she points out. “You need to digest first. And can’t a mother have a moment with her daughter?”

I bite back my response to that, simply folding my arms.

She sighs as though I’m the one being difficult. “I wanted to talk to you about moving into the cottage.”

We’ve talked about this already. A million times. “I’m a recruit. Recruits stay in the dorms.”

“But you’re different,” she says softly.

“Yeah,” I snap. “I’m better . But I still need to prove myself. Going to stay with my mommy isn’t going to prove anything except that I’m soft .”

Her eyes grow shiny, and I hate that she always uses tears to try to manipulate me. Doesn’t she know how useless tears are? “But Sarah, you don’t have to be alone all the time. You have a place with me whenever you want it.”

“I have a room,” I snap, backing toward the door, away from the suffocating coziness.

“That’s not the same thing as having a home. The other recruits…they do see Elysium as a home. But you?—”

“Are we done here?”

She gives a helpless little shrug, and I wrench the door open and stalk off.

I don’t head to the gym. I head to the shooting range instead, where I have to sign in like some dumbfuck who never shot a gun in her life before. But at least it lets me blow off steam.

Lets me forget.

The range is in the basement, a cavernous space with concrete walls and specialized ventilation that still can’t quite eliminate the acrid scent of gunfire. The fluorescent lights are bright overhead, unforgiving, exactly what I need right now. I focus on the gun. The weight of it. The recoil, the sound of bullets hitting home in perfect shots, each and every time. No room for anything but the gun and the target.

I stand perfectly still while paper targets dance at the end of their wires. One by one, the outlines of human figures accumulate perfect holes where their hearts and heads would be. I hit again and again with mechanical precision. There’s a satisfaction in it—the clean simplicity of a bullet’s path, the absence of complication. The gun doesn’t care about therapy sessions or mother-daughter relationships or enigmatic smiles from rainbow-haired women who don’t know when to back the fuck off.

I shoot for two hours straight, until my hands and arms are aching and I think I might have a blister starting. But the anger and the emotional bullshit that my mother riled up in me, they’re gone.

I head to the gym, and then to the outdoor training run to practice my parkour, and then I have dinner sent to my dorm. We’re not supposed to do that, as recruits, unless we’re sick, but no one ever objects when I request it.

Maybe, like my mother says, it’s because I’m different . Because I’ll never fit in here, no matter how skilled and how perfect I am. At Grandmother’s house I was rewarded for those things.

Here? I’m merely tolerated.

After dinner, I head out for my usual nine-minute-mile to clear my head before I sleep. The dorms are a new addition to the estate, a three-story brick building with large windows and tiny balconies for every room. The entrance is marked by two massive potted plants that Aurora refreshes seasonally to match the Chicago climate. And today as I make my way back, I glance up to see Sunny Santiago out on her balcony, smoking a contraband cigarette.

We’re not allowed to smoke. Lyssa’s orders.

But Sunny just takes another drag when she sees me staring at her and raises a hand to wave at me, like I couldn’t get her stuck on toilet duty for a week if I reported her.

I don’t wave back. I just head back inside, wondering when that mask of hers will finally slip. And wondering, despite myself, what lies beneath.