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“Oh, undoubtedly,” Manfred agreed, his tone dripping with condescension. “Though effectiveness and refinement don’t always go hand in hand, do they? Some approaches are rather more direct than others.”

“Direct? More like crude,” Damien added helpfully, his gaze flicking between Annabella and me. “Though I suppose such methods are necessary for those who may lack the subtlety for more sophisticated techniques or those who cannot appreciate nuance.”

I knew a few witches, Esme back in Three Rivers, plus several witch contacts I’d used when I worked as a PI at Shaw Investigations with my brother Mason, and none of them had been as bitchy as this lot.

I had thought Annabella might be part of Simon Webster’s inner coven, but if this was anything to go by, they would no more accept Annabella than a full-blooded Shifter.

I felt my control slip, my wolf rising to meet the challenge.

“You know,” I said pleasantly, letting just enough menace leak through Felix’s laid-back facade, “in my experience, there’s something wonderfully clarifying about that moment when someone realizes exactly how nuanced you can be with a knife. ”

A subtle tension rippled through the group. Damien’s pupils dilated—prey recognizing a predator—and Manfred’s grip tightened on his walking stick.

“Just an observation,” I added with a smile that showed teeth. “From my less refined perspective, of course.”

“Speaking of perspectives,” Vivienne cut in smoothly, though I caught the sharp look she shot me, “Simon is waiting, and you know how he values precision in scheduling.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Manfred said, his voice carrying new wariness. “We wouldn’t want to delay Annabella’s audience. After all, she’s traveled such a very long way to be here.”

The emphasis on those last words made Annabella’s breathing hitch slightly, her scent a mix of hurt intertwined with determination, and I realized there were layers to this conversation I wasn’t catching.

But one thing was clear—these people saw Annabella as lesser, someone who should be grateful for their attention rather than deserving of their respect.

We headed toward a spiral staircase forged of matte black steel, each step deliberately crafted at subtly different heights—a security feature masquerading as artistic choice, forcing visitors to watch their footing and preventing any quick approach.

At the top loomed massive wooden doors inlaid with obsidian forming geometric patterns that twisted and reconfigured themselves when viewed from different angles—an active spell to disorient and impress.

“His calendar is particularly demanding today,” Vivienne said to Annabella. “He’s asked me to ensure your meeting remains within the scheduled parameters.”

“Of course,” Annabella replied.

“Your team’s latest operation was… noteworthy.” Vivienne glanced at a sleek tablet she produced from her portfolio. “Though perhaps not for the intended reasons.”

“You read my report?”

“Indeed. The Council enforcer escaped, did he not?”

“We’ll adjust our approach for the next operation.”

“That would be wise. I also think you might benefit from some additional tactical consultation. I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a session with Oscar’s team next week. They’ve had remarkable success with their Geneva operation. Surgical precision, minimal visibility, maximum yield.”

The suggestion was framed as helpful, but the underlying message was clear: your methods are crude compared to ours.

Annabella hadn’t missed it either, if her slight pause before answering was anything to go by. “I’ll certainly review my calendar.”

“I’ve already confirmed it with Oscar,” Vivienne replied smoothly. “Evolution is the hallmark of any worthwhile endeavor. We all value adaptability—especially in those with certain inherent limitations.”

Annabella blinked, and my vision edged red at the comment. Annabella stepped through the doorway Vivienne opened, but I caught the way her fingers trembled slightly before she fisted them at her sides.

She was alone. Completely, utterly alone.

Rejected by werewolf Packs for her witch blood.

Dismissed by witches for her wolf nature.

Used by Webster while his inner circle kept her firmly outside their ranks.

No wonder she threw herself so completely into her cause and was so protective of her crew—it was the only thing that gave her purpose when she had nowhere to belong.

And my mission was to rip it away from her.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t do this anymore. I had to tell Annabella the truth.

I followed her into the office, where a massive desk carved from burled walnut with brass inlay tracing patterns along its edge stood in the middle of the floor and did a quick scan.

Sun positioned to blind visitors while leaving the occupant in shadow. Exits at 2, 7, and 10 o’clock. Windows sealed. Panic room disguised as a closet on the left wall—the door slightly thicker than standard dimensions.

Along one wall, a collection of first-edition books rested on floating shelves, while artwork—I recognized a Basquiat and what looked like a genuine Rothko—hung on the opposite wall.

A sitting area featured low-slung leather couches arranged around a glass coffee table, its transparent base creating the illusion it was floating above a hand-knotted Persian rug.

A bar stood in one corner, crystal decanters filled with amber liquids catching sunlight and fragmenting it across the walls in tiny rainbow prisms.

And there, by the window with his back to us, stood the man whose photos I’d studied hundreds of times in classified Wolf Council dossiers.

Simon Webster. The witch who’d nearly brought all werewolves to their knees fifteen years ago.

The man whose spell would have enslaved my entire species if the Wolf Council hadn’t stopped him.