In the end, Logan doesn’t give answers.
Not exactly, anyway.
Or, well—he kind of does. But it’s in a backward kind of way.
"Hello, Ms. d’Armand." Marcus Ashby wipes down the seat in my room, as if it’s full of incurable diseases. The sharp sll of antiseptic wafting from his sanitizing wipes makes sneeze.
"Hello, Mr. Ashby."
Marcus perches on the edge of the sanitized chair like it might bite him. His perfectly pressed suit doesn’t have a single wrinkle. "It’s good to see you’re doing okay, Ms. d’Armand."
"Okay is a bit of an overstatent." My throat still burns a little, and my muscles ache like I’ve run a marathon, but my physical condition is the least of my concerns right now.
I’m honestly shocked Logan’s lawyer isn’t in one of those biohazard suits.
He waves off my comnt with an elegant flick of his wrist. "Speaking of matters that require attention, your... cat." The way he says ’cat’ makes it sound like a particularly offensive word. "I’ll be quite grateful when you’re able to take it back."
"Princess Paws? What’s wrong with—"
"It has developed quite the taste for Italian silk. My curtains, specifically. The ones in my office."
Horror creeps through as I imagine my tiny kitten shredding what are probably thousand-dollar curtains. "I’m so sorry, I’ll pay for—"
"Please." Another dismissive wave. "The fault lies entirely with Logan. He’s the one who insisted on bringing it to my office. You’re the victim in all this, Ms. d’Armand."
Then why bring it up? But rather than upsetting the man taking care of my poor kitten, I just keep my mouth shut.
A sharp ringtone cuts through our conversation. Marcus pulls out his phone, checks the screen, and answers with crisp "Yes" and "Understood" responses that tell nothing.
He ends the call and pulls a sleek tir from his pocket, setting it for ten minutes before placing it on my hospital bed. "You have questions. Now’s your chance to get answers."
My heart pounds. This feels too good to be true. But I’m not about to waste this opportunity.
"Who’s really behind Logan? This isn’t the Supernatural Enforcent Division. The SED doesn’t have access to dragon repellent wardstones or tactical teams equipped to fight dragons." I pause. "Or do they?"
Marcus raises one perfect eyebrow. "Tell , Ms. d’Armand, what do you know about Logan’s family?"
The question catches off guard. I open my mouth, then close it. Despite everything we’ve been through, despite sharing a bed and adopting a cat together, I realize I know almost nothing about Logan’s background. No ntions of parents or siblings. No childhood stories. No family photos. Only rumors Penelope’s heard from her obsessive vampire stalker.
The tir ticks away on my bed.
"Nothing," I admit. "He’s never talked about them."
Marcus straightens his tie. "The Everetts are one of the oldest Lycan bloodlines in existence."
"Lycan?" The word feels strange on my tongue.
"Yes. The term ’werewolf’ is a human construct, born from mythology and horror stories. Logan is a proper Lycan, and heir to the Lycan Throne."
My head spins. Logan, heir to a throne? The sa Logan who brought ho a stray kitten and insisted on naming her Princess Paws? "I’ve never heard of a Lycan Throne."
"There’s one for every country. All wolf packs swear fealty to a single alpha above them all—the Lycan King. While this might not be common knowledge among humans, it’s not exactly a secret."
Logan isn’t just so supernatural enforcer. He’s royalty. My mouth goes dry. "What does any of this have to do with where we are?"
"Many of the most powerful families are part of a single faction of Supernaturals." Marcus’s perfectly manicured fingers tap against his knee. "They work hand in hand with the local human governnt."
"So the tactical team, the wardstones, this place—"
"Resources available to those in power." Marcus nods. "Both supernatural and human."
The tir continues its steady countdown.
"What is this faction?"
"The Conclave. A coalition of the most powerful supernatural families who maintain order and control over our world. They operate in shadows, wielding influence over both supernatural and human governnts."
"Like so kind of illuminati?"
"More practical. Less conspiracy. The Conclave ensures our worlds don’t collapse into chaos. They maintain the balance of power, regulate magical resources, and keep certain... elents in check."
There’s too much to unpack there, with the tir still counting down. I need to know about the dragons. "What about the ones chasing ? The dragons?"
Marcus tilts his head. "Tell what you know about dragons first."
I recall the basic facts from my supernatural studies. "They’re rare. Almost extinct. None are supposed to exist on this continent after the Great Purge. The history books say they were too dangerous, killed too many humans. Like giant, fire-breathing monsters that couldn’t be controlled."
A sharp laugh escapes Marcus. "Propaganda. All of it."
"What?"
"Dragons aren’t monsters or beasts. They’re shifters, just like werewolves—pardon, Lycans. More powerful, yes. More dangerous, absolutely. But they walk among us, looking just as human as you or ."
The mory of Xavier Moon’s predatory grace flashes through my mind. His bite. The iridescent blood. "Then why exile them?"
"Because dragons lack what we consider basic morality. They don’t view humans—or any other species—as equals. To them, we’re all prey or pawns. They’re essentially the supernatural world’s equivalent of serial killers. Highly intelligent, deeply charismatic, and completely devoid of empathy."
My stomach churns. Charismatic isn’t the word I’d use for people like Xavier and Eliana. "But they look just like us?"
"Yes. That’s part of what makes them so dangerous. They understand human emotions perfectly—they just don’t feel them. They can mimic compassion, love, guilt. But it’s all an act. A dragon will charm you, make you trust them, then destroy everything you hold dear simply because they can."
The tir beeps its five-minute warning. "Is that why they want ? Because I’m so kind of prey?"
"No, Ms. d’Armand. They want you because you’re sothing far more valuable."
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