The hum of the transport van was a low, steady thrum beneath my boots.
I sat in the back corner, tucked into shadows, eyes trained on the two drivers and the five handlers who made up the shipment crew. I didn't speak. Didn't shift my weight. Didn't blink more than necessary.
My job was simple: observe.
But I couldn't stop thinking about him.
Nine.
Curled on that thin mattress, blanket tucked up to his chin, face still warm with the ghost of a kiss he probably didn't understand.
Nyx had been quiet for the first half hour. Now she was pacing again.
He didn't want us to go, she growled. And we left anyway.
I didn't answer.
Because what could I say?
I'd left.
I was here, hours away from the facility, on some lonely smuggler's trail winding through Black Hollow Ridge. And he was back there, being monitored. Handled. Prepped for surgery. Surrounded by people who only saw him as a product.
Nyx snarled louder in my chest.
One of the drivers glanced back at me, trying to be subtle. I stared him down until he turned back around, muttering something under his breath.
I scanned the rest of the crew. Three of them were armed. One was nodding off. One was fiddling with the shipment manifest—three crates, each locked and tagged. I could smell faint traces of chemicals and something faintly organic coming from inside.
I'd been briefed. Weapons, controlled substances, and a small box of biotech mods for "client customization." I didn't ask for more detail.
I didn't want it.
They didn't know I was a wolf.
They knew I was dangerous—but not why.
It kept them wary. I preferred it that way.
But wariness couldn't stop my mind from wandering.
What if they move his surgery up?
What if he wakes up scared and we're not there?
What if he thinks we abandoned him?
Nyx snarled again. I should've killed that handler last week. The one who touched him too much. The one who smiled while hitting him.
I exhaled slowly, keeping my hands loose on my lap.
I couldn't afford to be reckless out here.
But gods, I missed him.
His silence. His strange calm. The way he tilted his head when he didn't understand a word. The way he pressed into my side like that's where he belonged.
He was supposed to be a blank slate.
But he wasn't.
He'd begun filling in the edges with his own colors. Soft ones. Strange ones. Emotions I didn't know he was capable of.
Trust.
Hope.
Affection.
And I'd left.
Because I was still someone else's weapon.
The van hit a rut in the road. I felt it jolt through my spine.
One of the handlers cursed, readjusting his grip on the crate beside him.
"ETA twenty minutes," the driver called out. "We'll do the first exchange at point Gamma, then shift west to the fallback route."
I gave a nod to no one in particular.
Just enough to show I was listening.
Not enough to invite conversation.
They respected that.
I stared out the narrow sliver of window at the dark trees flickering past.
I wondered if Nine had eaten today.
If he'd asked for me.
If they'd told him when I'd be back—or lied.
He didn't speak often, but when he did, his voice was so quiet it felt like something you had to earn.
And now I might not hear it again for days.
I clenched my jaw and turned back toward the crates.
This wasn't the time to fall apart.
But when the shipment stopped for the first checkpoint, and the rear door cracked open to show nothing but fog and pine, I didn't see the trees.
I saw violet eyes watching me from a narrow bed, lips parted in confusion, like he couldn't quite understand why I wasn't there.
And that haunted me more than any ambush ever could.