Chapter 25: The Scent of Another Wolf
The hallway air turned to syrup. It was the smell—that thick, pine-and-ember scent on her skin—that did it. Kellan’s smile didn’t fall. It crystallized, cracking at the edges like old glass.
He inhaled again, a slow, deliberate pull through his nose. His eyes, a flat glacier blue, traveled over her—her rumpled clothes, her messy hair, the way she held herself in the doorway. The bouquet of white roses dangled from his fingers for one more second before he opened his hand. They hit the faded floorboards with a soft, petal-scattering thud.
“You let him touch you,” he said. His voice was low, a calm that was worse than any shout. It was the quiet before the foundation gave way.
Bunny’s tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. The metallic taste was back, coppery and sharp. She took a step back. The floorboard creaked a warning.
Kellan stepped forward, his hand slamming against the doorframe beside her head. The wood groaned, a hairline split appearing in the old paint. He didn’t look at the damage. He looked only at her, his head tilted as if studying a fascinating, grotesque bug.
“You let that animal breed you.” The words were a whisper, venomous and precise. “In some filthy pack squat. My things. Covered in his stink.”
“They’re not your things,” she heard herself say. The voice was small, but it was there. A spark in dry tinder.
A slow blink. A predator’s patience. “Everything you are is because of me. The clothes. The apartment. The… stability.” He leaned in closer. His cologne, something expensive and soulless, couldn’t mask the sharp, angry scent rolling off him now. “I smoothed out the edges, Brynlee. I made you presentable. And you repay me by rolling in the gutter with a lab rat? Letting him use you? You’re smarter than that. Or you used to be.”
He pushed off the doorframe, his movement smooth, and entered the room. He owned the space immediately, his presence pushing the walls outward. Bunny retreated until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the narrow bed.
“It wasn’t like that,” she said.
“Don’t.” He held up a single finger, his eyes sweeping the pathetic room—the bare bulb, the cracked sink. “Don’t insult us both by lying. I can smell him in you. It’s vulgar.” He turned his gaze back to her, a cold fury settling into his features. “He got to you at the safe house. After my men failed. I should have known. 001 always was resourceful. A cockroach.”
Her heart was a trapped bird. But beneath the fear, something else squirmed. A heat in her stomach. A prickle at the base of her spine. The warmth she’d felt with Coyle—the safety of it—flared in memory, a direct contrast to the icy disdain in front of her. It made her angry.
“He didn’t force me,” she said, her voice gaining a fraction of strength.
Kellan laughed. It was a short, dry sound. “Of course he didn’t. You’re an omega in a false heat, pumped full of my suppressants. You’d open your legs for a stray dog if it growled the right way. He didn’t want you, sweetheart. He wanted the concept. The validation. The scarred-up freak claiming his first pretty thing.” He took another step, closing the distance. He reached out, not to hit her, but to take a strand of her auburn hair between his thumb and forefinger. He rubbed it, his lip curling. “He’s marked you. Like a territory. Thinks he’s won a prize.”
He let the hair drop as if it were contaminated.
“He’s coming for you, you know,” Kellan said, turning to look out the grimy window. “Right now. Injected himself with enough adrenaline to kill a bull elephant. Ghost’s formula. Predictable.” He shook his head, a teacher disappointed by a simple student. “He thinks pain is a tool. I have the manual for that tool. I know exactly how much pressure to apply before the handle breaks.”
The casual mention of Ghost, of formulas, of knowing Coyle’s limits—it was all a display of power. He was showing her the chessboard, all the pieces lined up, and her role was to be the piece that got captured.
The heat in her spine intensified. It wasn’t fear-heat. It was a different kind of burn. A resentment so deep it felt geological. She saw the roses on the floor, white and perfect and already wilting. A prop. Everything with him was a prop.
“Why?” The question left her before she could cage it. “Why any of this? You don’t love me. You never did. You just… collected me.”
Kellan looked back at her, genuinely surprised for a second. Then he smiled, all chilly amusement. “Love is chemical, Brynlee. It’s about optimization. You were optimal. A beautiful, blank canvas. A rare breed, even drugged into docility. You were a testament to my good taste. My control.” The smile faded. “Now you’re a spill. A mess. But even a mess can be cleaned up, or contained.”
He reached into the inner pocket of his tailored jacket. He pulled out a small, familiar silver case. Her vitamin case. He flicked it open with his thumb. Two pills sat inside, larger than the old ones, a faint orange hue to them.
“The suppressants you took were child’s play. These,” he said, tapping the case, “are the real thing. The formula Ghost is so ashamed of. Blank-Slate. You take this, and the warmth you feel? The little flashes of anger? That annoying, growing want? It all goes quiet. Forever. You become still water. A lovely, placid doll. It’s a kindness, really.”
Bunny stared at the pills. Permanent. A final erasure. Her stomach clenched, not in fear, but in a violent, visceral rejection. A sound stuck in her throat—a growl, stifled and weak.
“No,” she breathed.
“It wasn’t a request.” Kellan’s voice lost its playful edge. It was administrative now. “You can take them willingly, and we’ll go home. I’ll even keep you. A reminder to be more careful with my investments. Or,” he said, his gaze drifting to a small black duffel by the door, “I can have my assistant administer them intravenously. After we deal with the feral dog currently racing to his scheduled breakdown.”
He moved suddenly, his hand snapping out to grip her jaw. His fingers were strong, cold. He forced her to look at him. “You are leftovers, Brynlee. Warm leftovers he got to first. But I own the kitchen. And I decide when the trash gets taken out.”
He shoved her back. She stumbled, falling onto the thin mattress.
Before she could move, he was at the door, picking up the duffel. “Think about it. You have until the motorcycle sounds stop. Then your choices vanish.”
He closed the door. The lock clicked, solid and final.
Silence, thick and choking. Bunny lay on the bed, her cheek stinging from his grip. She stared at the water-stained ceiling. The warmth in her core was spreading, a low-grade fever. The metallic taste was fading, replaced by something else—a clarity, bitter and clean.
She could still smell Coyle on her own skin. Not a stain. A claim. One she had made, too.
Outside, faint and distant, she heard it. Not a motorcycle yet. The wind, maybe. Or the blood singing in her own ears, getting louder.