Chapter 227
Lynette's POV
I cracked eggs into the pan, watching the whites bubble and crisp at the edges. Six thirty in the morning. The kitchen smelled like coffee and toast.
My hands were steady. They'd been steady all night, even after I'd climbed back through my window at two AM with a head full of plans and Kael's touch still burning on my knuckles.
Three days. That's all we had.
The eggs sizzled. I flipped them, plated them, started on the bacon. My body moved through the motions automatically while my mind ran through every detail of what needed to happen today.
Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Ethan.
He walked into the kitchen, hair still wet from the shower, and stopped when he saw me at the stove.
"You're up early," he said.
I slid a plate across the counter toward him. Three eggs, bacon, toast. "Eat."
He picked up the fork but didn't start eating. Just looked at me with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. "What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on."
"Lynette."
I turned back to the stove, cracked two more eggs for Dad. "You go straight home after school today. Don't stop anywhere. Don't talk to anyone you don't have to."
Silence behind me. Then the scrape of the chair as he sat down.
"How bad is it?" His voice was quiet.
"Bad enough that I need you home." I glanced over my shoulder at him. "Can you do that for me?"
He stared at me for a long moment. Then nodded once. "Yeah. Okay."
Good. One less thing to worry about.
---
I stood outside Harrison's factory at nine AM, barely recognizing myself in the reflection of a car window. I'd spent an hour this morning with makeup—darkening my skin two shades with foundation, adding fake freckles across my nose and cheeks, smudging dirt under my eyes to look exhausted. My hair was dyed a mousy brown yesterday and pulled back in a greasy ponytail. Cheap glasses. A small scar drawn on my chin with eyeliner. The clothes were oversized, hiding my frame.
I looked nothing like the girl who'd performed at the showcase yesterday.
The factory loomed in front of me—three stories of gray concrete and metal, smokestacks pumping out steady streams of white vapor. The parking lot was half full. Morning shift.
I'd done this before. Not exactly this, but close enough. In my past life, I'd infiltrated rival Pack territories more times than I could count. You learned to blend in. Learned to make yourself invisible.
The front entrance had a reception desk. Young woman, early twenties, blonde hair in a bun. She looked up when I walked in.
"Can I help you?"
I held up the folder I'd prepared last night. Fake resume, fake references, all of it printed on slightly crumpled paper to look like it had been carried around in a bag for weeks.
"I'm here about the maintenance technician position," I said. Kept my voice soft. Uncertain. "I know you're probably not hiring, but I was hoping—"
"We're not taking applications for female technicians." She didn't even look at the resume. "Sorry."
I'd expected that. I let my shoulders slump a little, like I was disappointed but not surprised. "Could I at least... could I do a trial shift? Just one day. If you don't like my work, you don't have to pay me. I just really need the experience."
She frowned. "That's not really how—"
"Please." I met her eyes. Let a little desperation show. "I've been looking for three months. I'll do anything."
She sighed, glanced at the phone on her desk like she was considering calling security. Then she picked up the receiver. "Let me ask the floor manager."
Five minutes later, I was being led through the factory floor by a guy in his fifties with grease stains on his coveralls and skepticism written all over his face.
"You ever worked in a factory before?" he asked.
"Small repair shops," I lied. "Mostly automotive."
He grunted. Stopped in front of a conveyor belt that had three workers standing around it looking frustrated. "Belt's jammed. Been stuck for twenty minutes. You think you can fix it?"
I looked at the belt. Saw the problem immediately—a piece of torn rubber had gotten caught in the drive roller, causing the whole system to lock up.
"Yeah," I said. "I can fix it."
He stepped back, crossed his arms. "Go ahead."
I knelt down next to the machinery, pulled a multi-tool from my pocket. The workers were watching me. I could feel their eyes. Could hear them thinking she's gonna fuck it up.
I ignored them. Focused on the roller mechanism. Unscrewed the housing panel, reached in, pulled out the torn rubber. Then I checked the tension on the belt itself, adjusted it, tightened the screws back down.
The whole thing took maybe three minutes.
I stood up, hit the restart button. The belt lurched, then started moving smoothly again.
The floor manager stared at it. Then at me.
"Huh," he said.
One of the workers—older guy, gray beard—let out a low whistle. "Damn. She actually knows what she's doing."
The floor manager scratched his chin. "Alright. You can observe for the rest of the morning. We'll see how you do."
I nodded. Kept my expression grateful and humble.
Inside, I was mapping every inch of this place. Emergency exits. Electrical panels. The main coolant lines running along the ceiling. The control room on the second floor with its wall of monitors.
This was going to work.
---
Two hours later, I was in the break room pretending to drink terrible coffee when the door opened.
Blythe Harrison walked in.
I kept my head down, but I could feel him looking around the room. His gaze swept past me once. Twice.
Then he walked over to where I was sitting.
"You're new," he said.
His gaze swept over me—right past the fake freckles, the dirt smudges, the two-shades-darker skin. I'd made sure to hunch my shoulders, make myself smaller. Changed the way I held my body entirely.
"Yes, sir. Just started today. Trial shift."
He was wearing a suit. Expensive. His hair was perfectly styled, and he had that same arrogant tilt to his chin I remembered from school. But up close, there was something else. Something harder in his eyes.
"What's your name?" he asked.
My heart rate didn't change. I'd been in situations a thousand times more dangerous than this. "Lynn Carter, sir."
"Carter." He repeated it, like he was testing how it sounded. "Where are you from?"
"Local," I said. Kept it vague. "Been looking for work for a while."
He pulled out the chair across from me, sat down without asking. Leaned back and studied me with those cold blue eyes.
"You're pretty good with machinery," he said. "Tom told me you fixed the conveyor belt in under five minutes."
I shrugged. "I've had some practice."
"Where'd you learn?"
"Here and there. Worked in a few repair shops." I wrapped my hands around the coffee cup. Let them shake just a little. "I really need this job, Mr. Harrison. I'll work hard. I won't cause any trouble."
He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure you won't."
He stood up, straightened his jacket. "We'll see how you do. But let me give you some advice, Carter." He leaned down, lowered his voice. "This factory runs on discipline. People who ask too many questions don't last long here. People who keep their heads down and do their jobs? They do fine. Understand?"
I nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."
"Good."
He left.
I sat there for another minute, letting my hands shake for real now. Not from fear. From rage.
That smug fucking face. That condescending tone. He had no idea who he was talking to. No idea that the woman sitting in front of him in cheap work clothes and fake glasses had ripped out the throats of wolves twice his size.
I took a breath. Let it out slowly.
Three days.
---
The afternoon shift was quieter. I spent most of it in the maintenance bay, organizing tools and watching the other technicians work. Learning the routines. The schedules. Who went where and when.
At four PM, I clocked out and headed for the parking lot.
That's when I saw it.
Blythe's car was parked in the executive lot—black luxury sedan, tinted windows. And sitting on the back seat, visible through the slightly open window, was a briefcase.
I glanced around. No one nearby. The security guard was on the other side of the lot, talking to someone.
I knelt down, pretended to tie my boot. Leaned a little closer to the car.
The briefcase was open just enough that I could see papers inside. The top one had a header: Pinehollow Territory Supply Contract.
My pulse kicked up.
I pulled out my phone, angled it carefully, took a photo through the window.
"Hey!"
I jerked upright.
The security guard was walking toward me, frowning. "What are you doing?"
"Sorry!" I stood up fast, shoved my phone in my pocket. "I was just tying my shoe. I'm leaving now."
He stopped a few feet away, looked me up and down. "This is a restricted area. Employees only."
"Right. Sorry. I'm new, I didn't realize—"
"Just go."
I nodded, turned, and walked away. Forced myself not to look back.
But I saw him out of the corner of my eye. Saw Blythe walking out of the factory entrance, talking to someone.
A man in a Pack uniform. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the Pinehollow insignia on his jacket.
I knew that face. I'd seen it in Kael's house, in the photos on his father's desk.
That was his father's second-in-command.
I kept walking. Turned the corner. Pulled out my phone and took three more photos before they disappeared into the building.
Then I finally let myself breathe.
Got you.