Chapter 28
Elara's POV
I was halfway back to the restaurant when I smelled it.
Blood.
I slowed to a jog, then stopped completely. The afternoon sun beat down on the empty street, but goosebumps prickled my arms anyway.
Something was wrong.
The restaurant's front entrance was just ahead, glass doors reflecting the sky. Everything looked normal from here. But that smell—metallic and sharp, carried on the breeze—it wasn't normal at all.
My inhaler. I needed my inhaler. Dad had given me ten minutes and I'd already used half of that running here.
But every instinct I'd honed in my previous life was screaming at me to be careful.
I circled around the building instead of going straight in. The main parking lot was nearly empty now—Uncle Derrick's Mercedes was gone. Good. Maybe they'd already left.
Except the blood smell was getting stronger.
I pressed against the brick wall, forcing my breathing to slow. The blood smell was stronger here, metallic and sharp. Mixed with it was that distinctive werewolf scent—musk and earth and something wild.
But underneath all that was fear. Pure, animal terror.
My fingers found the door's edge. I eased it open another inch, just enough to see inside.
The hallway was trashed. Broken plates scattered across the floor. A serving cart lay on its side, wheels still spinning slowly. Dark smears streaked the wallpaper—blood, still wet enough to gleam under the emergency lights.
I heard it then. A low growl, coming from deeper in the building.
Every instinct screamed at me to run. This body was weak, barely recovered from yesterday's fight with Sophia. I had no weapons. No backup. Going in there was suicide.
But then I heard something else. A woman's muffled sob. The sound was coming from the direction of the private dining rooms—where Uncle Derrick's party had been.
Shit.
I slipped through the door, keeping low. The broken glass crunched under my shoes no matter how carefully I stepped. Each sound felt like a gunshot in the silence.
The growling got louder as I moved down the hallway. It was coming from around the corner, near the dining area. I could hear breathing now—harsh, ragged. Not quite human.
I flattened myself against the wall at the corner and risked a glance.
A werewolf crouched in the middle of the hallway. Half-shifted—the worst kind. Still humanoid but covered in coarse fur, face elongated into something between man and beast. Amber eyes glowed in the dim light as it sniffed the air methodically.
It was tracking someone. Hunting.
The wolf's head swung toward the private dining rooms. I followed its gaze and saw the door to Uncle Derrick's room hanging open. Inside, I could just make out movement—someone hiding behind an overturned table.
The werewolf tensed, muscles bunching under its fur. It was about to charge.
I didn't think. Just moved.
My hand closed around a broken chair leg on the floor. I hurled it at the wolf's head.
The makeshift weapon bounced off its shoulder. The werewolf spun toward me, lips peeling back from massive fangs.
Those amber eyes locked onto mine. Intelligence flickered there—this wasn't some mindless beast. This was a trained hunter.
And I'd just put myself on the menu.
The wolf dropped to all fours. Every muscle in its body coiled tight. I had maybe two seconds before it lunged.
I ran.
Not away from it—toward the kitchen. The layout flashed through my mind from the original Elara's memories. Commercial kitchen meant heat. Meant confined spaces. Meant I could use the environment against something bigger and stronger than me.
The wolf's roar shook the walls behind me. I heard claws scrabbling on tile as it gave chase.
I burst through the kitchen's swing door, scanning frantically. Industrial stoves lined one wall, still warm from lunch service. A massive deep fryer sat in the corner, oil shimmering on the surface. Heavy pots hung from overhead racks.
The door exploded inward. The werewolf filled the doorway, too large, too fast.
I grabbed the nearest pot—cast iron, heavy enough to dent a skull—and hurled it. The wolf dodged but the movement bought me seconds. I vaulted over the prep counter, putting the workspace between us.
My chest was already tightening. The familiar pressure building behind my sternum. Not now. Please not now.
The wolf lunged across the counter. I twisted the valve on the nearest stove, and flame roared to life. I shoved a metal pan into the burner, then grabbed the industrial spray nozzle from the sink.
The werewolf circled, more cautious now. Blood and saliva dripped from its jaws. It was trying to cut off my escape routes, force me into a corner.
In my previous life, I'd killed wolves three times this size. But I'd had strength then. Speed. The ability to shift and match their power.
Now I just had a weak Omega body and whatever I could improvise.
The wolf feinted left. I didn't fall for it, keeping the counter between us. My lungs were burning. Each breath came shorter than the last. I could feel the asthma attack building, that awful sensation of drowning in air.
Focus. I forced myself into the breathing pattern. Five count in. Three count hold. Seven count out.
The wolf charged, coming straight over the counter this time. I grabbed the now-scalding pan and swung it like a weapon. The burning metal caught the wolf across the face.
It screamed—an almost human sound of agony—and stumbled back. The fur on its muzzle was singed, skin beneath already blistering.
I didn't wait. I yanked the deep fryer's basket free and flung the contents—gallons of boiling oil—directly at the wolf.
The creature's howl rattled the windows. It crashed into the prep table, clawing at its face where the oil had splashed. The smell of burning fur and flesh filled the air.
I grabbed a heavy cleaver from the knife block—not for the blade, but for the weight—and brought it down on the wolf's exposed spine as it writhed on the floor.
The impact jarred my arms. The wolf spasmed once, then went still.
I stood there, cleaver in hand, trying to remember how to breathe. The kitchen spun around me. My knees wanted to buckle.
Not yet. I couldn't collapse yet.
The body was already shifting back to human form. A man, maybe forty, dressed in ragged clothes. Burns covered half his face and chest. His eyes stared at nothing.
I heard movement from the dining area. Footsteps. Someone crying.
I forced myself to move, stepping over the body. The hallway seemed longer than before. Each step felt like pushing through mud.
The private dining room was destroyed. Tables overturned. Chairs smashed. Blood spattered across the expensive wallpaper.
Uncle Derrick was slumped against the far wall, left leg stretched out in front of him. Three deep gashes ran from his thigh to his knee, blood soaking through his torn pants.
Aunt Martha and Vivian huddled behind an overturned table. Vivian had a scratch across her cheek. Martha's eyes were wide with shock.
They both stared at me like I was a ghost.
"Elara?" Martha's voice cracked. "How did you..."
I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. My chest was so tight now I could barely draw air.
Derrick's eyes met mine. The usual contempt was gone, replaced by something I'd never seen before. Respect. Maybe even fear.
"Your leg needs treatment," I managed to say. "Or you'll bleed out."
I walked toward him, still gripping the cleaver. Vivian shrank back, pressing herself against the wall.
Good. Let them be afraid.
I knelt beside Derrick, examining the wound with the clinical detachment I'd learned in my previous life. The claws had gone deep but missed the major artery. Lucky.
"I need something to tie it off with," I said.
Derrick just stared at me. His mouth opened but no words came out.
I looked back at the dead werewolf visible through the doorway. Ragged clothes. Scarred face.
Someone had sent him. Someone wanted my uncle's family dead.
The question was who.
And why did I care enough to save them?