Chapter 35 THE GOLDSMITH
AVRIELLE'S POV
The car skidded to a halt, the tires biting into the packed dirt of the village outskirts.
My hands, which had been white-knuckled on the steering wheel for what felt like an eternity, finally let go. They fell into my lap, trembling uncontrollably.
The silence that rushed back into the cabin was deafening, punctuated only by the erratic, ragged sound of my own breathing.
We were in the Rogue District now. It wasn't the lawless, blood-soaked chaos of the deep forest; it was a rough, unpolished settlement where outcasts lived by a desperate, unspoken code.
It wasn't "safe" by Northwood standards—there was no Alpha's protection, no enforcers patrolling the street—but it was civilized. It was a place where you could walk without being hunted like sport.
I forced myself to turn around, needing to check on Ivana.
My heart plummeted.
She was slumped against the leather, her face as pale as parchment, eyes rolled back in her head. She had passed out.
"Ivana?" I shook her shoulder, but she was limp, a dead weight against the seat.
Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in my chest. I ran my hands through my hair, my pulse thrumming in my ears. If she died now, I would never find that shop. I would never find the vendor.
My gaze darted around the car, desperate for anything. I spotted a half-empty plastic bottle of water in the cup holder. I grabbed it, ripped the cap off, and splashed the entire contents directly onto her face.
Ivana jolted, her body convulsing as she sucked in a sharp, panicked breath. She scrambled backward, her eyes flying open, darting wildly around the car.
"Are we dead?" she gasped, her voice shrill with terror. "Is he coming for me?"
I exhaled a long, shaky breath, the tension in my chest finally beginning to break. But looking at her—this woman who had once been my rival, now a terrified mess—something in me just snapped.
A hysterical giggle bubbled up from my throat, eventually morphing into a genuine, albeit manic, laugh. It was loud, ugly, and completely out of place, but it broke the heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the car.
Ivana stared at me as if I’d finally lost my mind, but the sobbing stopped, replaced by a stunned, awkward silence.
"They're here," I said, wiping a tear from my eye and sobering up quickly. "Ivana, look. Where's the vendor?"
She blinked, still dazed, and slowly turned her head toward the window. Her gaze trailed along the row of dilapidated, dusty storefronts until it landed on a small, signless building with a flickering lamp above the door. A sign hung in the window: Goldsmith.
"That’s him," she whispered, pointing with a shaky finger.
"Since you spotted him, let's go," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. "We aren't keeping Liam and the driver waiting when they catch up."
I wasn't truly worried about them. They were elite warriors—the kind who served the Devil Alpha himself. That cold driver wouldn't have been by Xavier’s side nor will Liam guard the pack borders if they both could be taken out by a bunch of disorganized rogues.
I stepped out of the car, taking a deep snuff of the fresh air. Ivana stumbled out after me, clutching her robe tightly.
We made our way toward the shop, our footsteps heavy on the uneven ground.
I pushed the door open, a small bell chiming overhead. The interior was cramped, smelling of hot metal and chemicals.
A young man with soot-stained hands was hunched over a workbench, his hammer rhythmically striking a piece of gold. He didn't even look up as we entered.
I glanced at Ivana, then took the lead. We had to be strategic.
"We’re looking for a custom piece," I began, my voice steady, putting on my best ‘patron’ persona. "Something intricate. We were told you were the best."
The goldsmith didn't stop hammering, instead he replied in a cold, detached voice. "Not taking new orders. Come back in a month."
"We aren't actually here to buy," I countered, my voice dropping, losing its pretense. "We’re here because someone named Adrian, from the Northwood pack, sent us."
The hammer stopped mid-air.
The man stiffened, his shoulders squaring under his worn tunic.
He turned slowly, his eyes scanning us with intense suspicion before he regained his composure.
"If you’re here to ask about my clients, you can turn around and walk right back out. I don't talk to Northwood wolves. It’s bad for business—and bad for my health."
I rushed forward, my hands pressing against the workbench. "No, you don't understand. He’s been framed for treason. He’s facing execution within the day, and you’re the only person who can clear his name!"
The man stared at me, his face a mask of indifference. "And what does that have to do with me? I’m a goldsmith. I forge metal. I don't care about pack politics."
"It has everything to do with you!" I snapped, my patience thinning. "You just have to come with us to testify. He was arranging a surprise gift for her..." I gestured toward Ivana, "...and you’re the one he wrote that letter to. The letter that proves his intentions were pure, not political!"
The goldsmith’s brow furrowed. "What letter? What are you talking about?"
I froze. A chill, colder than the forest air, settled over me. His confusion was genuine. It wasn't an act.
He didn't know about the letter? How was that even possible?
"Adrian never wrote you a letter?" My lips trembled.
The man looked away, his jaw tightening. "He did. But how the hell did you find out about it? And why do I get the feeling you’re trying to pin a treason charge on me by association? We both know the rogues and the Northwood pack don't sit well together. You want to have my head cut off?"
"No, no!" I pleaded, my heart hammering against my ribs. We came all this way. We nearly died. It can't be for nothing. "We just need you to explain that he was ordering jewelry, not planning an insurrection! If you could just..."
"I’m not getting involved," he cut me off, turning back to his workbench. "I’m not going back to Northwood, and I’m not stepping foot in an Alpha’s court. Get out."
My chest constricted.
Despair threatened to swallow me and suddenly, I felt the floor beneath me tilt. "How did you agree to work for him in the first place, then? If you’re so terrified of the pack, why take the job?"
He shrugged, the movement slow and infuriating. "He had the funds. He paid the price. Do you?"
My face fell. I didn't.
I was wearing the clothes I’d been given, carrying nothing but the hope of a desperate woman. I had expected logic, or perhaps compassion, to win the day—a fool’s gamble. I had nothing to offer him.
Suddenly, the shop door groaned open.
My heart jumped into my throat, fearing the rogues had followed us.
I spun around, ready to scream, only to find the driver standing in the threshold. Beside him was Liam, the enforcer.
Both of them had fresh cuts along their faces, and the guard’s shirt was torn, but their eyes were clear, cold, and entirely focused. They moved with the terrifying ease of predators who had just finished a hunt.
The driver didn't look at me. He stepped up to the workbench, his presence dominating the cramped, dusty room. He reached into his coat, pulled out a thick, heavy bundle of cash, and slammed it onto the table with a dull, final thud.
Then he dropped another.
And another.
Ten bundles in total, thick with high-denomination notes that smelled of the vault.
The goldsmith’s eyes bulged, his gaze locking onto the money with a greed he couldn't quite mask.
The driver leaned in, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate the very foundation of the shop.
"Is this enough?"