Chapter 173
Cole
Blake parked in an alley that stank of garbage and something worse—old blood, maybe, or the lingering scent of violence barely contained. I climbed out of the SUV, my wolf immediately on alert. This place reeked of danger, of predators barely leashed.
Perfect place to find information about Court.
The entrance Dmitri led us to was a rusted metal door set into crumbling brick. No sign, no marking—just a door that looked like it opened onto nothing good. But when Dmitri knocked—three quick raps, pause, two more—I heard the sound of heavy bolts sliding back.
The wolf who opened the door was massive, easily six-five and built like he wrestled bears for fun. His eyes went wide when he took in the three of us, and I felt his fear-scent spike despite his size. Three Alphas in their prime, barely controlled, radiating the kind of danger that made smart wolves back away slowly.
"We're here to see Ivan," Asher said, his voice carrying just enough command to make it clear this wasn't a request.
The bouncer's eyes flicked to Dmitri, and something like recognition crossed his face. "Silver Fang," he said, his Russian accent thick. "You have balls, showing face here."
"I have a granddaughter who's been taken," Dmitri replied, his silver scent turning sharp. "That trumps caution."
The bouncer studied us for a long moment, then stepped aside. "Ivan will want to see you. But you follow rules, da? No violence. No Alpha commands. You break rules, you leave in pieces."
"Understood," Asher said, though I could feel the lie in it through our bond. If we found who we were looking for, rules would be the last thing on our minds.
We descended a narrow staircase that smelled of cigarette smoke, cooking meat, and the musk of too many wolves in close quarters. The stairs opened into a space that defied its exterior—a sprawling underground restaurant that had clearly been carved out of multiple basements. Dim lighting, private booths, and a bar that stretched the length of one wall.
And wolves. Dozens of them, from multiple packs if the scent markers were any indication. Some looked up as we entered, eyes widening at the sight of three unmated Alphas. Others pointedly looked away, which was probably smarter.
Our combined scent—gunpowder, ebony, mint—flooded the space, and I felt the immediate shift in atmosphere. Conversations died. Wolves tensed. Even the bartender froze mid-pour.
We were a disruption, a threat, three predators who didn't belong in this carefully maintained neutral space.
I didn't care.
A woman approached us—mid-forties maybe, with the kind of face that had seen too much and stopped being surprised by anything. Her Omega scent was laced with fear, but she held her ground. "Table for... four?"
"We're here to see Ivan," Asher repeated, his voice softer now but no less commanding.
The woman's eyes flicked to Dmitri again, and I saw her swallow hard. "I'll... I'll get him. Please, if you would just—"
"We'll wait at the bar," I said, trying to inject some warmth into my voice, trying to be the gentle one even though my wolf was screaming for action. "Thank you."
She nodded gratefully and scurried away. Blake was already moving toward the bar, his posture aggressive, his gunpowder scent making the wolves nearest us shift uncomfortably in their seats.
Blake, I sent. We need information, not a fight.
I know, he shot back, but his scent didn't ease. Doesn't mean I have to like being patient while our mate is out there.
The bartender—a thin, dark-skinned man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else—approached cautiously. "What can I get you?"
"Information," Asher said flatly. "About Connor and Celeste. About anyone who might have known them ten years ago."
The bartender's hands trembled slightly as he wiped down the bar. "I don't know those names."
"Liar," Blake growled, leaning forward. His eyes flashed gold, just for a second, and the bartender stumbled back.
"Blake," I said sharply, grabbing his arm. Through our bond, I sent a surge of calm, of control. This isn't helping.
But before Blake could respond, a new scent cut through the room—old wolf, dominant but not aggressive, carrying the weight of years and authority earned rather than demanded.
"Silver Fang," a voice rumbled from the back of the restaurant. "Ten years, and you finally show your face."
I turned to see an older Alpha emerging from a private booth—tall, gray-haired, with the kind of presence that made even other Alphas take notice. This had to be Ivan Volkov.
He studied us with sharp blue eyes, taking in the three of us with the assessment of someone who'd survived decades in this world by reading threats accurately. When his gaze landed on me, I felt the weight of it—the question of who we were, what we wanted, how dangerous we might be.
"Ivan," Dmitri said, inclining his head in respect. "I need your help."
"You need many things, old friend," Ivan replied, his accent similar to the bouncer's but refined by years. "But first, you introduce me to these pups who stink of rage and desperation."
Asher stepped forward, and I felt him pull on his Alpha authority—not aggressive, but making it clear we weren't to be dismissed. "Asher Sterling. These are my brothers, Blake and Cole. We're looking for information about Connor and Celeste—Dmitri's daughter and her mate."
Ivan's eyes narrowed. "Sterling. Silver Frost Pack." He looked back at Dmitri. "These are the boys? The ones who—"
"Who failed my granddaughter, yes," Dmitri cut him off, his voice heavy with old pain. "But they're trying to fix it now. Kara's been taken. By the same people who killed Celeste and Connor. We need to know everything you know about their last days."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Ivan's expression hardened, and for the first time, I saw real anger flash across his face.
"Come," he said, gesturing to a private booth in the back. "This conversation is not for open ears."
We followed him through the restaurant, past tables of wolves who quickly found other things to look at. The booth Ivan led us to was in the farthest corner, separated from the main space by heavy curtains that muffled sound.
Once we were seated—Asher, Blake, and I on one side, Dmitri and Ivan on the other—Ivan pulled out a battered photograph from his jacket pocket. He slid it across the table.
The photograph was old, faded with time, but the faces were clear enough. Connor and Celeste, younger than I'd ever seen them in other photos, standing outside this very restaurant. Next to them stood a younger Victoria and Marcus, all four of them smiling like they didn't have a care in the world.
My breath caught. Victoria looked... happy. Genuinely happy, not the cold, bitter woman who'd raised us. And Connor—Kara's father—had his arm around Celeste, protective and proud.
This was before everything went wrong. Before the drugs, the debts, the desperate flight that ended with a little girl abandoned on our doorstep.
"They were good people once," Ivan said quietly. "Before the Court got its hooks into them."
"Eclipse Court," Asher said, and it wasn't a question.
Ivan nodded grimly. "They came to Fairbanks in 2005, 2006—sent beautiful women, charming men, all of them selling dreams. Celeste was young, impressionable. She met a woman who called herself Diana, claimed to be a mentor, a friend. By the time she realized what Diana really was, it was too late."
"What did Diana do to her?" I asked, my analytical mind latching onto the details even as my heart ached for the tragedy of it.