Chapter 182
Ellie's POV
It had been five days since Ryan's call shattered Lily's world into a year-long waiting game. Five days of watching my roommate oscillate between determined normalcy and three-AM crying sessions. But yesterday, something shifted—she'd actually laughed at one of Megan's terrible jokes, had eaten a full meal without me nagging, had set her phone face-down for two whole hours. The wound was still raw, still bleeding, but at least she was breathing again.
Which meant I could finally return to the other crisis demanding my attention.
The safe house smelled like coffee and tension at two in the morning. I pulled up the final commit on my laptop, watching the encryption layers initialize with a satisfying green glow. The darknet framework was done—actually done, not "I'll fix the bugs later" done.
"Show me." Jackson appeared behind my chair, still wearing workout clothes from whatever brutal training session Miles had put him through tonight. His hand settled on my shoulder, warm and steady.
I tilted the screen. "Zero-knowledge authentication. End-to-end encryption. Invite-tree tracking. Emergency self-destruct. Everything the Council asked for, plus a few things they didn't know they needed."
Miles materialized from the kitchen, holding three mugs. "The Council's thrilled, by the way. They want deployment within the week." He set down the coffee—mine doctored with cream and sugar exactly how I liked it. "There's a small problem."
"Of course there is." I took a sip, letting the warmth settle my nerves.
"CVU has an estimated fifteen to twenty werewolf students." Miles pulled up a chair, his business-casual demeanor intact despite the ungodly hour. "Most are lone wolves. They can sense each other—same way you sensed Jackson before you knew what he was—but here's the thing: they've spent years pretending not to notice."
Jackson's fingers tightened slightly on my shoulder. "It's survival instinct. You feel another wolf nearby, you look away. You don't make eye contact. You definitely don't introduce yourself."
"Exactly." Miles leaned forward. "So how do you approach someone who's been conditioned to avoid pack contact? How do you get close enough to even start the conversation without triggering their flight response?"
I thought about Ethan Rodriguez. I'd noticed him three weeks ago in the Pioneer Arena—the way he moved just a fraction too fast, how his eyes tracked the basketball with predatory focus, the way he unconsciously scanned exits every few minutes. We'd made accidental eye contact once. He'd immediately looked away, grabbed his gym bag, and left.
Classic lone wolf behavior.
"There's another problem," Jackson added quietly. "A lot of lone wolves aren't alone because they had to be. They chose it. Left their birth packs because they couldn't stand the Alpha's methods, or their family's politics, or the way traditional hierarchies crush anyone who questions them." His voice carried old bitterness. "The word 'organization' makes them think they're walking right back into what they escaped."
"But here's the thing," I said, leaning forward. "A wolf might hate a specific pack—might despise their Alpha, might want nothing to do with their family's bullshit—but no wolf actually wants to be alone. We're pack animals. It's in our DNA. We need to belong somewhere, to someone." I thought of those first terrible months at CVU, before I'd found Jackson, when I'd felt Thalia clawing at my insides every full moon, desperate for connection. "You can reject a bad pack. But you can't reject the need for pack itself. That need doesn't go away just because you run."
"So we need to approach them naturally, in public spaces where they feel safe, using language that emphasizes choice and anonymity." I was already thinking through the logistics.
Miles studied me with that unreadable expression. "You're volunteering to make contact personally."
"I'm a nineteen-year-old cheerleader with decent social skills and no Alpha intimidation factor." I met his gaze. "I'm less threatening than either of you. And I'm one of them—young, scared, figuring this out. They might actually listen."
Jackson's hand moved from my shoulder to cup my face, tilting my head back so I had to look at him. "It's dangerous. If one of them panics—"
"Then you'll be nearby to intervene." I covered his hand with mine. "But you can't be the one approaching. Your Alpha bloodline shows, even when you're trying to hide it. It'll trigger their defenses."
Miles pulled out his phone, already making notes. "Code phrases. You'll need a way to confirm identity fast, before they bolt. Something that sounds casual to humans but signals intention to wolves."
We spent the next hour hammering out details. By the time gray light started filtering through the windows, we had a plan.
I just had to convince a bunch of traumatized lone wolves that the thing they feared most—being found—was actually what they needed most.
---
The Pioneer Arena smelled like sweat, rubber, and teenage determination. I leaned against Jackson's side in the bleachers, watching the pickup basketball game below with half my attention. The other half was focused on the nervous energy radiating from the far court.
There.
Ethan Rodriguez, freshman, supposedly on an athletics scholarship. Officially human. Unofficially—I could feel the compressed tension in his aura from here, like a coiled spring wrapped in duct tape and hope.
"You feel that?" Jackson murmured, his hand finding mine.
"Yeah." The bond between us hummed with shared awareness. Ethan's energy signature was young, barely controlled, tinged with constant fear. He was so young to be doing this alone.
I watched him move. Every jump was just a little too high. Every sprint just a little too fast. He was good at hiding it—adding an awkward stumble here, an exaggerated pant there—but I'd been doing the same dance for years. I recognized the performance.
When he grabbed a Gatorade from a teammate, he checked the bottle cap first. Making sure no one had tampered with it. When someone clapped him on the shoulder from behind, his whole body went rigid for a heartbeat before he forced himself to relax.
God, he's terrified.
"I'm going in," I whispered to Jackson. "Stay close, but not too close."
"Ellie—"
"Trust me." I squeezed his hand once, then headed for the water fountain near the court.
Ethan was there thirty seconds later, exactly as I'd predicted. Up close, I could see the careful blankness in his expression—the same mask I wore every day. His eyes flicked to me, away, back again with practiced disinterest.
"Great game," I offered with a cheerleader's bright smile. "You're really good."
"Thanks." Polite. Distant. His gaze swept the arena—exits, witnesses, threats.
I filled my water bottle, watching him in my peripheral vision. Then, quiet enough that only someone with enhanced hearing would catch it: "You been sleeping okay lately?"
His hand froze on the fountain button.
"Because honestly?" I continued, like I was just making small talk. "The full moon always messes with my sleep schedule. Makes me so restless."
Ethan's pupils contracted to pinpoints. For three endless seconds, he stared at me with something between hope and terror.
Then he dropped his water bottle and bolted.