Six months had passed since the valley burned, and the "Gold Standard" was gone. In his place was a machine.
Rikae sat in the new, sterile command center, the blue light of the monitors reflecting in eyes that no longer flashed gold. They were a flat, dead charcoal. He hadn't slept more than three hours a night since the night of the explosion. He didn't need sleep; he had work.
"The Iron-Fang remnants in the East have been absorbed," Rikae said, his voice a dry, toneless rasp. He didn't look up as Silas entered. "I've restructured their debt. They'll be working for the Silver-Claw for the next decade to pay for the damages."
Silas didn't sit. He stood by the door, watching his best friend. Rikae's tailored suits were now black—always black. His frame was leaner, harder, the muscles of his arms looking like twisted iron cables.
"The Alphas from the Northern Coalition are calling you 'The Reaper,' Rikae," Silas said quietly. "They say you don't negotiate anymore. You just... dismantle."
"Negotiation is for people with something to lose," Rikae replied, his fingers flying across the keys. "I'm just optimizing the territory, Silas. Isn't that what a Lead Beta does?"
"A Lead Beta protects the pack's soul. You're turning us into a corporation with claws." Silas stepped closer, slamming a hand onto the desk—not in anger, but in desperation. "You haven't mentioned her name in half a year. You haven't looked at the Moon once. You're becoming a ghost, Rikae."
Rikae finally stopped typing. He looked at his hand. It was steady. It was cold.
"The Moon lied," Rikae said, and the words sounded like breaking glass. "The 'fated bond' is a biological malfunction. It's a chemical lure designed to make us weak. I've corrected the error."
"By killing your heart?"
"By ignoring it until it stopped beating." Rikae stood up, smoothing his black blazer. "There is no Lisra. There is only the Silver-Claw. There is no 'mate.' There is only the hierarchy."
He walked past Silas, but as he reached the door, he stumbled. Just a fraction of a second. A sharp, icy needle of pain stabbed into the center of his chest—the "Ghost Ache." It was a sudden, violent throb of connection.
Lisra was afraid. Somewhere, miles away in the dark, she was screaming.
Rikae gripped the doorframe, his knuckles turning white. His wolf surged for a heartbeat, wanting to howl, wanting to hunt. But Rikae shoved it back down into the cellar of his mind. He took a long, shaking breath and straightened his tie.
"Rikae?" Silas asked, sensing the spike in his scent. "Did you feel that?"
"I felt nothing," Rikae lied, his voice cold and flat once more. "I have a meeting with the Border Patrol. Don't interrupt me again, Alpha."
He walked down the hall, his footsteps echoing like a funeral march. He was the perfect Beta. He was ruthless. He was efficient. And he was dying from the inside out, a man-made monster created by a woman who chose a dead man's memory over a living man's soul.