Chapter 1

The Lincoln Tunnel was less a road and more a colonoscopy of concrete and exhaust. We hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. The interior of the armored SUV smelled of rich Corinthian leather, gun oil, and the sour, acrid scent of the diplomat sweating through his suit next to me.

I hate joint details.

I shifted in the backseat, my knees cramping against the ballistic paneling. Through the rain-streaked windshield—well, rain-streaked until we entered this tube—I could see the taillights of the lead car. A sleek black Tahoe.

Riax was in that car.

My phone buzzed against my thigh. I ignored it.

It buzzed again. Long, insistent vibrations.

I sighed, fishing it out of my tactical vest. The screen glowed with a new message from *Riax (Do Not Answer)*.

*You look constipated. Smile, the client is watching.*

I grit my teeth, my canines threatening to lengthen. I looked up. Through the rear window of the Tahoe ahead, I could just make out Riax’s silhouette. He was waving.

I started to type back: *Focus on the perimeter, you amateur.*

I never hit send.

The tunnel lights died.

It wasn't a flicker. It was a hard cut to black. The only illumination came from the sea of red brake lights, casting the tunnel in a bloody, hellish glow.

"What's happening?" the diplomat squeaked, clutching his briefcase.

"Stay down," I growled. My hand went to the door handle, locking it.

My nose twitched. The exhaust fumes were being overpowered by something else. Wet fur. Ozone. Rage.

*Thump.*

Something heavy landed on the roof of our SUV. The suspension groaned under the weight.

I keyed my radio. "Lead, we have contact. Rear vehicle is—"

Static. White noise screamed in my ear. Jammers.

My phone buzzed.

It was lying on the center console now. The screen lit up the dark cab like a beacon.

*Riax: 3 on your roof. Don't scratch the paint.*

"Funny," I muttered.

The roof dented inward. A claw, jagged and yellow, punched through the reinforced steel like it was aluminum foil. The diplomat screamed and promptly fainted, slumping against the door.

"Finally," I whispered. "Quiet."

The window to my left shattered. Not the bulletproof glass—the entire frame was ripped out by brute, supernatural force. A rogue wolf, half-shifted and foaming at the mouth, shoved his upper body into the cab.

He snapped at my throat.

I didn't have room to draw my sidearm. I didn't have room to shift fully. So I improvised.

I let my eyes flash gold, my own wolf rising to the surface just enough to lend power to my muscles. I grabbed the rogue by his ears and slammed his head into the door pillar. *Crunch.*

He didn't stop. He snarled, raking his claws across my chest, shredding my Kevlar vest.

"Get off my car!" I roared, driving my elbow into his snout.

Another impact shook the vehicle. The door on the right side was being peeled open like a sardine can. Two more rogues.

I was pinned. I kicked the first wolf in the throat, sending him reeling back out the window, but the second one grabbed my ankle, dragging me across the leather seats. I clawed at the upholstery, losing my grip. My head hung out of the broken window, exposing my neck to the stale tunnel air.

I looked up. The rogue standing on the roof was raising a heavy iron pipe, ready to crush my skull.

My phone, now lying on the floor mat near my face, buzzed again.

*Riax: Duck.*

I didn't ask questions. I didn't hesitate. I went limp, letting gravity pull me further down against the door frame.

*Thwip.*

A sound like a tightly plucked guitar string cut through the chaos.

A silver-tipped crossbow bolt whistled through the air, inches above my nose. It took the rogue on the roof directly in the eye.

He didn't even make a sound. He just stiffened and toppled backward, sliding off the hood of the SUV and landing in the path of a terrifyingly confused Honda Civic.

The remaining rogue, the one holding my ankle, hesitated. That was his mistake.

I shifted my hand, claws extending fully, and severed his Achilles tendon. He howled and let go. I scrambled back into the car, grabbed the door handle with both hands, and slammed it shut, engaging the emergency deadbolt.

The engine of the lead Tahoe roared. Riax was reversing. He slammed his bumper into the front of our SUV, pushing us backward, creating space, then gunned it forward, ramming the debris out of the way.

"Go, go, go!" I yelled at my driver, who had been paralyzed by fear until now.

We peeled out, tires screeching, leaving the bodies and the confused commuters in the red gloom.

Ten minutes later, we burst out of the tunnel and into the pouring rain of Manhattan. The streetlights blurred past. The diplomat was still unconscious. I was covered in safety glass and rogue blood.

My phone buzzed.

I wiped a smear of gore off the screen with my thumb.

*Riax: That's 1-0 for me. Buy me a drink later, Princess.*

I stared at the text. I stared at the black Tahoe speeding ahead of us, parting the traffic like a shark through water.

I didn't type a reply. I just leaned my head back against the ruined headrest and watched the rain, knowing that the only thing worse than almost dying was knowing Riax wasn't going to let me forget who saved me.