Chapter 88: Chapter 88: Meeting the Enemy

Lila’s POV

I opened my eyes.

The ceiling was curved, glowing with a cold, white light. It wasn’t concrete, but some kind of matte metal. A very fine weld seam, like an old, unhealed scar, marked where the panels met.

I turned my head.

There were no walls. Only a single curved metal bulkhead, its surface coated in a thin layer of anti-slip rubber. It was dark gray and cool to the touch, with a dry texture that felt like a mixture of engine oil and sea breeze.

I sat up.

The mattress was thin, lying on a hard alloy plate. My body swayed gently with the vessel’s movement—not a lurch, but a constant, low-frequency rocking, as if held by a giant hand, slowly and steadily bobbing on the water’s surface.

I stepped onto the floor, barefoot.

The floor was made of the same matte metal. It was ice-cold, with a fine texture that seemed to have a faint suction to it. I looked down and saw a fresh, pale pink mark on my inner ankle—from where the springs of an iron bed had dug into me last night.

I raised a hand to the spot behind my left ear.

The skin was dry and smooth. No burning sensation, no silver glow.

I slowly got to my feet and walked to the door.

The door was made of alloy, set flush into the wall. It had no handle, only a circular sensor panel that emitted a faint blue glow.

I pressed myself against the door.

I held my breath.

Three seconds later, I heard it.

There were no footsteps outside the door.

Farther away, there were several breaths at different frequencies, and the faint, muffled sound of someone speaking.

“Pick up the pace. Head for international waters.”

For some reason, that distinctly commanding voice made my stomach clench, even twitch.

I turned, leaned my back against the door, and slowly slid to the floor.

The vessel swayed again. It was a bit more pronounced this time, and the light tube overhead let out a very soft HUM.

I lifted my right hand, hovering my fingertips over the inside of my left wrist.

There, my pulse was beating at an unfamiliar, slightly accelerated rhythm.

’What do I do? They’ve moved me.’

’This ship is heading for international waters.’

’Will Jasper still be able to find me?’

The thought sank like a stone in my stomach, and I swallowed hard.

I wanted soup. The creamy mushroom soup that created the connection.

I wanted to taste that hint of rust, to feel my fingertips grow hot again, to walk that silver path once more. I wanted to hear him say my name and feel my heartbeat slow for that single, perfect moment.

But there was nothing in the room.

No table, no cabinet, no thermos, no bowl, no oregano.

Only a door, a light, a curved metal bulkhead, and the sound of my own breathing.

I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead against the cold door.

The chill of the metal seeped through my skin, bit by bit.

—

The lock clicked softly.

It wasn’t an electronic beep, but the CLICK of a mechanical bolt retracting.

The door slid inward.

Caleb was standing in the doorway.

He wasn’t wearing yesterday’s turtleneck. Instead, he had on a dark gray work uniform, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing strong muscles and a fresh, un-scabbed scrape. Behind him stood two other men.

They were half a head taller than Caleb, with shoulders so broad they seemed about to burst through their uniforms. The veins on their necks bulged slightly, and their jawlines were taut. Neither of them looked at me; their gazes were fixed straight ahead, their breathing perfectly synchronized—a three-second inhale, a half-second pause, a three-second exhale. With each breath out, their nostrils flared slightly, their warm breath condensing into small puffs of mist in the cold air.

Caleb didn’t enter. He just stood in the frame, turning sideways to clear the path. His eyes swept over my face, paused for half a second, then landed on the ring on my left ring finger.

He didn’t speak.

He simply raised his right hand and made a welcoming gesture. Palm open, fingers long and slender.

I got to my feet and walked out of the room.

The corridor was narrower than the basement, the light even colder. The walls were the same matte metal, but every five meters, a circular porthole was set into the wall. Outside the window was an inky blue sea, calm, with no breaking waves—only the long, fine, white wake that spread slowly outward as the bow cut through the water.

We passed three portholes.

Beside the fourth, Caleb stopped.

He didn’t turn around, just said in a low voice, “Derek is waiting for you in the main cabin.”

His voice was flat, without inflection, as if he were commenting on the weather.

I nodded.

He continued walking, his steps steady, his leather shoes making a rhythmic TAP, TAP on the metal floor. The two Werewolf guards remained half a step behind him, their breathing pattern unchanged.

—

The door to the main cabin was thicker than the one to my room.

When the door opened, it made no sound. A rush of warm air flowed out, carrying the scent of leather and a faint hint of something like aged whiskey.

I stepped inside.

The cabin was large and oval-shaped. The ceiling was high, with a ring of recessed lighting that cast a soft glow, yet illuminated everything with sharp clarity.

In the center of the room was a long table made of walnut. Its surface was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting my own image: hair disheveled, face pale, the skin behind my left ear clean, without a single abnormality.

At the far end of the long table sat a man.

He was wearing a dark gray cashmere sweater, its sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing a pair of strong wrists. On the inside of one wrist was a winding, serpentine scar that stretched from his wrist bone deep into his sleeve.

He looked to be in his forties. His hair was cut short, with streaks of gray mixed in with the black, his sideburns impeccably trimmed. He had a sharp jawline, a high, straight nose, and thin, pale lips. And his eyes—they were amber, tarnished like old gold coins that hadn’t been cleaned in years. They held no warmth, only scrutiny and desire.

I stood frozen.

Without warning, the skin behind my ear pulled taut, like a bowstring drawn silent and full.

’This is the man who killed my parents!’ A fire of pure hatred raged within me.

He finally lifted his gaze.

Then, the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

It wasn’t a smile.

It was a sneer.

His voice wasn’t loud, but it scraped across my eardrums like a dull knife.

“So it’s you, you little half-breed.”

“Arthur Goodrich told me you didn’t have a single drop of wolf blood in you.”

“After all these years, I’d almost forgotten about a little thing like you.”

“I never would have thought…”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze like a nail.

“What in the world did your mother do to you all those years ago?”

He paused, his eyes flicking to the ring on my left ring finger before returning to my face. His voice dropped, growing even colder.

“To make you this good at hiding.”

I stood rooted to the spot, not moving.

My fingertips dug deep into my palms.

The edges of my nails began to emit a faint, almost invisible silver light.

It wasn’t spreading.

It was coalescing.

Like a drop of water, pinned to my fingertips by an invisible force just before it could fall.

Caleb stood by the door. He didn’t step forward or make a sound.

The two Werewolf guards were still behind him, the air growing taut.

Derek didn’t look at them.

He just watched me, his amber eyes holding no killing intent, no interest—only a cold, pure… confirmation.

Confirmation that something inside me was indeed responding to him.

Confirmation that it came from my mother.

Confirmation that it was waking up.

The cabin was silent.

There was only the HISS of the central air conditioning and, from outside the porthole, the long, low, unending sound of the bow continuously cleaving the sea—

SPLASH… SPLASH… SPLASH…

It was like time itself, slowly, inch by inch, grinding across the deck.

Suddenly, Derek raised his hand and made a gesture.

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