Chapter 82: Parasite

Chapter 82 Flint I don’t hesitate—I step straight into the shower, tossing aside my dirty clothes in a heap I don’t even want to look at. The first splash of water hits, cold at first, but when I fumble and finally find the hot option, it’s... gods, it’s heaven. The spray pounds against my skin with a steady rhythm, sharp enough to sting, warm enough to feel like it’s scrubbing my bones clean. I brace my hands against the slick tile, and for a second, I think I could cry. It’s not just the grime that’s coming off—it’s the week. The sleepless nights, the running, the constant fear that every shadow is a vampire’s claw. The ache in my muscles loosens, and I let out something between a groan and a laugh. I want to say it’s been a while since I’ve had a bath like this, but truthfully, I’ve never had one like this in my life. The water pressure alone is a luxury I couldn’t have imagined. Back in White Stone, the pipes groan like dying beasts. On good days, you might get a trickle of lukewarm water. On bad ones, nothing at all. Here, the water pounds against me in a steady, cleansing rhythm. The heat seeps into my bones, almost erasing the exhaustion of the last week. A hellish week. A week of running, hiding, rationing what little food we had, sleeping in shifts with one eye open. My first time leaving the pack lands, and instead of marveling at freedom, all I felt was dread clawing at my chest. I lather the so-called shampoo into my hair—stuff that smells sharp and clean, something foreign and expensive. The kind of bottle that, if I ever found it in White Stone, I’d have guarded like treasure. Here, it sits casually on a shelf, waiting to be used. If I knew the price, I’d probably go into cardiac arrest. I tilt my head back, let the spray hit my face, and for the first time in days, I almost feel human again. Or wolf. Or maybe just alive. A knock against the glass shower door jolts me. I curse under my breath, remembering—I’m not alone. Stepping out, water streaming down my skin, and don’t bother with modesty. Torren slips into the stall behind me without a word. I find the towels—fancily folded, stacked like ornaments. The kind of thing I’ve only ever seen in TV shows or outdated magazines. I dry myself quickly, poke around the drawers by the bed, and find sealed boxes of underwear. Still wrapped. New. Like they were put there just for me. I tear one open, pull on a pair, grab joggers and a shirt. The moment the door shuts behind me, it vanishes into the wall. Seamless. Hidden. I flinch at the sound and glance around. This isn’t White Stone. I drift toward the massive glass wall, curiosity pulling me like a tether. The view outside almost knocks the breath out of me. The sun is setting, gilding the city in molten gold. Skyscrapers stretch toward the sky, cars weave like tiny insects far below, lights flicker on one by one. It’s... beautiful. Different from the forests, the endless greenery, the wild, untamed air of home. This beauty is structured. Man-made. Controlled. Yet still alive in its own way. Of course, the noise and scents are absolutely horrid. Behind me, the mates sit. They look like they’ve been pulled straight out of a painting—effortless, untouchable, almost unreal. Cameron radiates the kind of dominance Alric and Frederick could only ever dream of possessing. Just sitting there, he exudes an aura that silences the room. The thought makes me laugh mentally. The mission, on paper, is simple: find Lenora and her mate, explain the disaster White Stone has become, and convince—no, beg—Cameron to return as pack alpha. That’s what the elders want. That’s what they sent us here for. But me? My father and I have different plans. Whether Lenora and Cameron return to White Stone or not doesn’t matter to us. That choice is theirs. My choice was already made long before I stepped foot in this office. If they agree to go back, fine. If not, even better. Either way, I’m staying here. I’ll ask for a job. Lay down my pride and start small if I must. I’m grateful to my past self for my restraint in high school—when every other wolf boy was clawing, scheming, or forcing their way into her pants, I held back. I didn’t befriend Lenora, but I didn’t antagonize her either. That neutrality is a kind of investment, and now it’s matured. She has no reason to hate me, no old grudge to bring up. That means, if I ask for work, she won’t refuse. I’ll take that foothold. And then? I’ll begin the real plan—slowly pulling my family out of the hellhole White Stone has become. Piece by piece, one by one, until we’re free. They say Stellan wolves are cunning, selfish, greedy. Maybe they’re right. But those are the traits that have kept us alive. Those are the traits that will save us now. As they always have. What most don’t know is that the Stellans weren’t always in White Stone. Once, long ago, we belonged to another pack. A stronger one, richer, better organized. But my ancestor—the first Stellan with teeth sharp enough to matter—saw the cracks before they split the ground. He had the smarts to betray his old pack and switch allegiance to White Stone at the perfect time. Not out of loyalty. Not out of honor. For survival. As my father always says: Stellan wolves don’t have strength. We don’t have alpha bloodlines. We don’t win battles with claws and fangs. So we will stick to those that do. What we do have is the patience to wait, the instincts to attach ourselves to those who do have power, and the shamelessness to hold on tight once we’ve latched. If it wasn’t Cameron it was going to be someone else.