My performance pieces.
The collection I spent years building, piece by piece, from salvaged materials and discount finds and occasional splurges when I could afford them.
They were in the townhouse.
The townhouse that burned.
The realization crashes over me like a wave—delayed, somehow, lost in the chaos of everything else that's been happening. I've been so focused on survival, on the pack, on the looming confrontation with Kai's father, that I forgot.
I forgot that I don't haveanything.
No costumes.
No props.
No carefully curated collection of performance pieces that I could mix and match to create exactly the right visual for exactly the right moment.
Just my uniform.
And the clothes these Alphas have provided.
One-two-three-four.
My fingers flex in Kai's grip.
One-two-three-four.
"They burned," I say quietly. "All of it. I don't... I don't have anything."
The admission feels like failure.
Stupid.
Careless.
How did I not think of this sooner?
"I know."
Kai's voice is calm.
Steady.
Like he anticipated this exact reaction and prepared for it.
"That's why we're here."
He leads me toward the entrance, and I follow—too stunned to argue, too overwhelmed to do anything but let myself be guided. His hand is warm around mine, the contact grounding in a way I'm not ready to analyze.
The door opens before we reach it.
A security guard in an impeccable suit steps aside, his eyes tracking us with professional assessment. He's big—broad shoulders, thick neck, the particular build of someone who's been trained to neutralize threats efficiently—and his gaze lingers on me longer than it should.
Not threatening.
Just... measuring.
Evaluating.
