12. Ghosts In The Machine
~JESSICA~
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, the denial automatic, my voice steadier than it has any right to be considering the hurricane raging inside my chest. "My name is Jessica Vesper. Just Vesper."
The silver-haired Alpha's smile doesn't falter, though something flickers in his eyes—amusement, perhaps, or appreciation for the performance. He approaches slowly, each step measured, deliberate, giving me ample time to retreat if I choose.
I hold my ground instead, spine straightening, chin lifting in defiance rather than submission.
If he expects Omega deference, he's chosen the wrong target.
"Of course," he says smoothly. "My apologies for the confusion."
He stops a respectful distance away—close enough for conversation, far enough to suggest he doesn't intend immediate threat. Smart. Most Alphas crowd into your space immediately, using proximity as intimidation. This one is more sophisticated than that.
More dangerous.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he continues, voice cultured, accent hinting at Eastern European origins beneath layers of American polish. "I’m Marcus. These are my associates—" He gestures to the second unknown Alpha, a massive bear of a man with scars crossing one cheek. "Bastian Reynolds, and—" a slight nod toward the doors, where a third Alpha now leans, this one smaller, with mismatched eyes that evaluate me with unnerving precision, "—Knox Eastman."
My gaze darts between them, cataloging threats.
Three unknown Alphas, all clearly operating as a unit.
Madame Devereaux and the technical director have retreated to the far corner, suddenly fascinated by their clipboards.
Smart move on their part. Whatever's about to happen, they want no part of it.
"Charmed," I drawl, the word dripping with sarcasm. "Is there a reason you've crashed my dance evaluation, or do you make a habit of stalking Omegas?"
The one called Knox barks a laugh, genuine amusement crossing his features.
"She's exactly as advertised, Marcus."
Advertised?
I tense, weight shifting subtly to the balls of my feet. My knives are in my bag by the wall—too far to reach quickly. The gun strapped to my thigh beneath my dance tights would be faster, but using it here, in a neutral zone, would bring consequences I can't afford.
Think, Jessica .
"We're not here to harm you," Marcus says, reading my preparatory stance correctly. "Quite the opposite, in fact."
"You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it," I reply, eyes still tracking all three men, looking for weaknesses, openings, escape routes. "Strange Alphas don't usually seek me out for friendly chats."
"No," Marcus agrees, his expression thoughtful. "I imagine they don't. Not many would dare, given your reputation in Dead Knot."
The casual mention of my territory sends another jolt of alarm through me. These men know too much—about my identity, about my location, about my carefully constructed life here.
"What do you want?" I demand, abandoning pretense. "Skip the cryptic bullshit and get to the point."
Bastian— the mountain with the scarred face —shifts slightly, his posture suggesting he's restraining himself from commenting. Knox, by contrast, seems thoroughly entertained, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
Marcus remains composed, unruffled by my hostility.
"Very well. Directness it is." He clasps his hands behind his back, a gesture so formal it borders on military. "As of yesterday evening, there is a five-billion-dollar bounty on your head, Ms. Vesper. Dead or alive, though I suspect the latter would command a premium."
The information hits like a physical blow, though I manage not to react visibly.
Five fucking billion. An absurd sum. The kind of money that would draw every mercenary, assassin, and opportunistic Alpha from across the continent.
A death sentence with too many zeros.
"Who?" I ask, the single word carrying the weight of years spent hunting shadows.
"Elliott Prescott."
The name sends ice through my veins, memories flashing like broken glass—fragments of that night, rain and pain and faces I've spent years trying to identify.
Prescott. Of course.
"And you're here because...?" I prompt, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing my recognition.
"Because we're offering an alternative to the inevitable bloodbath that will ensue once word of the bounty spreads," Marcus says simply. "Protection. Resources. A pack."
I blink, momentarily thrown by the unexpected proposal.
Then I laugh—a harsh, bitter sound that echoes off the studio's high ceilings.
"A pack? You three?" I gesture dismissively, contempt dripping from every syllable. "I don't need protecting, and I certainly don't need a pack of geriatric Alphas playing white knight."
Knox winces theatrically.
"Geriatric? I'm thirty-four!"
"Old enough to know better," I shoot back.
"Old enough to have resources you lack," Marcus counters smoothly. "Connections you need. Experience that might keep you alive."
I cross my arms, defensive posture betraying more than I'd like.
"I've survived this long on my own."
"This isn't about the usual Dead Knot power struggles," Bastian speaks for the first time, his voice deep and rumbling, the sound a physical presence in the room. "Prescott doesn't care about academy politics or territory disputes. He wants you erased. Permanently."
"And you know this how?" I challenge.
Marcus and Bastian exchange a look I can't quite interpret, a silent communication born of long association.
"Because we've been monitoring Prescott's movements for years," Marcus says finally. "Just as we've been monitoring yours, Jessica."
The use of my first name— my real name —sends a shiver down my spine. No one calls me Jessica anymore. Not even Emilia, who knows more of my secrets than anyone.
No one except...
"Where's the fourth?" I ask suddenly, the question bursting forth before I can stop it. "If you're offering me a pack, where's your fourth Alpha? That’s the golden number isn’t it?"
The tension in the room shifts, subtle but unmistakable.
Knox's smirk falters. Bastian's massive shoulders tighten. Marcus's expression remains carefully neutral, but something flickers in his eyes—calculation, perhaps, or concern.
"He'll be along," Marcus says after a pause that lasts just a fraction too long. "He has...reservations about our approach."
Understanding dawns, pieces falling into place with sickening clarity .
Viper at the back of the room—not imagination, not coincidence. The scent that lingered even after he disappeared. The way these men speak of me with too much familiarity, too much knowledge.
"You know him," I state, not a question. "Your fourth. You know Viper."
Knox makes a choking sound that might be surprise or laughter. Bastian's expression darkens further. Marcus simply inclines his head, acknowledging without confirming.
"We know many people, Ms. Vesper," he says carefully. "Dead Knot may seem isolated, but it exists within wider networks of power and influence."
"Cut the diplomatic bullshit," I snap, patience evaporating. "You know exactly who I'm talking about. The masked Alpha. You know him."
Marcus studies me, something calculating in his gaze.
"What would your reaction be if I said yes?"
The question catches me off guard. What would my reaction be? Anger at the deception? Relief that Viper isn't as isolated as he appears? Betrayal that he might have been reporting on me all along?
I don't know. I honestly don't know.
And that terrifies me more than the bounty, Prescott, and these three strange Alphas with their impossible offer.
"My reaction," I say finally, forcing steel into my voice, "would be to demand answers. Starting with how long you've been watching me, and why you've chosen now to approach."
Marcus nods, as if I've passed some unspoken test.
"Fair enough." He gestures toward the seating area near the wall. "Perhaps we could continue this conversation more comfortably? It's a rather long story."
I hesitate, weighing options.
I could refuse. Could walk out, disappear into Dead Knot's labyrinthine sectors, lose myself in the chaos that's been my protection for years.
But the bounty changes things...
Five billion means nowhere is safe—not my crumbling dorm, not the abandoned studios where I train, not even Viper's hidden apartment.
And these men... they know things.
About my past. About my identity.
About the connections between Viper and whatever game they're playing.
Knowledge is survival. Always has been.
"Fine," I concede, moving toward the indicated seats. "You have ten minutes to convince me I shouldn't walk out that door and forget this conversation ever happened."
Marcus inclines his head again, that formal gesture that speaks of military training or aristocratic upbringing.
"That's all I ask."
As we settle into the worn chairs that line the studio wall, I position myself with clear sightlines to all exits.
Old habits. Necessary ones.
Knox produces a tablet from somewhere, fingers dancing across its surface in practiced movements. Bastian remains standing, his massive frame positioned between me and the main doors—not blocking, exactly, but certainly complicating any potential escape.
Marcus sits across from me, his posture perfect, hands resting lightly on his knees.
Up close, I can see the fine network of lines around his eyes, the silver at his temples that speaks of stress as much as age. He's older than he first appeared—mid-forties, perhaps—but carries himself with the confidence of someone accustomed to power and its responsibilities.
"Seven years ago," he begins without preamble, "you were attacked in an alley three blocks from the club district. Six Alphas, all connected to the Prescott family in various capacities, left you for dead after subjecting you to..." He pauses, something like respect or perhaps compassion flickering across his features. "Well. I don't need to tell you what they did."
No.
He doesn't.
The memories are carved into my flesh, burned into my nightmares, written in scars both visible and hidden.
"You were found, barely alive, by a passing Alpha who arranged medical care and falsified death records to protect you from further pursuit," Marcus continues. "This Alpha provided resources for your recovery and eventual enrollment at Knot Academy under a modified identity."
My blood turns to ice in my veins.
This isn't possible. No one knows this story—not all of it, not the details he's reciting so calmly.
No one except the Alpha who found me.
The one whose face I never saw clearly through the rain and pain and fading consciousness. The one who left a card with a phone number and a promise:
If you want vengeance, call.
I had called. Six months later, when I could walk without pain, when my voice had returned fully, when the nightmares had receded enough to allow for coherent thought.
I'd called and a voice— cultured, accented, commanding —had answered.
The same voice that now continues this impossible narrative.
"It was you," I whisper, the realization crashing over me like a wave. "You found me. You saved me."
Marcus meets my gaze steadily, neither confirming nor denying.
"What matters isn't who found you, Ms. Vesper. What matters is what happens next."
But it does matter.
It matters because for seven years, I've carried the weight of that mysterious salvation. Have wondered what kind of Alpha would save a broken Omega, arrange for her care, facilitate her vengeance, and never once appear to claim credit or demand repayment.
Until now.
"Why?" I demand, the question encompassing everything— why save me, why hide me, why approach me now.
"Initially? Because you deserved better than to die in that alley," Marcus says, his answer simple yet somehow profound. "Later, because you showed remarkable resilience and adaptability. You survived what would have destroyed most Omegas. You rebuilt yourself. You became...formidable."
The word hangs between us, a compliment and an assessment all at once.
"And now?" I press. "Why appear after seven years of shadows and proxies?"
Marcus leans forward slightly, his intensity increasing.
"Because things have changed. Your father has surfaced."
If his earlier revelations were shocks, this is an earthquake, tearing open ground I'd long thought solid. My father—Victor Calavera, the man who raised me without ever revealing my Omega status, who'd built an empire on blood and secrets, who I believed had abandoned me to my fate after my supposed death.
"Impossible," I say automatically. "He disappeared after the funeral. Gone to ground. Retired."
Knox snorts, the sound drawing my attention.
"Hardly. Victor Calavera doesn't know the meaning of 'retired.' He's been operating from the shadows, consolidating power, eliminating rivals. And now he's making major moves—aggressive ones."
"The timing isn't coincidental," Bastian adds, his deep voice rumbling through the studio. "Intelligence suggests he's learned you might still be alive."
My mind races, struggling to absorb these new variables, to recalculate the equation of my existence. My father— alive, active, potentially aware of my survival. Prescott —placing an astronomical bounty, clearly desperate to find me first. These Alphas—revealing themselves after years of covert observation, offering protection I've never needed before.
Too many pieces. Not enough context. Impossible to determine the true threat without more information.
"Let me make sure I understand," I say slowly, gathering scattered thoughts into coherent analysis. "You saved me seven years ago. Helped me establish a new identity. Facilitated my enrollment here. All without revealing yourselves or your motives. Now you're claiming my father is back in play, Prescott wants me dead, and you four—three present, one conspicuously absent—are offering to be my pack for... protection?"
Marcus nods, apparently pleased with my summary.
"Precisely."
"And what do you get out of this arrangement?" I ask, the critical question they've carefully avoided. "Because Alphas like you don't do charity work."
A smile flickers across Marcus's face, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
"Direct as ever. I appreciate that quality."
"You didn't answer my question."
"No," he agrees. "I didn't."
Silence stretches between us, a contest of wills I have no intention of losing.
I've stared down death in that alley; I can certainly outwait one silver-haired Alpha with secrets in his eyes.
After what feels like minutes but is probably only seconds, Marcus sighs.
"What we 'get,' as you put it, is access to the Calavera network when Victor inevitably discovers you're alive. An alliance with what will soon be the most powerful criminal empire on the eastern seaboard. And, not insignificantly, the satisfaction of denying Elliott Prescott something he desperately wants."
The honesty is refreshing, if calculated.
No pretense of altruism, no claims of Alpha protectiveness or Omega welfare.
Just business. Power. Strategic advantage.
Terms I understand.
"And the fourth?" I press, unable to stop myself from returning to the question they've carefully sidestepped. "Your missing Alpha? What does he get?"
Something passes between the three men—another of those silent communications built on years of shared history. Knox's expression turns guarded. Bastian shifts uncomfortably. Marcus's face remains impassive, but his scent changes subtly—c oncern, perhaps, or wariness.
“That," Marcus says finally, "is a question you would need to ask him directly."
Before I can respond, the studio doors swing open with enough force to bang against the walls. All of us turn—Alphas reaching instinctively for concealed weapons, me tensing for flight or fight.
Viper— Rook —whoever he truly is—stands in the doorway, his massive frame vibrating with barely contained fury. The crimson mask is gone, replaced by a black silk one that covers only his eyes, leaving the hard line of his jaw and the snarl of his lips exposed.
His gaze sweeps the room, cataloging threats with practiced efficiency before locking onto me. The intensity in those familiar blue eyes nearly knocks the breath from my lungs—rage and concern and something deeper, something that makes my stomach drop and my pulse quicken.
"You're early," Marcus says mildly, as if addressing a tardy student rather than a seething predator. "We were just discussing the arrangement."
"There is no arrangement," Viper—Rook—growls, the sound rumbling through the studio like distant thunder. "And there sure as fuck isn't going to be a discussion without me present."
He strides into the room, each step controlled despite the fury radiating from him.
The Knot Academy uniform looks absurd on his massive frame, the blazer straining across shoulders built for violence, the regulation pants barely containing thighs that could crush a man's skull.
And have, if the rumors about him are true.
He stops beside me, not touching but close enough that our arms almost brush. His positioning is deliberate—slightly in front of me, angled to intercept any potential threat.
Protective. Possessive.
The realization sends conflicting impulses racing through me—irritation at the presumption, warmth at the gesture, confusion at what it might mean.
"Viper," I say, the name slipping out before I can stop it.
He glances down, something softening briefly in his expression.
"Not here. Not now."
His attention returns to Marcus, hardening once more into barely leashed aggression.
"You said three days. You said we'd discuss this as a pack first."
"Circumstances changed," Marcus replies, unruffled by the younger Alpha's anger. "The bounty doubled. The timeline accelerated. You know this."
"So you went behind my back." It's not a question but an accusation, sharp with betrayal.
Knox shifts awkwardly, for once without a quip. Bastian remains stone-faced, though his posture suggests readiness to intervene if necessary.
Family drama. Fascinating.