Chapter 3 : Moonlit Bloodshed

Marcus Blackwood knew he was being followed.

The feeling started an hour ago—a prickling at the back of his neck, the instinctual warning every werewolf learns to trust. He''d changed routes twice, taken back alleys, doubled back through crowded streets. But the feeling persisted.

Someone was hunting him.

He stood in the center of the abandoned warehouse, the moonlight streaming through broken windows painting silver stripes on the concrete floor. This was supposed to be a simple exchange. Information for money. A way out.

Now he wasn''t so sure.

The client had been specific: midnight, warehouse district, come alone. Marcus had followed the instructions. He was alone. He had the information—a data drive containing details of Dark Moon Pack security protocols, territory maps, weak points.

Selling pack secrets. The thought made his stomach twist. Betrayal. That''s what it was. Plain and simple.

But he had his reasons. Good reasons. Reasons that kept him awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering when everything had gone so wrong.

A sound from the shadows. Soft. Almost inaudible. But Marcus''s werewolf hearing caught it. The scrape of a boot on concrete. The whisper of fabric against brick.

He turned, his golden eyes scanning the darkness. "I''m here. I have what you want. Show yourself."

Silence.

Then a voice, calm and empty. "Put the drive on the floor. Step back."

Marcus hesitated. This wasn''t the voice he''d expected. The client''s voice had been cultured, educated. This voice was different. Cold. Professional. Like a surgeon discussing a procedure.

"Do it," the voice said.

Marcus placed the data drive on the concrete. Took three steps back. "There. Now show yourself. I want to see who I''m dealing with."

A man stepped from the shadows. Silver-gray hair. Amber eyes. He moved with a predator''s grace, every step precise, economical. He was dressed in dark clothes—black jeans, black sweater, black boots. Nothing that would show in the dark. Nothing that would make noise.

"You''re not the client," Marcus said, his muscles tensing.

"No," the man said. "I''m the cleaner."

The word hung in the air. Cleaner. In the supernatural world, that meant one thing: assassin.

Marcus''s claws extended. Silver-gray, like his brother''s. "Who sent you?"

"Does it matter?" The man''s eyes were empty. No anger. No hatred. Just professional detachment. "You betrayed your pack. The penalty is death."

"I had reasons," Marcus said, his voice tight. "You don''t understand—"

"I don''t need to understand." The man moved.

Werewolf speed. But different. Trained. Refined. Marcus had fought in pack skirmishes, territory disputes, the occasional challenge fight. But this was different. This was a professional killer.

He dodged the first strike, felt the heat of air torn by the man''s claws. Close. Too close.

Second strike came from the left. Marcus blocked, his forearm meeting the man''s with a crack that echoed through the empty warehouse. Pain shot up his arm. Bone bruise, maybe a crack.

He pushed back, using his weight. He was bigger than the killer, stronger in raw power. Or he should have been.

The man flowed around his attack like water. A twist, a shift, and Marcus was off-balance. A kick to his knee. Another crack. This time bone breaking.

Marcus went down, his leg buckling. He hit the concrete hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs.

The man stood over him, amber eyes glowing in the moonlight. "You''re not fighting like a traitor," he said, his voice still calm. "You''re fighting like someone who doesn''t want to die."

"I don''t," Marcus gasped, pushing himself up on one elbow. His leg screamed in protest. "Listen to me. The client—he''s not who you think. He''s—"

The man''s foot connected with his ribs. More cracks. More pain. Marcus rolled, trying to get distance, trying to get to his feet.

He couldn''t. His leg wouldn''t hold him.

"Please," he said, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. Begging. He was begging. A Blackwood. A Beta of the Dark Moon Pack. Begging. "There''s more to this. My brother—"

"Your brother is why I''m here," the man said. He knelt, his face close to Marcus''s. So close Marcus could see the amber flecks in his eyes. "Sebastian Blackwood. Dark Moon Alpha. Your death will hurt him. That''s the point."

Marcus''s blood went cold. "What?"

"The client doesn''t just want you dead. He wants your brother broken. Your death is step one." The man''s hand came up, claws extended. "Sorry. Just business."

Marcus fought then. Not for his life—he knew that was lost—but for the truth. He needed to tell someone. Needed to warn Sebastian.

His claws raked across the man''s chest, tearing through fabric and skin. Blood bloomed, dark in the moonlight.

The man didn''t flinch. Didn''t even seem to notice. His hand kept moving.

Marcus saw the rune on the man''s neck then. A protection mark. But not a pack mark. Something else. Something older.

"You''re a lone wolf," Marcus whispered, understanding dawning. "But you have a mark. Who marked you? Who owns you?"

For the first time, something flickered in the man''s eyes. Not emotion. Not exactly. But something. A crack in the professional detachment.

"Nobody owns me," he said, and his voice was harder now. Colder.

"Someone does," Marcus pressed, desperate. "That mark—I''ve seen it before. In my brother''s study. In the old books. It''s—"

The man''s claws went through his throat.

It was fast. Clean. Professional. Marcus felt the impact, the tearing, the hot rush of blood. Then the cold. The strange, spreading cold.

He tried to speak. Tried to form words. Tried to say his brother''s name. Sebastian. Warning. Trap.

But only blood came out. Foamy, copper-tasting blood.

He looked up at the killer. At the man with the amber eyes and the empty expression. At the man who was just a weapon in someone else''s war.

The man looked back. For a moment, just a moment, their eyes met. Killer and victim. Professional and mistake.

Then the man stood. Wiped his claws on his pants. Looked at the data drive on the floor.

He picked it up. Examined it. Then crushed it in his hand. Plastic and metal fragments fell to the concrete like broken bones.

Marcus watched, the cold spreading through his body. His vision was going dark at the edges. The moonlight seemed to be fading.

The man turned to leave. Stopped. Looked back at Marcus.

"Your brother," he said, his voice quiet now. Almost gentle. "What''s he like?"

The question was so unexpected, so wrong in this moment of dying, that Marcus almost laughed. Or would have, if he could breathe.

"He''s... a good Alpha," Marcus whispered, blood bubbling on his lips. "Better than... I deserved."

The man nodded. Like that meant something. Like that changed something.

Then he was gone. Melting back into the shadows. Leaving Marcus alone on the cold concrete, bleeding out under the moonlight.

Marcus lay there, watching the moon through the broken window. It was full. Beautiful. Silver light spilling across the warehouse floor, across his body, across the pool of blood spreading around him.

He thought of Sebastian. His big brother. The Alpha who had always protected him. Who had taught him to fight, to lead, to be a Blackwood.

I''m sorry, Sebastian. The thought was clear, even as everything else faded. I''m so sorry.

He thought of the killer''s eyes. Amber. Empty. But not completely. There had been something there, in that last moment. Something that looked almost like regret.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. The dying brain making up stories to make the end easier.

The cold reached his heart. His breathing slowed. Stopped.

The last thing Marcus Blackwood saw was the moon. The last thing he felt was the weight of his betrayal. The last thing he thought was his brother''s name.

Sebastian.

Then nothing.

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