Chapter 157

ELENA

The trial was over.

It should have felt like relief. The weeks of testimony, the brutal questions, the endless speculation about Maggie’s motives—Goddess, the weight of it all should have lifted. But it hadn’t. Not really.

Instead, I felt heavy.

I sat at the corner of the hotel bar, one heel hooked on the footrest, the other leg crossed over my knee. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat on the napkin in front of me, its amber swirl catching the dim gold of the pendant light above. My throat still burned from the last sip.

I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The hunger gnawed at me, but I couldn’t bring myself to do anything about it.

Maggie was guilty.

The words echoed, stark and brutal, as if spoken in that low, precise voice of the lead judge again.

Guilty.

They’d spared her the death sentence. The prosecution had agreed to drop capital punishment in exchange for her cooperation. She’d live—but the sentencing was still weeks away. We didn’t know yet if she’d spend the rest of her life in isolation or behind bars, or if she’d be given some kind of conditional exile.

It should have brought me comfort. I’d fought for that compromise, after all. I’d stood in front of a room full of wolves who saw only danger in Maggie and told them there was still good in her. That people—wolves—could change. That she'd saved me once, and that mattered.

But watching her be led out in shackles today, expression empty, gaze hollow...

It didn’t feel like justice.

It just felt like loss.

“Still nursing that one?” a low voice said from behind me.

I didn’t have to turn around. I already knew who it was.

Derek.

I sighed and let my eyes close for a second, just long enough to keep from snapping at him. He stepped into the stool beside mine and gently laid his palms on the edge of the bar.

“What are you doing here?” I asked quietly, eyes still forward.

“I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

“I’m not.”

Silence stretched. I felt the weight of his gaze on the side of my face, patient and steady. It made me ache. I wanted him here and didn’t. I wanted comfort and solitude in the same breath. I wanted things I couldn't name.

“I’ll talk to you later, Derek,” I said finally, turning toward him. “But not now. Right now, I just need space.”

His jaw ticked. He didn’t argue. Just nodded once, quietly, respectfully.

“I get it,” he said.

And then he left.

The stool beside me stayed warm for a while, as if some trace of him lingered. I downed the last sip of my whiskey and let it burn all the way down.

Another body slid into the stool Derek had vacated.

I didn’t bother looking up right away.

“Whiskey neat,” the newcomer said to the bartender. His voice was smooth, practiced. Confident.

I finally glanced over—and immediately regretted it.

Alpha Jacob Stormvale.

Of course.

He was broader up close than he looked from the trial bench, his suit tailored sharp enough to cut glass. A dark navy jacket hugged his frame, and the knot of his tie was ever so slightly undone, just enough to suggest carelessness—but calculated carelessness.

His hair was light and mussed in the way that took effort to maintain. His jaw was carved, lips full, and Goddess help me, his eyes were this impossible, unreadable shade of storm-gray.

He was devastatingly attractive.

“You caused quite the stir in there,” he said, voice low and amused, the rim of his glass catching the light as he brought it to his lips.

I arched a brow without turning toward him fully. “Are you even allowed to talk to me? Aren’t you supposed to be sequestered or something?”

He smiled, slow and rakish, a hint of mischief tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Trial’s over.”

“I didn’t think the judges were allowed to talk about the trial even after it ended.”

“I’m not here to talk about the trial,” he said, accepting his drink from the bartender with a nod. “I’m here to talk to you about what you said in it.”

That brought me up short.

I turned toward him fully now, curiosity piqued, and in doing so, my knee brushed his—briefly, accidentally—and I stiffened. His gaze didn’t flinch. If anything, I thought I saw the faintest flicker of amusement behind those storm-colored eyes.

“Were you serious,” he asked, voice smooth but suddenly sharpened by something deeper, “about setting up a foundation to rehabilitate rogues?”

I blinked, caught off guard by the pivot. “I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean.”

His gaze held mine a moment too long—not in an aggressive way, but with the kind of focus that made my pulse tick up, like he was cataloging something in me and deciding how real it was.

“Good,” he said finally, with the smallest nod. “Because I think it’s a great idea. And I’d like to be involved.”

I laughed before I could stop myself—softly, disbelieving. “You? You want to help start a charity?”

“Surprised?”

“Very,” I admitted, letting my eyes rake over him with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity. “You’re in Wolf Whistle every other week with a different she-wolf draped on your arm. You’re not exactly known for your... community engagement.”

He leaned back slightly, one elbow resting on the bar, wholly unbothered. “People make assumptions,” he said with a shrug. “I’m not responsible for their projections.”

Touche.

I studied him for a beat longer, trying to gauge the angle. Was this flirtation dressed up in civic interest? Or something real?

“And why do you care about rogue rehabilitation?” I asked. “Really.”

His expression shifted—his posture didn’t, but something behind his eyes turned. The charm didn’t vanish, exactly, but it pulled back just enough to make space for something more sincere.

“Because the system’s broken,” he said simply. “You know it. I know it. There’s no structure. No reintegration. No mercy. Just punishment. That’s not leadership. That’s fear disguised as control.”

I blinked, surprised by the weight behind the words. It was strange, hearing something so clear-eyed from someone who’d always seemed... ornamental. But the way he said it—calm, certain, quietly frustrated—hit a nerve.

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a card. Simple. White. Embossed. He held it out between two fingers.

“Call me,” he said. “If you’re serious, I want in. I’ve got resources. And I know how to move things through Council channels.”

I took it, fingers brushing his as I did. The card was heavier than I expected. Thick paper. Silver foil. His name. His number. The Stormvale crest gleaming in the corner like a stamp of legitimacy.

When I looked up again, he was already standing, straightening his jacket with a casual tug.

“You’re not what I expected,” I said, the words slipping out before I could catch them.

He glanced back over his shoulder, a crooked smile playing at his lips.

“No one ever is,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

And then he walked away, leaving his drink untouched and the space beside me inexplicably colder.

I stared down at the card in my hand.

Maybe this was it. The next chapter. The beginning of something new. Something that wasn’t about survival or scandal or heartbreak—but about building.

About change.

And Goddess help me, the man might be an infuriating flirt, but he was right. The system was broken.

I slipped the card into my purse and turned back to the bar, suddenly aware of the quiet hum of conversation around me, the clink of glasses, the soft swell of piano music from somewhere deeper in the lobby.

Somewhere out there, Maggie was sitting in a cell.

Somewhere out there, Derek was probably pacing his hotel room, waiting for me to cool down.

And somewhere in between—between endings and beginnings, grief and grace—I was figuring out who I wanted to be next.

Because I couldn’t go back.

Not after everything.

But maybe, just maybe, I could go forward.