CHAPTER 33: THE EMPTY VOID

Kayden’s POV

The polished mahogany of the private conference table felt like a cage. Across from me, some impeccably dressed man droned on about quarterly projections and market saturation.

While both my brothers looked like they were engaged, I couldn’t breathe.

I held up a hand, cutting the client off mid-sentence. I signed quickly to Keith, my fingers moving with a sharpness that betrayed my calm exterior. [Air. Need a moment.]

Keith’s eyes flicked to me, instantly reading the tension I was trying so hard to suppress. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Kieran shot me a questioning look. I just stood up and walked out, leaving the hushed silence of the meeting behind me.

The hallway was a blur of muted gold wallpaper and polished marble. I strode past a bellman carrying silver trays, past a housekeeping cart, past a concierge who offered a polished, "Good afternoon, sir." I ignored them all, my focus turned entirely inward, my hands shoved deep in my pockets.

This life. This powerful, glorious, immense life we’d built. It was supposed to be freedom. It was supposed to be the answer to every prayer we’d sobbed in the dark.

No amount of money could fill the hole in my chest. No skyscraper we owned, no company we absorbed, no fleet of cars could heal the scars we carried. We were three broken boys who had become three powerful, broken men.

The freedom we’d fought for, killed for, had come at a cost I don’t think we ever truly calculated. We were free, but we were... empty.

We’d found our mate. Scarlet. The Moon Goddess’s supposed gift to us, the key to revoking the curses that bound us. The bond was there, a tangible, pulling string in my chest that led to her. But my body resisted. My mind recoiled. It felt like trying to force a key into a lock that had been welded shut by years of rust and trauma.

I saw it in my brothers, too. We were going through the motions because it was what was expected, what was required for our salvation. But none of us felt it.

Was this the final price of our past? To be so shattered inside that we couldn’t even recognize our own salvation? To be cold and ruthless and void of emotion to everyone except each other?

It wasn’t our fault. We’d endured a decade of hell. We’d survived things that should have killed us. But sometimes, standing here at the top of the world, I felt like I was in a worse place than I was in that damp cellar. At least then, the pain was simple. It was external. Now, it was a cancer inside me, eating me from within.

An image flashed behind my eyes: a cold, concrete floor, the taste of blood in my mouth, the sound of my own voice screaming until it... wasn’t there anymore. I flinched, my hand going to my throat. The curse that stole my voice felt like a brand, a permanent reminder.

I’d tried to find an outlet. Painting. Our estate was filled with canvases of violent, swirling blacks and deep reds, of stark, lonely landscapes. It was the only way I could scream. The only way I could show the world the pain I couldn’t voice.

The curses were a life sentence. For me, a stolen voice. For my brothers, their own unique torments. And the only way to break the curse was to bond with our mate. Physically and emotionally. How are we supposed to achieve that when we could barely look at our own fated mate and still feel resistant?

I sighed, a soundless exhale that held the weight of everything I couldn’t say. I was the peacemaker, the one who read emotions in a heartbeat. But I couldn’t find any peace for the storm inside my own soul.

My dark thoughts were suddenly sliced through by a scent. I stopped walking, my head tilting. It was faint at first, a delicate thread weaving through the sterile hotel air. Sweet, like honey and wildflowers, but with an underlying edge of something sharp and metallic... like ozone after a lightning strike.

Scarlet? The thought was immediate, followed by a familiar, weary resistance. But no. Scarlet’s scent is different. This was more unique. And it was getting stronger.

My wolf, usually a dormant, brooding presence, stirred. Not with the obligatory pull of the mate bond, but with genuine, curious interest. What is that?

I followed it without conscious thought, my enhanced senses homing in on the source. My hearing picked up the sound it was tied to: ragged, struggling breaths and unsteady footsteps.

Someone was hurt. Or scared. But my instincts didn’t flare with warning. There was no scent of immediate danger, just... desperation.

I turned the corner into another hallway.

And she walked right into me.

She was a collision of softness and distress. A cloud of silver-white hair first, then the pale, exhausted face that looked up at me. Her eyes, wide and terrified, were a stunning, clear hazel.

For a heart-stopping second, the world narrowed to just her face. I literally forgot to breathe.

She wobbled, her knees buckling. My arms shot out on pure instinct, catching her before she could hit the floor.

And that’s when it happened.

I was holding a woman. A stranger. And I felt... nothing. No repulsion. No cold, clinical distance. My skin didn’t crawl. Instead, a wave of protectiveness, fierce and immediate, washed over me.

My wolf wasn’t just interested; it was... purring. A low, contented rumble of approval deep in my chest. It was attracted to her. To this tiny, clearly human woman who smelled like fear.

Stop it, I mentally snarled at my wolf, utterly confused by its reaction.

Her lips moved. No sound came out, but I read the word perfectly on her pale lips. Help.

Then her eyes rolled back, and she went completely limp in my arms.

I adjusted my hold, cradling her against my chest. She felt so fragile. My eyes scanned her, and the protective instinct roared into something darker. Her simple gown was wrinkled and torn. On her wrists were angry, brutal red marks. Rope burns. She’d been restrained.

A low growl rumbled in my throat before I could stop it.

A hotel staff member appeared at the end of the hall, her eyes wide. I didn’t have time to sign. I just jerked my head toward the nearest suite door. The woman, recognizing me or just sensing the authority and danger rolling off me, fumbled with her master key and unlocked the door immediately.

I carried the unconscious woman inside, laying her gently on the bed. My hands, usually so steady, trembled as I began a quick, efficient check for injuries. There were none. No cuts, no bruises aside from the wrists.

So where did the blood come from?

There were smears of it on her dress, on her arm. I brought my fingers to my nose, inhaling deeply. The blood wasn’t hers.

A werewolf had been near her. And the scent of aggression and violence clinging to that blood was unmistakable. A werewolf had tried to harm this woman.

A possessive, furious rage I hadn’t felt in years ignited inside me. Whoever it was, they were dead.

I turned to the staff member still hovering nervously by the door. My hands moved in sharp, clear signs. [Bring clothes. Her size. And a medic. Now.]

She nodded frantically, understanding the unspoken command in my eyes, and scurried away.

I stepped back into the hallway, closing the suite door softly behind me. My senses were on high alert, tracking the scent of wolf blood that clung to the woman. It led back toward the elevators.

The ding of an elevator echoed down the hall. Then, the sound of muttered curses. A man’s voice, irritated and in pain. And his scent... it was the exact match to the blood on the woman’s dress.

I didn’t move. I just waited, my expression a neutral mask, as the man rounded the corner.

It was Mr. Hans. A mid-level political figure we occasionally did business with—a man known for his shady connections and ruthless ambition.

When he saw me, his entire demeanor shifted. The irritation vanished, replaced by a smile. The claw marks on his cheek and the bloodstains on his expensive suit were starkly visible.

"Mr. Kayden!" he said, his voice oozing false warmth and respect. "What an unexpected pleasure!" He gave a bow.

I just stared at him, my gaze dropping pointedly to the blood on his sleeve and the fresh wounds on his face.

He followed my look and let out a forced, nervous laugh. "Ah, a bit of trouble. Tell me, have you by any chance seen a young woman? Silver hair? She’s... she’s my friend’s daughter." His story began to spill out. "She has... episodes. Gets confused and disoriented. I’m afraid she took some substances tonight. Doesn’t recognize anyone, even me. She got into a scuffle with some... unsavory characters." He gestured to his face. "As you can see, I intervened. One of them was a werewolf, can you believe it? Vicious creature. I managed to protect her, but she ran off before I could calm her down. I’m terribly worried she’ll run into more trouble."

Every one of my instincts screamed that he was lying. The scent of his aggression was all over the story, mingling with the blood.

He looked at me, his eyes wide with feigned concern. "So... have you seen her? Is she safe?"

I gave a single, slow nod.

Relief and something else—something greedy—flashed in his eyes. "Oh, thank goodness! Thank goodness she’s in safe hands. Can you... can you tell me where she is? I can take her home, get her the help she needs."