Page 1 of Lone Wolf

CHAPTER 1

Ariadne

Elysium isquietest just before the dawn. That’s when the night owls are heading to bed, and the early birds are still catching zees rather than worms. There’s still activity, of course, but it’s in that change between night and day that I prefer to rise.

It’s where I feel most alive. A time of day that doesn’t really exist.

Just like I don’t really exist.

I press my fingertips against the cold glass of the window, momentarily transfixed by the contrast between the warmth of my skin and the cool of the outside world. A shiver runs through me, but it’s not unpleasant. Cold is familiar.

Cold is reliable.

The dream from last night flickers back to life, a retrieved memory I would rather have left in my unconscious: Grandmother’s voice, the sharp crack of a wooden cane against flesh, a line of girls standing perfectly still despite the screams.

My hand trembles against the glass, and I pull it away, clenching it into a fist, tighter and tighter until my knuckles complain.

Pain is clarity.

Another lesson from Grandmother that I can’t seem to unlearn.

I wake at the same time every day in the recruit dorms, no alarm needed. I never needed one in Grandmother’s house, and I saw no reason to change my habits and wake at a different time just because I live under Hadria’s rule these days. I pull on my training gear mechanically—no thought necessary, because I set out everything the night before—compression leggings, tank bra, tight sleeveless top, all in black. And then I head to the main house, the mansion, and into the gym.

The gym is not the training room. The gym is a smaller facility, filled solely with exercise equipment, machines, weights. I feel equally at home in both the gym and the training room—which is to say, not much. But it sure feels more familiar than the dorms I’m staying in with all the other recruits. The air in the gym is thick with the scent of sweat, even though this room is basically brand new: a whole mansion full of brand-new rooms for Hadria Imperioli’s brand-new empire.

Sometimes I wish I could have seen it before. That dark, night-based kingdom of concrete and steel, when everyone woke and worked during the darkest hours. I feel like it might have suited me better. When I hear Mario and Ricky reminiscing sometimes—when I hear my mother talking about how much nicer everything is now—I get a sense of faux-nostalgia for a world that would have suited me much better.

But I’m here now. I’m here in the gym, and I’m working my body, fully present in the moment, focused on my muscles, my tendons, my blood flow.

My mind doesn’t wander. It doesn’t have time.

I move through my drills—the ones given to us by Lyssa and Scarlett—and then I move into the more complex routines that I used to perform under Grandmother. My body flows through the patterns, muscle memory taking over as I execute perfect roundhouse kicks against the heavy bag, the impact reverberating up my legs and into my core. The mirror-lined wall reflects my form—compact and lethal. A well-maintained weapon, which is exactly what Grandmother designed me to be.

But as I execute a flawless spinning back kick that would have shattered a human spine, I catch sight of something in the mirror opposite that doesn’t belong: a hint of a smile on my own lips. I instantly suppress it. Enjoyment was never part of the equation. Perfection was.

I used to train others.Iwas the master. Still am, let’s be real. But I’ve been kicked back down to student status, training with fresh-eyed new recruits, while everyone waits breathlessly to see if I’ll lose it. Go postal. Try to kill Lyssa.

Again.

I still want to. There’s still a burn in my belly when I look at that bitch. But it’s a cold burn these days, like I recognize it was put in me by someone else. It’s not my own rage.

It’s still there, though.

A movement by the high window catches my eye—a small brown bird has landed on the sill outside, its head tilting as it watches me through the glass. For a moment, I freeze, mesmerized by its delicate freedom. Then it flies away, and something in my chest tightens.

But I shake it off. Sentiment is weakness.

The door opens just as I’m unwrapping my hands and flexing them out. I’m finished for the morning; these other recruits are just getting started. I recognize them—they’re in my group—and I ignore their greetings. They enter in a pack, loud and laughing, ruining the peace.

“Don’t you ever take a day off?” Enzo Rittoli calls over with a smirk. He’s tall with olive skin and dark curls, built like the college football player he probably was before whatever circumstances brought him here.

I ignore him. Ignore the way he mutters something to his friends that makes them snicker.

They stop snickering the second I walk by, the moment my gaze flicks their way—a warning. Their bodies instinctively create space for me to pass, shifting away as if I’m radioactive. I could take all five of them at once if I needed to. They know it.

Silence follows me out of the gym. And that’s how it should be.

After I shower and dress, I head down to the dining area, where there’s always food on offer, since the Syndicate works all day and night. We eat through a mountain of food each week, and the menu is overseen by my own dear mother. The scent of coffee and bacon hangs in the air, mingling with the lemon-scented cleaner the staff uses on the tables.

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