Page 56 of Pack to the Wall

Their fingers found the strings simultaneously, muscle memory taking over as they began the song they'd written on a stormy weekend when she was fifteen. It had neverbeen recorded, never performed—just theirs, a private language between father and daughter.

"Remember watching raindrops race down the window," she began singing, her voice pure and unprocessed in the intimate space. Her dad's harmony joined her on the chorus, their voices twining together in the familiar pattern they'd created in their tiny kitchen a decade ago.

Chrissy's gaze lifted to find Zev watching them, awe etched across his features. His piercing blue eyes glistened with something suspiciously like tears, though his powerful stance hadn't changed. The Alpha who'd killed to protect her hours earlier now stood transfixed by their simple melody.

As the final notes faded, the silence held something sacred—a moment untouched by contracts or obligations or predatory managers. Just music and family.

"That was simply beautiful," Zev said, his voice rougher than usual. "You two should record that together."

Her dad laughed. "Not sure Empire Records would be interested in a folk duet with a has-been almost-was."

"Screw Empire Records," Chrissy said, suddenly fierce. "We'll build our own studio right here on the island. Record whatever we want."

The rebellious declaration hung in the air. Suddenly, after months of hopelessness and despair, Chrissy felt herself planning a future she actually wanted—one filled with authentic music created on her own terms.

Zev's eyes darkened with approval, his stance shifting as he crossed the room to her. His fingers brushed her cheek gently.

"Whatever you need, Luna," he murmured. "This island is yours now."

TWENTY-TWO

ZEV

Zev slammed his large palm against his polished desk the next morning, making the stacks of papers jump. "This fucking bastard," he growled, the pages in front of him filling in horrific blanks he hadn't expected.

The morning sunlight shone through the windows of his office, casting golden rectangles across the evidence of Marty Shriner's true identity. Or rather, Matthew Silas Rourke's identity - a name that appeared on the FBI's most wanted list alongside photographs of a slightly different-looking man.

"Surgery," Ewan said, tapping one of the medical records they'd uncovered. "Changed his appearance enough to slide under the radar six years ago after the Nashville murders."

Zev's jaw clenched so hard he felt a molar creak. The wolf inside him paced with furious energy at what they'd discovered about the man he'd killed. His only regret was not making Rourke suffer more.

"Five women, Ewan. Five women disappeared and were presumed murdered. All with the same profile."

"Young, beautiful, and talented," Ewan agreed, his usual calm demeanor darkened by what they'd learned. "Dark hair, curvy, fair-skinned..."

"Just like Chrissy," Zev seethed, the Alpha in him barely contained. "The bastard was grooming her."

"His pattern was consistent. He'd isolate them from family, insert himself as their primary support system, then..." Ewan trailed off, not needing to say more.

Zev paced the length of the office, his veins standing out on his forearms as he fought to control his rage. "He was kicked out of his pack for preying on young females, turned rogue, and built an entire fucking business to create a pipeline of potential victims." He drove his fist into the wall, leaving a dent in the expensive wood paneling. "I should have torn his throat out the moment she set foot on my island."

"You got her in time, Alpha." Ewan's voice was steady and grounding. "You saved her."

"Barely." The thought of what might have happened to Chrissy made Zev's blood run cold. "The contract..."

"That's the thing," Ewan interrupted, a rare hint of excitement breaking through his professional facade. "Look at the signature line."

Zev snatched up the document from the desk—Chrissy's iron-clad recording and management contract that had effectively turned her into Marty's property. His eyes zeroed in on where 'Martin J. Shriner' was signed with a flourish.

"The contract is with Martin J. Shriner," Ewan continued, his lips turning up into a predatory smile. "Not Matthew Silas Rourke. It's legally worthless."

Zev stared at the document, his mind racing. "You're telling me she's free?"

"Legally? You could drive a truck through the holes in this thing," Ewan confirmed, tapping on the contract. "His entire operation was based on fraud. Fake identity, fake credentials, fake companies—it all unravels the minute we reveal who he really was."

After a week of feeling restless and unsure of how to help Chrissy with this contract, Zev finally allowed himself to smile. It wasn't a pleasant expression—more like a wolf baring its teeth.

"Call our lawyers. I want this bulletproof." He gathered the papers, already anticipating the moment he could tell Chrissy she was truly free. "And get me everything on Leslie and the rest of his associates. I want to know if they were complicit or just useful idiots."

---