CHAPTER 68: AISLES OF SECRETS...

Slater

I stood behind a tall shelf in the library, pretending to browse through old texts on werewolf genealogy while my attention was completely focused on the woman across the aisle.

She was impossible to miss. Dressed in a way that screamed expensive taste and newfound wealth.

Her designer blazer was tailored perfectly to fit her slight frame, the fabric was a rich emerald green that probably cost more than most people’s monthly allowance.

Her shoes were Italian leather, her handbag bore the unmistakable logo of a luxury brand, and even her perfectly blonde hair spoke of regular visits to high-end salons.

This was Trisha Canary, and everything about her current lifestyle was wrong.

I maintained my position cautiously, ensuring I stayed in the area where the security cameras couldn’t capture me. I’d mapped out the library’s surveillance system weeks ago, noting every blind spot and motion sensor placement.

Trisha Canary had been the Therapist—Riley’s therapist at Ebonvale. I knew this because Riley had mentioned once that the school decided to put her in therapy after her bunkmate passed mysteriously, and that affected her so much.

Back then, I thought she was overreacting, since we’d seen more dead bodies than most packs would, since we lived in the middle of nowhere, far from other packs and were constantly at war with rogue wolves.

But Riley had sounded so disoriented and would cry to me every day on the phone without revealing anything about what she was going through. When she had informed me that she was trying therapy, I was glad but still thought it was unnecessary.

But after spending a year at Ravenshore, I was surprised to find I hadn’t been in therapy yet. The atrocities, the deaths, the disappearances that go on in this school were enough to make anyone go mad.

After Riley’s disappearance, Trisha had opted for what she called ’selective retirement’—a fancy way of saying she’d suddenly stopped working despite being barely thirty years old.

The suspicious part was how a mere Delta from a small, impoverished pack, born into poverty and earning less than $2000 monthly when she was a therapist, went to college in a beatdown campus in her pack had suddenly acquired the means to live like royalty.

She now owned a penthouse in Silverstone Heights, one of the most expensive areas of Ravenspire. Her garage housed not one but three luxury vehicles, and her social media, which I’d been monitoring, constantly showcased a lifestyle of designer clothes, exclusive restaurants, and expensive vacations every quarter of every year.

When I first approached her months ago to ask questions about Riley and introduced myself as her brother, her eyes widened with fear before she gave me a cold shoulder, telling me to ’stop harassing her’ or else she’d have me reported.

Her hostility had convinced me that she was hiding something important.

Fortunately, I’d noticed a pattern in her behaviour.

Every Tuesday, like clockwork, she came to the library at Ravenshore, which is suspicious. Although Ravenshore’s library was one of the biggest in our world and had access to both students and outsiders, there was nothing about Trisha that suggested she was a bookworm.

Neither was she in school nor anything.

So, every Tuesday, she would come to the library, go to the same aisle, the same shelf in the mythology section, linger for exactly twenty-five minutes, select a book, go to the librarian to sign it out and leave.

It was a ritual.

Even more suspicious was what happened after she left. Without fail, about eight minutes later, a figure in a dark hooded sweatshirt would appear, go to that same shelf, fiddle around for a few minutes, and then disappear.

All attempts to track down this hooded figure had proven futile. The person seemed to vanish into thin air the moment they left the library.

Today, I was determined to solve this mystery.

I watched from my position as Trisha went through her usual routine. Her manicured finger trailed along the spines of books until she found whatever she was looking for. The shelf she always used was perfectly positioned in one of the camera’s blind spots—another fact that all of this couldn’t be coincidental.

As soon as she selected the book and headed toward the librarian’s desk, I began counting. I gave her exactly thirty seconds to clear the area, then rushed to the mythology shelf, my heart pounding wildly in my chest.

I rifled through the books frantically, pulling them out and checking behind them, feeling for anything that might be hidden. Ancient texts on Greek myths, Norse legends, Celtic folklore—nothing seemed out of the ordinary. After three minutes of searching, I began to feel frustrated. I had maybe five more minutes before the hooded figure would arrive.

Then an idea struck me. Instead of looking behind the books, what if something was hidden inside them?

I grabbed the first book, a thick volume on Roman mythology, and opened it. My breath caught in my throat.

The pages had been hollowed out, creating a hidden compartment filled with small white transparent bags. Each bag contained what looked like tiny tablets or pills. I quickly checked the next book, then the next. Every single volume on that particular shelf had been modified the same way, each one containing dozens of these suspicious pills.

Without thinking, I opened my sling bag and began transferring the contents as quickly as possible. My hands moved quickly, dumping bag after bag of tablets into my sling bag while keeping one eye on the library entrance. There had to be hundreds of pills hidden in these books.

I’d just finished clearing the last book and rounded the corner back to my original position to watch out for the hooded figure when the figure appeared. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure everyone in the library could hear it, but I forced myself to appear calm, casually browsing the shelf as if I’d been there the entire time.

The hooded figure moved directly to the mythology section, just as expected. I waited exactly thirty seconds, then headed for the library exit, trying to walk at a normal pace.

At the exit, I positioned myself behind a large pillar, pretending to check my phone while watching the library entrance. If my suspicions were correct, the hooded figure wouldn’t stay long once they discovered the books were empty.

Sure enough, less than five minutes later, the figure burst through the library doors, already pulling out a phone. I followed at a safe distance as the person headed toward the parking lot, staying far enough back to avoid detection but close enough to observe.

The hooded figure was clearly agitated, making wild gestures while speaking rapidly into the phone. Even from a distance, I could sense the panic in their movements. Suddenly, the person pulled the phone away from their ear and smashed it against the ground.

"Fuck! Fuck!" the voice carried clearly across the parking lot.

The outburst caused the hood to fall back, and my eyes widened in recognition. Peter— Alpha Prime.

What was he doing with Trisha? Most importantly, why would Peter need drugs? Was he sick?

I didn’t hesitate, I walked over to him, hoping to fish around for some answers and trying to make it seem I’d come to the parking lot coincidentally, too.

"Hey, Alpha Prime," I called out. "Rough day?"

Peter spun around, his eyes wild with anger and something that looked like fear. "What the hell are you doing here, Riggs?"

"Just leaving the library," I replied calmly. "You look pretty agitated. Everything alright?"

"Mind your own fucking business," He snarled, moving to shove past me.

I stepped aside, letting him pass without resistance. I’d gotten what I needed, confirmation that Peter was involved in whatever operation had been running through those books.

But Peter suddenly stopped and turned back, a dangerous glint in his eyes that I’ve come to recognise as trouble from past encounters.

"He’s not really your brother, is he?" Peter slurred, his voice taking on a mocking tone. "He’s not actually an Alpha’s son, right?"

I forced myself to remain calm, arching my brow in confusion as if I didn’t know he was talking about Charis. Peter was fishing, trying to get a reaction that would confirm whatever suspicions he harboured about Eamon.

"I don’t have time for your conspiracy theories, Alpha Prime. I saw you from afar off, and I wanted to check on you. But it seems you’re fine," I said evenly, moving to walk past him.

Before either of us could say more, Jensen came running into the parking lot at full speed, then stopped short when he saw both of us. His face went pale, and he stuttered a greeting while his eyes darted nervously between me and Peter.

"H-hey, Slater—Beta Prime. Peter. I was just... uh..."

"What the hell are you doing here?" Peter demanded, glaring at him.

"I was..." Jensen began, but Peter cut him off.

"Get lost. Now."

Jensen scrambled away without another word, practically tripping over himself in his haste to escape.

Peter turned back to me, his eyes narrowing with hatred he’d always harboured against me. "Tell your brother I’m onto him. He should watch his back."

With that warning, he stalked away, leaving me alone in the parking lot with my racing thoughts.