by Elaina Jadin
I look about as good as I can expect, so I cautiously make my way out of the room, off to seek out the mysterious sender of the letter.
Quiet voices reach my ears as I walk up the flight of stairs from the second floor to the fourth, to the next level, but when I look around, I can’t see anyone. At the landing of the fourth floor, there’s a man dressed in a black suit with an impervious expression.
He’s not the man I remember carrying me to my room and telling me to breathe—the same man who swore to put a bullet between the eyes of anyone who touches me when I was kneeling in Draven’s office.
No, this man looks like the same person who greeted Bryan and me when we first arrived. Is he a butler or a guard? Again, I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.
He doesn’t react to my staring, but when I give him a polite smile, he inclines his head in return.
The door I’m looking for is obvious once I spot it—it’s made of paneled glass, whereas the others are solid wood. I open it and step out onto a large outdoor patio. Closing my eyes, I breathe in the fresh air with relish. My first time being outside in days.
“I thought you might appreciate this spot,” a gravelly voice says, the words tinged with amusement.
Looking across the patio, I see a large man sitting at a table with his back to me. I know from the breadth of his wide shoulders that he’s neither Draven nor Bishop, so he must be Kade. At least, I hope so. I’m very curious about my third… master? Keepers? Hell, I guess they’re technically my owners for the next few weeks, given the arrangement I agreed to.
He glances at me over his shoulder, and I’m excited to see it is him—the man who swept me into his arms and away from the wolves, the one who promised to protect me with a bullet if necessary.
“Come join me, the coffee is hot,” he says, waving a hand at an empty chair.
His words propel me over to the table, and I sink down onto the padded wicker chair across from his. Beyond the first night, this is the first time I’ve been fully clothed around any of these men.
But the clothes give me a sense of security, and a sense of self that I’ve been lacking. As I tuck my foot up under my leg, I realize how much I appreciate the confidence boost having regular garments has given me.
“Help yourself,” he says, his attention invested in the tablet he holds in one hand, with a black mug in the other.
“Thank you,” I say, already eyeing the food.
The breakfast isn’t nearly as extravagant as the one with Bishop, but the fruit danishes sitting in a small basket between us look delicious. I devour one quickly, and discover my eyes didn’t deceive me—it’s a delicate pear flavor with a buttery, flaky crust. I have the last bite down before my coffee is even cool enough to drink.
Sheepishly, I glance at the large man across from me that I’m assuming is Kade, wondering if he’s horrified by my lack of manners. I’ve never been one to pick at my food, and I definitely don’t eat like a little bird, especially when I’m famished. His eyes are still trained on the tablet before him, but the barest smile tugs at his lips.
A quiet descends on us as we sit together. He scrolls through his tablet, reading in silence, while I take in the morning.
There’s no view of the city up here—the patio is walled off on all sides, which is no surprise, given the lack of a window in my room and the heavy curtains drawn over almost all the windows I’ve seen during my time here. It seems these men deeply value their privacy.
But above me is the open sky. I soak in the view of the bright azure color and watch wisps of white clouds drift overhead. The dappled sunlight heats my skin, and eventually I give into the peace and quiet of a languid morning, sinking back into my chair and closing my eyes as I relish the fresh air and the warmth blanketing me.
Still, my curiosity refuses to simmer down. I study Kade in stolen glances, and my hands itch to draw him. The first time I met him, he seemed like a beast that was barely tamed—chaotic energy bristled through his body, as though he was eager for a fight.
But this morning, he’s relaxed, his shoulders untensed, his foot propped across his knee, his fingers in a loose grip around the porcelain mug.
His russet colored beard is long enough to make me want to comb my fingers through it. Bryan has never been able to grow a proper beard, something that’s always bothered him, to my amusement.
Kade’s been so still the entire time that I’ve been sneaking peeks at him, that when he moves suddenly, I squeak with surprise. He sets the tablet down with a dismissive toss onto the table, and reaches for something beside his chair, out of my sight.
He lifts a large canvas bag and leans over the table to set it in front of me. I draw in a breath of surprise and become giddy with excitement when I recognize the logo. As much as I want to snatch the bag and rifle through the contents, I restrain myself and wait for permission. I’ve learned that much already.
“From the three of us,” he says, gesturing at the bag as he stands up.
It’s the only explanation he gives me. Without pause, he reaches for his coffee mug and downs the last few swallows, then collects his tablet from the table.
He makes his way around the table and stops to look down at me as I tilt my face towards him, goose bumps covering me as I become the focus of his gaze. He brushes his knuckles around my cheek, and I press into the touch, loving how huge his hand feels against my face, the masculine roughness of his skin against mine.
He slides his hand down, gripping the back of my neck. His fingers nearly wrap around to the front of my throat. He squeezes, pressing his fingers into my soft flesh, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s the complete opposite in fact—arousal and comfort flush through me at his subtle display of strength.
“The day is yours to do as you wish,” he tells me. “But tonight, you’ll accompany me to the fight.”
Before I can say anything, he strides away and disappears through the glass-paneled door without a look back.
I blink in surprise as the door closes behind him, leaving me in sudden solitude on the patio. I didn’t even get a chance to talk to him. Disappointment washes over me, but it’s short lived when I turn my attention to the canvas bag Kade left with me.
The logo is one of the fancier art supply stores in the city—a place I frequently browsed but rarely purchased anything at. They carry top-of-the-line products, and the price tags reflect it. I reach inside, pulling items out like a kid at Christmas.
There’s so much, all of it stuff on the ‘maybe one day’ wish list I’ve been compiling over the years. Charcoal sticks and chunky graphite, two sets of colored pencils, a variety of pastels, drawing powders, a sketchbook, wide acrylic paint markers and fine-point oil markers, kneaded erasers, Bristol pads and thick, mixed media paper… it’s a treasure trove.
I spread everything out on the table, marveling at the immense selection. How did they know?
Finally, I can’t contain my excitement anymore—I grab the charcoal and one of the pads, and get to work. As the sun moves across the sky, I pour out the images that I’ve longed to commit to paper.
Draven, captured in charcoal. Bishop, etched with ink. And Kade, with bold lines of acrylic.
My throat is parched by the time I sit back and look at my handiwork, my eyes moving slowly between the very different images in front of me, representing the three men who are now my whole world.
21
Kade
Everything about Jemma makes the animal inside me claw for release. The desire to claim her is so fierce it feels like rage, the heat tearing through every muscle in my body. I’m trapped in my skin, the wolf within pacing, snapping its jaws, crushing my ribs, furrowing my insides with a caged anger as I deny us both.
But my humanity instructs caution, telling me that if I show myself to Jemma—show her what I really am before she’s ready, she’ll crumple before me and her fate will be sealed in that moment.
My wolf will demand that she demonstrate strength and prove her wor
thiness of being our mate. The beast in me won’t care that she’s human, that her physical prowess can never rival mine. If she can’t withstand my fury, if she cannot handle my true nature, then she is not worthy—and my wolf will hunger to destroy her.
It’s a barbaric notion to humans, but that’s the way of our world. Our primal instincts have been honed to a razor sharpness over centuries of survival. They keep our pack strong.
I’m a predator, untamed and feral. Draven rules with absolute control, his iron will lethal in its crushing grasp, and Bishop is cunning in his calculated but deadly approach. But I’m wild. Unchained, unbound by restraint.
And I make no apologies for it.
I’ve always considered it a powerful asset in my arsenal. But now, with Jemma, I must do the impossible.
I must find value in patience instead of impulse. Show civility when all I know is savagery. Trust that guarding her life will prove more satisfying than spilling her blood.
When she walks down the stairs to the front foyer, dressed for the Tribunal, it’s all I can do not to throw my head back and howl with approval.
Bishop picked out her attire, and I can see his touch in the gown—hugging her chest like a black lace sheath before flaring at her waist, a long slit up nearly to her hip on her left, the neckline plunging in a sharp V that almost reaches her navel. And the entire thing is delicately frosted with tiny crystals that reflect the light.
She looks like a queen born of the night sky.
The emblem of the Blackfang Barons—a full moon made of alabaster with a howling wolf cast in obsidian—hangs from her neck, resting above her breasts, as if she was always meant to wear our symbol.
Draven shifts beside me and even Bishop looks up from his phone, the view of her distracting him from whatever scheme he’s running on the side tonight.
She doesn’t know it yet, and neither do the other alphas standing on either side of me, but Jemma will never leave here.
She’s the one I want, the prey in my sight. I don’t need a month to figure it out. I didn’t even need a week. I knew it the moment I scooped her up from the hallway and held her fragile body in my arms. One whiff of her scent, and my wolf knew it, too.
Draven will toy with her, keeping her close until he’s had his fill. He holds everyone at an arm’s length, never letting anyone in. Jemma will be no exception.
And Bishop will turn her into a grand experiment. He loves taking people apart to see what makes them tick. Often quite literally.
But I will make her my mate.
She’ll become my moon, my goddess. The one I will pursue across the sky, devouring her every dawn only for our chase to begin anew each night.
I must bide my time, though. If I reveal myself too soon, before she is strong enough to withstand my mark, then my haste will only bring about her death, delivered by the fangs of my wolf.
It’s cruel and merciless. But it is our way.
It’s why I’ve kept my distance, even though it’s completely out of character for me. I’m the spontaneous one. The wild, untamed one. Normally, I’d be first in line to have my fun.
Yet, out of the three of us, I’ve had the least interaction with Jemma so far. I know what my wolf wants, and what that could mean for her. She’s been delivered to us broken and damaged, a hollow shell of a thing, completely unaware of her strength and her innate skills.
Life never gave her a chance. First, the Latians took her family when she was only a girl. Then the world chewed her up and spit her out. I bet at times she’s wondered if it would have been better not to have been spared, to have perished along with her family under the fangs of the wolves.
It’s for that reason that I must be careful. She’s too weak, mentally and physically, to match the challenge of my wolf. If I get too close for too long, if I let myself get too comfortable, it could result in her demise.
My humanity has kept me restrained so far, but my wolf is completely feral.
Her safety rests in my hands, because I know what she does not—that her fate will be sealed by either bond or death. She doesn’t know the extreme danger I pose to her, so the timing of that test is my responsibility. And I can’t fuck it up, because there will be no do-overs.
But tonight, I’m transfixed, rooted in place as she descends the stairs, and it feels as if I’ll never be able to look at her enough.
Jemma stops at the landing, her skin pale even in the soft amber light of the foyer, her hands wringing nervously. Her hair is pulled up into a twist, her elegant neck exposed, torturing me with the temptation to mark her.
Draven silently beckons her forward with a motion of his hand. She glides down the remaining steps obediently. It’s clear that he’s trained her well in her short time here.
He steps forward, the cloak of fur draped over his arm—a war trophy, and a message. “You will wear this tonight.”
His voice is quiet as his eyes roam over her. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s as taken by our fawn as I am. But I do know better—Draven has no tolerance for romantic notions. Of course, he takes what he wants, and betas fall at his feet for the chance, but they never get more than a moment of his time. He’s a stone-cold killer who prefers control over compassion, and solitude over the soft curves of a woman warming his bed.
Jemma eyes the cloak hesitantly, and Draven moves another step closer, his gaze trained on her, an unspoken command in his expression.
Finally, she runs her fingers over the cloak, tracing the mottled lines of tawny gold that streak across the thick gray fur. His shoulders stiffen, and I know he’s thinking the same as me. What will it be like to have her run her fingers through our own fur?
“What is this made of?” she asks as Draven drapes it over her shoulders and affixes it to the clasps that Bishop had sewn onto her dress.
Her tone is more curious than suspicious. We could easily lie to her. But Draven does no such thing.
“It’s a wolf pelt.”
She freezes instantly and looks back and forth between the three of us. Her eyes are so wide there’s nearly more white than iris. But the fur of Terrion’s father hangs from her shoulders like a warrior’s cloak.
“It’s a message,” Bishop explains smoothly, pocketing his phone and approaching her. He reaches for her hand and holds it between his as he brings it to his lips. “One that will be most beautifully delivered.”
“What type of message?” Jemma’s voice goes up an octave. “Does it have something to do with me?”
She’s still as a statue as she stares at us with wide eyes, and for a moment, I wonder what it must be like for her, to be shrouded in the hide of the monster that haunts her.
Her intuition is sharp—somehow she senses that she’s tied into the message we’re sending the Latians tonight, perhaps from the conversation Draven and I had in his office while she knelt at his feet. We were vague about the details, but it was clear we were talking about her.
Of course, she doesn’t know that she’s now draped in the very fur of the wolf who killed her parents. That’s a conversation for later. Much later.
“It’s a long story,” I tell her. I can sense her increase in anxiety, but not nearly as much as I expected. Perhaps Draven and Bishop’s little games will prove useful after all.
“It’s intended for someone who will be in attendance this evening,” Draven explains. “But that is not your concern—the only thing you need to focus on tonight is obeying us without question. Can you do that, Fawn?”
There’s only a slight hesitation before she speaks. “Yes, Alpha.”
“I hope so, for your sake,” Draven tells her solemnly. He looks to both Bishop and me before clearing his throat and drawing a long, thin red ribbon from his suit pocket. He takes her hand, holding it palm up as he drapes the ribbon across it. “This is a symbol that is well known in our circles, and it will afford you protection. Will you wear it tonight, and allow me to place it on your wrist?”
Jemma blinks at Draven in
surprise before glancing at Kade and me, as though she’s expecting us to let her in on the joke any second. It’s indeed a rare moment that Draven asks permission to do anything, but the rules of our world demand it. Whomever wears his symbol must accept it freely and wear it by choice.
She studies Draven for a moment, no doubt noting the seriousness in his expression as she realizes he’s not trying to trick her. “Yes, of course,” she says finally, giving him an equally serious nod.
He slowly winds the ribbon around her wrist, up her forearm and back down, the thin satin pressing into her skin tight enough to grip, but not too tight to cut off circulation.
“To others, this will serve as a reminder that you belong to me,” he tells her, tying the ribbon off with a knot at her wrist. “But for you, it’s a reminder of the promise I made—that you are safe with me. Say it, Fawn.”
“I’m safe with you,” she breathes out, her fingertips running over the pattern of the ribbon.
“Good.” Draven wraps her hand through his arm and escorts her toward the door, with Bishop and me following.
The drive to the fight is quiet, save for Draven and Bishop discussing the betting pools our men are running tonight. Even if half of our fighters lose, we can expect a substantial profit. Jemma sits in the back, nestled between me and Bishop, while Draven sits in the front.
As usual, one of the younger wolves, Nio, is behind the wheel. His twin brother, Xander, is already at the arena, sent ahead to ensure our pack’s private balcony and nearby suite are in proper order.
Bishop keeps his face in his phone, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he shoots off texts and emails at a dizzying speed—controlling our empire with surgical precision. Up front, Draven stares out the windshield in silence, watching the city pass us, his thoughts his own.
But me? I’m in my own private hell.
Every time Jemma shifts, I feel the warmth of her leg as it brushes against mine. Sometimes she sighs softly, lost in her thoughts, and her shoulders relax, her body leaning into me. Each movement is so slight I doubt she realizes she’s doing it—or how hard it is for me to resist ripping that pretty dress from her tiny frame and having my way with her right here in the back of the town car.