by Bella Jacobs
I chuckle. “Of course not. You’ll get to keep your head. Your other body parts, however…” I shrug casually. “Those are still up for grabs. I hear it’s harder to force a man into marriage with only one arm.”
She sighs. “I apologize for going behind your back, Maxim, but I didn’t feel I had any other choice.”
“No other choice than to rob me of one of the most important decisions a man makes in his entire life?” I keep my tone pleasant, but the words make rage boil in my veins all over again.
I don’t plan on marrying Willow, but the that fact that she’s come this close to forcing the issue and put me at odds with my father, is still infuriating.
“You were holding me prisoner, torturing me for information I didn’t have, and trying to take advantage of my pack gift without my permission,” she replies, equally pleasantly. “Forgive me for thinking I was safer sharing the news that we’re fated mates with your father first.”
“Right.” I sip my bourbon, nodding to an old friend of my dad’s as he walks by before I continue, “But I don’t think you knew we were fated mates. I think you were gambling that my father knew about the prophecy and would want me to be king.” I turn to face her, asking the question that’s been plaguing me since our meeting with my father yesterday. “But the question is, when did you know? Did you come here with a plan to force me into marriage, little wolf? Have you been playing me since the moment you showed up on my doorstep?”
Her brow furrows. “I’d never heard of the prophecy until the night after…” She clears her throat. “Until two nights ago. I had a dream about it. And in the dream, I just… I knew.”
“Knew what?” I challenge.
“That you were meant for me,” she says, the faint glow in her eyes making it impossible to argue.
And damn it, I’ve felt it, too. I’m drawn to her, compelled to touch her, soft for her in a way I’ve never been for anyone else.
Even now, with anger boiling in my blood, there’s a part of me that wants to make amends, and an even more vocal part that wants to take her back to my bed and make her come until she’s too drunk on pleasure to cause trouble for a few hours.
Just the thought of her bare skin pale against my black satin sheets is enough to make my cock thicken behind the fly of my suit pants.
No one would say a word if we decided to start fucking a month early. The adults in the room know how hard it is to resist your mate once you’ve found them. But I refuse to give into temptation, even if Willow seemed willing. Which she doesn’t. She’s made certain to keep a good two feet of distance between us all night and her energy is positively frigid.
Not surprising after what I did to her, I suppose.
Though it does make me wonder…
I lean closer, asking in a voice too soft for anyone else to hear, “So how do you feel about that, little wolf? Being meant for a man you hate?”
“I don’t hate you,” she says stiffly.
“But you don’t want to fuck anymore,” I say, grinning over the rim of my glass as her lips tighten into a disapproving line. I take a drink, letting the liquid burn a path down my throat before I add, “Which is a shame, because I will be fucking you on our wedding night, Willow. And the morning after and as often as I have need of release. It’s the least you can do after putting such an abrupt end to my life as a single man.”
“I don’t care who you have sex with—before or after we’re married.” Her eyes narrow. “But you won’t be having sex with me until you’ve convinced me to like you again. You won’t force me. You’re not that kind of man.”
I arch a brow. “Is that right? So, which is it, little wolf—am I a monster you couldn’t trust with a conversation before you ran off to my father? Or a gentleman who will take no for an answer, even when you’re my wife and obligated to give me children? I don’t see how I can be both.”
“We all contain multitudes,” she says sweetly. “And I’m not obligated to give you anything but a chance to be a good mate. What you do with that chance is up to you.” She sets her still half-full Chardonnay on the small table behind us. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to thank your father for the lovely party before it’s over.”
She turns and leaves without waiting to be excused. I’m about to follow her and insist that she wait to be dismissed before she walks away from me—that’s pack protocol and my future wife is as obliged to honor my position as Alpha as any other wolf—when Hermione appears at my elbow.
“Trix is downstairs waiting for you in the enforcer conference room. Says she has an engagement present for you,” she says softly. “Would you like me to make her comfortable until after the party? Or send her on her way with my condolences?”
“No condolences needed. My future wife just made it clear she doesn’t care who I fuck. Now or after the wedding.” I down the last of my drink and set it beside Willow’s wine, hating that even the hint of pink lipstick on the edge of her glass makes me think about kissing her.
Trix couldn’t have shown up at a better time.
I nod toward the exit. “Let’s go. I’ll talk to Trix, and afterwards you can debrief me on any new developments in the investigation.”
Hermione hesitates. “Don’t you need to stay until the end of the reception? Or at least…say good-bye to your guests?”
“They’re my father’s guests and this is my father’s party,” I say, casting a glance to where Dad sits in his wheelchair. Willow is beside him in a folding chair, laughing at something he’s just said.
They seem to be getting along like a house on fire, but that’s temporary, too. One way or another, I’ll win my father back around to seeing things my way. I’m his son, after all. Willow is a convenient stranger, one who won’t look nearly as attractive once I make it clear this prophecy is a load of garbage.
And if I can prove she had something to do with the attack…
“Any more information on Kelley? Or who might have helped her gain access to the tower?” I ask as Hermione and I exit the bar and step into the atrium, where the scent of smoke from the explosion still lingers.
“No,” my second says. “No new developments, and it’s like she vanished off the face of the earth after she ran out of camera range at the corner of Beckett and the alley.” She hesitates a beat before adding, “But I don’t think Willow was involved, Maxim. If that’s why you’re less than excited about this engagement.”
“I’m less than excited about this engagement for many reasons, none of which I wish to discuss at the moment,” I say. “And I don’t think Willow is telling us everything she knows. Until she does, she’s a suspect.”
“And your fiancée,” Hermione says, her tone making it clear she doesn’t approve of the conflict of interests.
“My father is forcing the match,” I confess. “For now.”
Hermione exhales. “Ah. I’m sorry about that. But in case no one else has had the balls to say it—just because you’re angry with her and resenting this match doesn’t mean Willow is guilty of anything. Or a bad person. Or deserves to be treated like a contagious disease.”
I shoot her a look out of the corners of my eyes. “How much?”
“How much what?”
“How much are you willing to wager that you’re wrong?” I ask as we board the elevator leading down to the sub-basement and the enforcer offices. “I want more than the satisfaction of telling you ‘I told you so.’”
Her lips curve. “Five grand.”
“Ten,” I counter. “And you have to tell me how clever I am every time we cross paths for a month.”
“Is your ego that small?”
I grin. “I just want to savor my victory. It’s going to feel really good to be right about this. Really, really good.”
She grunts. “Fine. If you win, I give you 10k and a big brain ego stroke for a month. And if I win, I get the 10k and Friday nights off for a month.”
“Done,” I agree as we step out of the elevator, my mood alrea
dy improved by the bet and the distance from both my father and my fiancée.
And then I step into the interrogation room to find Trix waiting for me in one of the leather chairs, wearing a micro mini that shows off her elegantly crossed legs and a come-hither expression, and I decide to give myself the luxury of forgetting about Willow for a while.
I’m about to ask Trix if she wants to take this upstairs to my apartment, when she reaches into the valley between her breasts and plucks a tiny blue pouch from her cleavage. “The stones you requested, sir. My sister came home early just for you.”
Fresh excitement rushes in, banishing thoughts of Trix in the sex swing in my bedroom with her legs up over her head. “Tell your sister she’s a goddess,” I say, leaning against the table beside her. I press a kiss to the top of her head then pluck the pouch from her fingers. “How much do I owe you?”
“Felicity will send an invoice for the dry cleaning later,” she says with a wink of one lavender eye. “And my delivery fee is an apology for getting engaged without giving me a so-long fuck first.” Her pink lips push into a pout. “I mean, I saw it coming, but still… My pussy and I are still very, very sad.”
“What do you mean you saw it coming?” I ask, remembering her comment about dreaming that my cock was about to get taken off the market. At the time I’d dismissed it as teasing, but maybe it wasn’t. Some fairies have the gift of prophecy, or at least enough of it to catch glimpses of the future in their dreams.
“I told you, I was having nightmares about losing my favorite playmate,” she says, running a finger down the slope of her breast to the deep V at the front of her dress. Her cleavage is truly spectacular, but for some reason it doesn’t have the usual effect on me. The man downstairs remains at rest in my boxer briefs. “It was awful. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week.”
“Have you had prophetic dreams before?”
“A few times.” She cocks her head. “But, yes, now that you mention it, these particular dreams were crisper than usual.”
“My fiancée had a similar dream.”
Trix leans back in her chair, bouncing one stilettoed foot. “Really? Is she part fairy?”
“Prophetic dreams are part of her pack gift.” Irritation at Willow creeps in again as I let my gaze roam up and down Trix’s fantastic legs and I continue to feel…nothing.
Nothing except the urge to return to the cocktail party and kiss my bride-to-be senseless in a dark corner.
Trix laughs. “Oh boy. Well, you won’t be getting anything by her, will you? That should make married life interesting.” She stands. “Congratulations on your engagement, by the way. I hope you’ll be very happy. You deserve happiness, lover, and I wish you nothing but the best.”
“Thank you,” I say, accepting the hug she offers. And still, even with her breasts pressed against my chest, my dick remains stubbornly off-duty.
“Good-bye, Maxim,” Trix says as she pulls away. “Call me if you need more dry-cleaning, okay? I’m happy to hook you up.”
“Will do,” I say, walking her to the door.
I deliver her to the waiting Hermione, who will escort her to the exit, in keeping with our current security procedures.
Then I settle into the chair Trix vacated with a frown.
A lot of good Willow’s open-bed marriage policy will do me if I can’t get it up for anyone but a certain little wolf.
The thought makes me wonder if Willow thinks this open-bed policy is going to apply to her, as well. And then I start imagining Willow in bed with another man, right under my nose, and I see red.
Bright, violent, murdering-the-bastard-who-fucked-my-wife red…
I remind myself that we won’t actually be getting married and that this is a non-issue, but I have to fight the urge to track Willow down and make it very clear to her that the only one fucking her after we’re married will be me.
And from there I can’t stop thinking about fucking Willow, a lapse of control that results in a hard-on so thick and furious I’m not fit to leave the room for another ten minutes.
But that ends up being perfect timing for reconnecting with Hermione as she returns from showing Trix out to the lobby.
Drawing her to one corner of the room, I ask, “How’s our tiger?”
“Groggy, and still not making much sense,” she says. “After his stunt the other day, we’ve been keeping him on a steady diet of tranquilizers.”
“How long to sober him up enough for these?” I tip my palm toward her, giving her a peek at the pouch.
“Truth stones?” Her eyes widen. “Fuck, Maxim, don’t get caught. I had a friend who lost both her legs to fairy vigilantes.”
I nod as I tuck the pouch into the inside pocket of my suit coat. “Trix and her sister are discreet. You know my trust isn’t easily won, but I have faith they’ll keep this transaction between us.”
Hermione pulls in a breath and lets it out through a tight jaw. “All right. Then I’ll start sobering him up for questioning. Give me three days. I want to wean him off the meds slowly, so he doesn’t have an adverse reaction.”
“Two,” I say. “And make sure you get the manacles installed in his cell before you start reducing the medication.”
“He’ll be trapped in his human form once we apply the manacles,” she warns. “That’s against code, even for prisoners of war.”
“If he was concerned about being trapped in his human form, he shouldn’t have attacked my people in my territory,” I say, then add as a nod to honoring the rules we agreed to when we became a part of the Human Side shifter community, “And we’ll only keep them on a few days. Just long enough to get him sobered up and talking. If we’re questioned about it, we’ll make it clear he was so violent we had no choice but to restrain him for our own safety.”
“All right,” she says. “As soon as I know more, I’ll give you a window for questioning. I should have an idea how fast the sedatives are clearing his system by tomorrow.”
“Perfect,” I say, squeezing her shoulder. “Thank you, H. I couldn’t do this without you.”
She winces and guilt flickers behind her eyes.
“What?” I ask, my stomach sinking. “Don’t turn on me, Hermione. I’m already at odds with my father. I can’t lose you, too.”
“You’ll never lose me,” she says with a confidence that makes me believe her. “But I…did agree to help Willow with a project.” My brows shoot up, but before I can demand to know what the actual fuck she was thinking, she hurries on, “It’s for the pack. For the women of the pack, in particular. Willow wants to start a focus group to get feedback from female pack members on how we can better address women’s issues. Then she wants to help you appoint a Women’s Issues Advocate to your advisory board.”
I clench my jaw, refusing to say a word while my blood is this hot. I know myself well enough to realize anything I say when I’m this fucking pissed will most likely be something I regret later.
But Hermione knows me well enough to read the rage on my face.
“I understand that you’re angry with her and your dad. And that you hate how out of control you’re feeling right now,” Hermione says, keeping her voice low to avoid attracting the attention of the enforcers on duty. “But it’s a good idea. I don’t care who came up with it. It’s something we need, something that’s been missing for a long time. And I think, if you’ll take a second to reflect, you’ll agree. Think of how many fires we could have put out before they started this past year if we’d had more feedback from female pack members first.”
“I have female advisors on my board,” I grit out. “And I don’t have an advocate for men’s issues, either. When I’m making decisions, it’s always with the entire pack in mind—men, women, and children.”
Hermione nods, but her expression doesn’t soften. “I know you try to do that. But you’re a man, Maxim, and an Alpha. With a man and an Alpha’s point of view. And this entire pack is structured in a way that favors men ascending to pow
er and women taking support positions.” I start to argue, but she cuts in, “Think of how many more male Alphas there are than females. And almost all of our Omegas are female. And there’s a good chance that’s not nature, Maxim, but nurture, our society putting people in what they see as their place. And if that’s where those people want to be—amazing. I don’t have a problem with women in support roles if that’s where they’re most comfortable, but no one has really given them a voice, so we can’t know that for sure. And you can’t expect the three women on your board to pull duty as women’s advocates as well as their other jobs.”
My lips part, but again, she swoops in, “And women can be misogynists too, you know. Deborah has never met a victim she wouldn’t blame for their own problems. Her lack of compassion is a problem.” She sighs and motions to her own chest, “And I drop the ball, too. I’m a gay Alpha. I mean, I was raised by a mother who had a more traditional gender role, but I don’t personally know what it’s like to be mated and have kids in this pack. Or to function here as a Beta or Omega. But I care about my friends who are in those positions and I want to know that we’re serving their needs to the best of our ability. A focus group, where women can just hang out and chat in a safe space, might be able to accomplish that.”
I prop my hands on my hips, teeth grinding together for a long moment.
Finally, Hermione arches a brow. “But if you want me to put a stop to it, I will. You’re my Alpha, my leader, and my first loyalty has always been and will always be to you.”
And just like that…the heat rushes out of me.
Hermione’s right. Willow’s name is at the top of my shitlist at the moment, but that doesn’t mean all of her ideas are shit. And if Hermione is a part of the group, I’ll be the first to know if Willow steps over the line in some way while she’s soliciting feedback.
“All right, help Willow gather a good cross section of women,” I say, “but no troublemakers. You know the people who have a habit of making noise. I already know what they have to say. I want to hear from women who don’t feel comfortable speaking up.”