The bass from the jukebox vibrated through my boot soles as I followed Wrecker toward the office. Laughter and the sharp clack of pool balls followed us down the hallway lined with framed photos of old club runs. My fingers grazed the cool brass doorknob, the metal tasting like static against my palm before we stepped into the windowless room.
Wrecker didn’t bother with the desk lamp. The glow from the multiple computer screens carved shadows under his cheekbones as he tapped the spacebar. “Ran her through every system I could access.”
Three surveillance stills filled the monitor—Julia’s profile caught mid-laugh behind Pearl’s counter, her head tilted at that angle that made her neck look breakably delicate. Red text scrolled across the bottom:MATCH: 98.7% JULIET BETTENCOURT, daughter of Jules Bettencourt, B&A Financial, hedge funds.
My knuckles popped before I realized I’d clenched my fists. “More?”
“So much more.” Wrecker’s thumbnail clicked against the trackpad, pulling up a society page photo that stole the oxygen from the room. There she stood in ivory silk and diamonds cold enough to frost the screen, arm linked with a man whose smilehad more edges than his Armani suit. “Harrison Hastings IV. Old New York money, pharmaceuticals. With a side of assault charges that never stuck.”
The AC unit kicked on, blowing dust across the keyboard. I watched it settle in the crevice between the R and T keys. “That who she's running from?”
“Court records are sealed tighter than a virgin’s cunt.”
“Damn it,” my mind was racing, worry thickening my voice. Through the thin wall, Julia’s laughter spilled into the room—warm honey laced with tequila. My wolf stirred beneath my ribs, phantom claws scoring bone.
Wrecker leaned back in the creaking office chair, the leather sighing under his weight. “I’m thinking runaway bride. Look at this.”
My eyes read over a New York Times Page Six engagement announcement. “Their wedding was supposed to happen last week.” I palmed the stress ball from his desk, some neon-green monstrosity shaped like a brain. The squelch of silicone filled the silence between drumbeats seeping through the walls. “She got out in the nick of time.”
“Yep.” He gestured at the screen where the engagement ring glinted like a sniper’s scope. “That’s only part of it, Bronc.”
I tossed the stress ball onto the desk, and it rolled towards him. “Tell me.”
He handed me a thick folder. Filled with copies of birth certificates, marriage licenses, and black and white photos, Juliet’s lineage laid before me.
“Fuck me.”
“It’s a lot to take in.” Wrecker’s voice was quiet.
“I don’t feel so bad about wanting her now. She’s still 18 years younger than me.” I ran my hand through my hair.
“Dude. Once she hits 40, y’all will be about even,” he said, laughing.
He wasn’t wrong. The wolves in our pack lived a couple hundred years. Once we hit our forties, our aging slowed down to a crawl. She would eventually catch me. Didn’t mean I wouldn’t get more than a few dirty looks from the human population. Not that I had a single fuck to give about it.
I pulled the door open before I could respond, releasing a wave of Lynyrd Skynyrd and the tang of spilled beer. Through the crack, I saw her—perched on a barstool with two cards in her grip. Maddie’s arm slung around her shoulders, Scar dealt another round. Julia or Juliet threw her head back laughing, throat exposed, and every muscle in my body went wire-tight.
“Christ, she’s glowing,” Wrecker muttered, not unkindly. “Like someone plugged her into a socket.”
She was. The cheap club lights haloed her wild waves as she laid cards down, completing a winning hand, the table erupting in groans and tossed poker chips.
My back molars ground together. “She’s drunk.”
“Multiple alcoholic drinks will do that.” Wrecker snapped the laptop closed. “You want me to—”
“I’ll handle it.” The words came out sharper than intended. Through the haze of lust, contemplation, and neon, I tracked the swing of Julia’s hips as she slid off the stool. Her black tank top clung to her danger zones as her hips swayed to the music. She was no longer the malnourished woman who’d stepped off that bus weeks ago. She now had curves that were undeniably sexy, and every wolf in the room had taken notice.
Somewhere behind my sternum, my wolf bared his teeth. Not at her. Never at her. At the hungry eyes following the motion—prospects and hang-arounds alike, tongues hanging out like dogs at a steakhouse. My thumb found the scar bisecting my palm, an old knife wound from a mission in Slovenia. The ache grounded me. Barely.
“Need meto—”
“Stand down, Wreck.” I was already moving, boots eating up the scarred hardwood. The club’s heartbeat thrummed in my veins; pool balls cracking like gunshots, ice cubes screaming in glasses, the creak of leather vests breathing with each rise and fall of chests.
Her scent hit me first. Ginger, burned sugar, and fear buried so deep only a shifter would catch it. She turned as I approached, cards fluttering from her grip. Five of hearts landed face-up on my boot tip as she passed.
The card stuck like a paper cutout of bad luck. Through the haze of tequila fumes and Lynyrd Skynyrd wailing through blown speakers, I counted seven sets of eyes tracking her sway toward the makeshift dance floor. Seven fucking prospects specifically, who’d forgotten whose territory they were sniffing around. My knuckles popped in time with the bass line.
“Prez.” A hang-around named Rook materialized at my left elbow, reeking of Drakkar Noir and eagerness. “Can I get you anything?”
