In the dream, I’d found her alone in a suite like this, wrapped in a white terrycloth robe that might as well have been nothing at all. The door was unlocked, and she was waiting—hair wild, skin flushed, eyes black with the same need that was currently eating holes through my self-control. I didn’t speak, just took her face in my hands and kissed her so hard her lips split. She shuddered, arching into me, and the robe fell open to bare the bruised constellation of my fingerprints on her hips.
“Missed you,” she’d said, barely a whisper, but the sound set my nerves vibrating like harp strings plucked to snapping.
I’d pressed her to the wall, hands everywhere at once—palming her breasts, her ass, the soft backs of her knees. She went liquid, clinging to my shoulders, her nails carving furrows down my spine. My cock was out and throbbing before I’d even gotten the sash untied; she reached for it, bold, greedy, as if she could anchor herself to reality by taking every inch of me into her body. I bit her neck—hard enough to bruise—and she moaned so loud it should’ve brought security. In the dream, nothing stopped us.
The wolf in me loved her best when she was reckless and willing, and in the dream, she always was. I spun her around and shoved her face-first to the bed, yanked her hips up and split her open with a single, brutal thrust. She took it, every inch, pushing back against me with a snarl of her own. My hands fisted in her hair, holding her steady as I pounded her into the mattress. I felt the way her body quaked around me, the electric snap of her coming hard, the wet heat of her cunt squeezing my cock. I came so fiercely it blacked out my vision, knot swelling inside her until there was no way to separate our bodies. Then I bent over her, teeth clamped on the mate mark I’d given her weeks before, and bit down until she screamed.
When I woke, I was hard and aching, the sheet damp from sweat and semen. I lay there for a minute, hating the world and everything in it, including myself, for not being able to bring her into this bed for real.
I didn’t have time to wallow. Today was Council day, and if I wasn’t careful, it would be my last.
I took a frigid shower, letting the icy scald and burn of the water beat some of the rage out of me. I dressed in a black suit—custom, one of many I owned—and cinched the tie until my neck throbbed with a different kind of need. The Glock sat heavy under my left arm, its weight more comforting than anything else this city had to offer. I checked the chamber and clicked the safety to “on” before sliding on the jacket.
My shoes were polished, my hair combed, but none of it felt like armor. Nothing did, not now. My wolf paced inside me, fur bristling, lips peeled back from its fangs. He wanted blood. He wanted her.
The ride in the elevator was slow torture. Each floor was an eternity. The smell of fresh-cut flowers filled my nostrils. I wanted to rip through my suit, shift on the marble and paint the city red with the blood of every bastard who’d ever tried to take Savannah from me.
But I didn’t. I waited, just like I’d been trained. Just like Bronc would want.
Juliet was in the foyer, dressed for war. She wore a dark blue suit, tailored to fit her curves, hair pulled back in a severe twist that made her eyes look even more lethal. She had a pistol holstered at her hip under her blazer, and I knew from experience she'd learned to draw and fire before most men could blink. Bronc stood beside her, hands in his pockets, gaze on the front double doors. His presence reflected a gravity that made people avoid looking at him, stepping wide, even if they didn’t know why. The mate mark on his neck had faded to a silvery scar, but I could see the energy it radiated, the way he drew strength from Juliet simply by standing close.
King Rafe joined us, all six feet four inches of him, looming in a suit that cost more than my first car. His beard was trimmed, his eyes bloodshot but steady. He took one look at me and grinned.
“Didn’t sleep,huh?” he said.
“Didn’t need to,” I replied, voice flat.
He laughed, genuine. “Well, let’s go see how much of a show the Council wants.”
We piled into a black SUV waiting at the curb. The driver—some dead-eyed wolf in a cheap suit—never looked at any of us, just pulled into traffic and followed the GPS like it was a suicide note. The streets were gray and wet, last night’s rain leaving everything shiny and raw. The city was awake but not alive, pedestrians marching to work like soldiers to the front. Every so often, we’d pass a patrol car or a private security van, and Bronc’s eyes would track them in the rearview until they vanished.
The Council headquarters was a monolith where the city met the countryside: twelve stories of black stone, windowless except for slits near the top, fronted by a line of marble pillars carved with runes and glyphs so old they might as well have been bones. It wasn’t built to welcome anyone. It was built to remind you of all the things you weren’t.
At the top of the steps, a pair of guards waited—one a vampire, skin so pale it looked like tissue paper stretched over steel, the other a demon, eyes ringed with molten orange. Both wore identical suits, identical earpieces. As we climbed the stairs, the demon’s nostrils flared, catching my scent. His face twitched, the hint of a grin, and I fought the urge to show my teeth.
Inside, the air was colder than outside. The lobby ceiling soared three stories above our heads, a ribcage of exposed beams and more carved stone. Every surface was polished to a mirror, but nothing reflected true. The scents here were chaos: old blood, ozone, witch magic, sweat, and under it all, the faintest trace of roses and honey. My wolf lunged for the source, snapping at the leash, and I had to lock my knees to keep from running.
We approached the security checkpoint, a long row of glass barriers manned by yet more guards. They took our weapons—reluctantly, on my part—and scanned us with handheld wands.Juliet set off the alarm, and the guard ran the scanner up and down her leg before letting her through.
“Nice ink,” he said, nodding at her mate mark.
She smiled, predatory. “You’d look better with one yourself.”
Bronc smothered a laugh as we stepped into the next corridor. The hallways narrowed, growing darker, the air thick with anticipation and something else—fear, maybe. I could hear voices behind closed doors, the murmur of arguments and deals being struck in every tongue known to man or wolf.
At last, we entered the antechamber. The walls here were plain white; the floors black marble veined with gold. A long table stood at the far end, flanked by two chairs. Another guard—this one a wolf, brown-haired and musclebound—motioned for us to wait. Rafe dropped into one chair, Bronc into the other. Juliet leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the room like she expected it to come alive and eat us.
I paced. Back and forth, across the length of the chamber, nails digging into my palms with every step. I could smell Savannah now, her scent leaking through the walls, so close I could almost taste her on the air. My mate mark throbbed in time with my pulse.
“You’re gonna wear a groove in the floor, Menace,” Bronc said, voice gentle as he could manage.
“Fuck the floor,” I replied, not stopping.
Juliet came up beside me. “We’ll see her soon. Just hang on.”
“I am hanging on,” I said. “But if they make me wait another fucking hour—”
“They won’t,” she interrupted, and I could see the fear in her eyes even as she tried to cover it. She squeezed my arm, strong enough to hurt. “She’s stronger than you think.”
