“I want to stay,” I whispered, so soft I wasn’t sure he’d hear.
His arms squeezed tighter, just for a second.
“You don’t have to decide tonight, Prima,” he said, using the name he used to call me again, breath tickling my ear.
But I already had.
I was done running. I was done with being a haunted house. I wanted to be the place where he could come home.
I pressed my face into the curve of his neck and breathed in deep. I could smell the smoke of the bonfire, the sharp scentof his sweat, and—underneath it all—the wild, warm promise of what we could still be.
My wolf stirred, lifting her head without whimpering for the first time in years.
I let it howl.
Chapter 15
Arsenal
I’d barely gotten the door shut before I smelled blood. Not the metallic tang of violence, but the thinner, more caustic scent of fresh humiliation. It rode the air from the common room, thick as smoke after a house fire. Underneath was the cheap cloy of vanilla-sugar body spray—an assault of synthetic sweetness that made my teeth ache—and beneath that, Harper’s clean, lemon-and-linen scent, wound tight as a wire.
I let the door click behind me, every sense sharpening. The pack house was built for maximum openness: a sweeping entrance with a cathedral ceiling, glossy wood floors, thick throw rugs and a pair of fireplaces at opposite ends of the great room.Juliet had gone full Southern Gothic when she decorated, so the place was crowded with battered armchairs, velvet settees, and floral prints on every available wall. The air tonight vibrated with a different kind of drama.
I followed the hum of voices—female, high and hungry—until the sight line opened up. Harper stood alone, arms wrapped around herself, facing a semicircle of pack women arrayed by the leather sectional like a goddamn tribunal. They had her boxed in against the credenza, between the chipped paint of a plant stand and the cold marble of the coffee table.
The ringleader was a bottle-blonde in athleisure, her nails weaponized into pale pink daggers. The others flanked her: a brittle-faced redhead in Ugg boots, a puffy-faced brunette yoga wannabe queen, and a mousy little thing whose eyes darted between them, feral and eager.
They hadn’t seen me yet. Harper’s eyes had, though. I caught them for a split second—blue and glassy, pupils wide with animal panic. Her lips barely moved, but I read them like a prayer:
Help.
“I just think,” the blonde was saying, voice pitched to carry, “that you might not be up to the standard of pack material.”
The redhead snorted. “Arsenal is a pack official after all.”
“Yeah,” said the brunette. “You may be off the polenow, but…” The laughter that followed was brittle, sharp enough to cut.
I saw Harper flinch, just a tremor through her shoulders, but she didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at them.
The blonde leaned in, lips peeled off her teeth in a smile. “Is it true what they say? The more money they give the more you give out?”
The wolf in me went incandescent. My vision rimmed out. I saw everything: the heat rising up Harper’s neck, the twist ofher hands in the hem of her shirt, the way her nails pressed hard enough to leave half-moons in her skin. I saw the smugness in the pack women, the absolute certainty that they were untouchable.
I stepped into the space; ice-cold and clinical. A growl preceded my words.
“Is there a problem here?” I asked, letting the words knife through the air.
The blonde barely flinched. “Not at all, Arsenal.” She drew out the name like it was a joke. “We were just welcoming your guest to the pack.”
I ignored her, looking only at Harper. She stared at the floor, jaw locked. The tremble in her left hand had migrated to her knee, and I recognized the signs of collapse.
I closed the distance. “You want to come upstairs?”
She started to answer, but the blonde cut in. “She’s fine, Arsenal. We’re just having girl talk. You know, about pack traditions.”
“Let me make something clear,” I said, voice low enough that every syllable was freighted with promise. “You do not speak to my mate. Ever. Not unless it’s with the respect owed to a member of this pack—especially a pack officer’s mate. If I hear so much as a whisper about her past, I will drag each of you in front of Juliet and let her decide what to do with you.” I let the threat dangle, then added, “And if that doesn’t get through your skulls, I’ll have a chat with your fathers. And then your mates. You will not like how that ends.”
The redhead’s face went white. The brunette shrank into herself. Only the blonde held her ground.
