Aspen glanced at me, then smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Oscar piped up from under the table. “May I attend as well? I will be most discreet.”
Aspen laughed. “You’re part of the pack, Oscar. You have to come.”
He puffed up, proud. “Excellent. I shall prepare accordingly.”
Papa left, the bell chiming as he went. Aspen started clearing our plates, but not before sneaking a second scone onto my napkin.
Jess leaned in, lips at my ear. “You okay?”
I nodded. “I’m happy,” I whispered, surprised by how true it felt.
“Good,” he said. “I’m happy too.”
We sat there for a while, just watching the sun work its way across the table, turning the coffee brown and the scones gold. Jess traced little circles on my wrist with his thumb, and I let myself hope that maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something right.
I closed my eyes and offered a silent thanks to the creator.
Thank you for saving me.
Thank you for keeping him safe.
Thank you for today, and every day after.
When I opened my eyes again, the world was still there, waiting.
And I was finally ready to meet it.
Chapter 17
Waylon Steiner
The office was glass and steel and mirrors, a penthouse on the top floor above the club. I paced in a twelve-foot line, wearing a trench into the imported Turkish rug that cost more than some people’s houses. Every two minutes, I’d pass the bank of security monitors, their cold blue glow strobing across my skin. Half the feeds showed the floor of the club, a slow-motion parade of silicone, sequins, and slavish devotion. The other half were trained on the shipping docks and train yard, where the real business happened.
Leo sat in one of the expensive leather guest chairs, legs crossed, tablet on his lap. He could have been a banker ora lawyer—his suit was pressed, cufflinks the size of chickpeas, even the shaved lines in his hair were symmetrical. He watched me pace like a man timing laps at a track meet, which was one of the reasons I kept him around. Leo never flinched, never looked away, never let my moods make him blink. I needed that right now.
“You keep that up, boss, and you’ll wear a groove in the floor. Not sure we have a guy on the payroll who can repair that kind of damage.” His eyes didn’t leave the tablet, but the joke hung in the air, polite as a smoke ring.
“Shut up, Leo.” My voice was a fucking cheese grater tonight. I ran both hands through my hair, then let them clench at the base of my skull, just shy of tearing out a chunk.
I could feel the anger in my blood, running just below the skin, itching to break through. I’d lost things before—money, girls, product, my own goddamn dignity—but nothing burned like this. Harper had vanished. Poof. Gone from my hand like a magician’s card trick, and I was the mark, staring at my empty palm with a big, dumb smile.
“I should have fucking claimed her,” I said, not for the first time. “Should have bitten her. Made the bond. Then I could have tracked her to the ends of the earth, no matter how many goddamn shadows she ran through.”
Leo didn’t say anything. Just kept scrolling. I hated how calm he was, but that was the job. He was my number two, my consigliere, the man who handled things, so I didn’t have to. Most nights, that was a blessing. Tonight, it was sandpaper on my brain.
“I told you,” I said, my voice rising. “I fucking told you, Leo. The minute you get soft—one fucking inch—they take a mile. These bitches, they can smell weakness. That’s how she got out. That’s how she played me.”
He shrugged, a tiny motion. “She was on a short leash. We had eyes on her every second. The only time she left the building was for work, and even then she had Rage on her like white on rice.”
“Rage is a fuck-up.” I slammed my fist into the edge of the desk, just enough to rattle the monitor. “I should have had Viktor do it. Viktor never lets his dick think for him. Never gets distracted.”
Leo looked up finally. “If it’s any consolation, we still have the list. Seven tonight. Three wolves, four humans. All in the manifest, all tagged and processed.”
That calmed me a little. At least the rest of the operation was on track. Tonight’s shipment was the kind of thing that kept the lights on and the right people in my pocket. Seven girls—no, women, I reminded myself, always use the legalese—shipped out in a custom rail car, destination: Maltraz’s cargo ship waiting at the edge of international waters. Three of them were high-bred wolf bitches, the kind that could pass for Instagram influencers, except they’d been drugged into submission and weren’t likely to make any more duck-face selfies. The other four were top-shelf humans, all virgins if the paperwork wasn’t forged. And Leo’s paperwork was never forged.
The clock on the wall read 10:36. The first wave would be on the loading dock in less than fifteen minutes.
