She glances over her shoulder, and for a moment that unreadable mask slips. Something almost like amusement flickers across her features.
“Most Alphas don’t smell like they want to fuck their captives.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Heat explodes through my chest, part rage, part lust, and entirely unwelcome. My step falters for half a second before training kicks in.
“Careful.” My voice drops to barely above a whisper. “You’re walking a very thin line.”
“Am I?” She turns to face me fully, taking a step closer despite the restraints. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re the one having control issues.”
She’s right. Every breath pulls her scent deeper into my lungs. Every movement she makes has my eyes tracking like a predator watching prey. And the way she’s looking at me now—head tilted, eyes bright with challenge—makes my wolf want to pin her against the nearest tree and show her exactly what kind of control issues I have.
Instead, I force myself to step back.
“Secure holding is in the basement of the main lodge,” I say, voice carefully neutral. “Reinforced walls. No windows. Single entry point.”
Her eyebrows raise slightly. “Planning to interrogate me?”
“Planning to keep my pack safe.”
“From me?” She sounds genuinely curious. “Or from whoever’s been manipulating them for months?”
Both. Definitely both.
Callum appears on the lodge porch as we approach, his entire body radiating tension. His eyes lock onto Nova’s restraints, then shift to me with barely concealed accusation.
Since when do we take prisoners?
Since tonight. Since her.
“Callum,” I say as we reach the steps. “Secure holding. Full protocols.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods. “Yes, Alpha.”
Nova descends the steps without hesitation, her movements fluid despite the restraints. Like being captured is just part of the job.
Which means she’s done this before. The confidence in her movements, the way she’s assessing my holding cell like she’s rating a hotel room—she’s not some desk analyst. She’s field-trained. Experienced. Lethal.
The realization should worry me more than it does.
The thought makes my wolf snarl with something that feels disturbingly like jealousy.
I follow her inside, hyperaware of every wolf who stops to stare, every heartbeat that spikes with tension. The compound feels different with her in it—charged, like the air before a storm.
The basement stairs are narrow, forcing us into a single file. Nova goes first, her scent filling the enclosed space until it’s all I can breathe. Honey and citrus and wild magic that makes my skin feel too tight.
The holding cell is exactly what it sounds like: reinforced concrete walls, titanium bars, and a single bench. Built for containing shifted wolves who’ve lost control.
Nova examines it with professional interest. “Impressive. Most packs don’t invest in proper containment.”
“Most packs don’t need it.”
She turns to face me, and suddenly the cell feels too small. Too intimate. Like we’re sharing space meant for one.
“And you do?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. Do I need containment for rogues? For threats? Or for Alphas whocan’t control themselves around half-fae spies who smell like everything they’ve ever wanted?
“I need to keep my pack safe,” I repeat.
