Along with the note is a photograph.
A small golden retriever puppy. She can’t be more than eight weeks old, all fluffy fur and oversized paws. Her tongue lolls out in what looks like a smile, her eyes bright and happy.
I sink into the nearest chair, the picture clutched in my trembling hands.
He got me a dog.
Of all the things he could have gotten me—jewelry,flowers, something expensive and impersonal—he got me a puppy.
I’ve always loved dogs. Always wanted one. But my mother never allowed it. Said I was too irresponsible, too weak to care for another living thing.
And somehow, Darius knew. Somehow, he knew this would mean the world to me.
That ache in my chest grows stronger. It hurts. It physically hurts.
Why is he doing all this? The penthouse. The furniture. Now a puppy. And that kiss…
I want to hate him. God, it would hurt so much less if I could just hate him. If I could write him off as another person trying to control me, trying to keep me weak and dependent.
But all he seems to want to do is look after me. And I don’t understand why.
He’s my brother. Stepbrother, technically. Our parents are married. That makes us family in the eyes of the pack, in the eyes of everyone who matters.
Darius is going to be the next alpha. He has no business kissing me. No business spending a fortune on me. No business buying me a puppy like he has any right to know what would make me happy.
He gave me a home. Safety. Beauty. Everything I could want. Everything except the one thing I apparently need.
Him.
A knock sounds at the door.
I jump, the photo slipping from my fingers and fluttering to the floor.
Is it him? Did he come back?
I thought I still had an hour before my guests would arrive. An hour to transform from the girl who just kissed her stepbrother into someone capable of hosting a party.
But I guess I have to go answer the door. I press my eye to the peephole. Two women stand in the hallway.
It’s not Darius. Relief and disappointment war in my chest.
I glance down at myself. My shirt. His scent is all over it. I can smell the cedar and smoke and him, clinging to the fabric.
“Just a second,” I call out, my voice surprisingly steady.
I rush to my bedroom, yank off my clothes, and throw on a clean dress. Splash cold water on my face in the bathroom. Practice a smile in the mirror. It looks wrong. Feels wrong. But it’ll have to do.
When I return and open the door, I force the smile onto my face.
“Violet!” The taller of the two women beams at me. She’s striking, with dark, curly hair that falls past her shoulders, warm, brown eyes, and a smile that lights up her entire face. “I hope we’re not too early. Sarah mentioned the party starts at seven, but we thought we’d come now in case you needed help setting up.”
I blink at her, my brain still fuzzy, still trying to catch up to the present moment.
The shorter woman beside her laughs, the sound warm and genuine. She’s slender, with straight, brown hair and eyes that seem to see right through me. “I’m Anne,” she says, holding up a bottle of wine. “And this is Sienna. We work in your division, though we haven’t really had a chance to talk much.”
“I know who you are.”
I don’t mean for the words to sound so robotic, but I do know them. Sienna Carter, youngest chief strategic advisor in Moonvale Pack history. Anne Donaldson, who works in administration. I’ve seen them around the office, always together, always laughing like they’re sharing some secret joke.
