He follows me over the edge, groaning into my neck as his release spills deep inside me. Our bodies convulse together, teeth and claws and sweat and heat until there’s nothing left but trembling exhaustion.
When it’s over, when the frenzy fades, I expect him to roll away, to put distance between us. Instead, he stays. His chest heaves against mine, his arms wrap tight around me, and he holds me like he never wants to let go.
Gods help me, I’m glad. I don’t want to move either.
This isn’t love, I remind myself again. Just survival. Just two predators finding comfort in the dark.
But the steady beat of his heart under my cheek feels dangerously like something more.
26
MARCUS
The trip to France to give the coven a heads-up about Maximillian starts with a knot in my gut. It shouldn’t, because my company does this for other people all the time. But it’s one thing doing it for clients, another under these circumstances. I booked everything under a fake name through my company, forged documents, and ensured there would be no direct flights to the coven because that would be too risky. We’ll land hours away, then take a hired car the rest of the way. On paper, everything should run smoothly, and yet the weight of responsibility presses down on me like a boulder. I’ll only breathe easy once this is all over. Once we’ve done all we can to warn the coven and have stopped Maximillian before he can burn the world down.
I glance at Esmerelda as she wheels her designer suitcase behind her, ponytail pulled through the opening of her cap. From the outside, she looks casual—yoga pants, a fitted T-shirt, pristine sneakers—but I can read her like a book. The set of her shoulders is too rigid, her jaw too tight. And those oversized sunglasses? They’re not for style. They’re hiding the dark circles I saw under her eyes this morning. Proof she didn’t sleep any better than I did.
After last night—after sex that still hums through my body if I think about it too long—neither of us could settle. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to her heartbeat thundering next to me. Too fast, too alive. I’d bet anything her thoughts were running wild, same as mine.
Mine wouldn’t stop. I kept circling back to the same questions, the same truths I don’t want to face. Is this intensity I feel for her, the pressure in my chest, the rumbling in my gut, just the instinct of an alpha who can’t let his pack come to harm? Or is it more than that? Something I’m not ready to admit out loud?
I tell myself it’s duty, that I’d feel the same if it were Leonard or Minerva. But I know that’s a lie. The thought of Esmerelda being in danger does something to me I can’t name. It makes me reckless. Feral. Last night proved that much. And now, standing here in this airport, responsibility clawing at me from every angle, the truth presses in harder than ever.
I’m not ready to face it. Not yet.
The airport feels overwhelming, tense. Too many eyes, too many ears. We’re escorted toward a private runway, guards shadowing us like ghosts and my wolf prowls under my skin, claws itching, ready to spring at the first sign of trouble.
And then trouble walks right past us.
A group of six moves through, their strides raise my awareness. They look too casual, too rehearsed. One of them hands over papers and says, “Marcus Benyamina. Party of six.”
My gut twists. Hearing my own name being claimed by a stranger feels like a violation. Wait. It is a fucking violation. Esmerelda’s head snaps toward me, eyes flashing beneath her sunglasses. Minerva stiffens, muttering a curse under her breath. Leonard shifts his stance, already sizing them up like he’s calculating how fast he can take two down before the third reaches for a weapon.
Esmerelda blinks. My stomach twists. “That’s?—”
“Not us,” Belvedere cuts in smoothly before I can even draw breath. I wait for the attendant to notice, to frown, to stop the passengers. If they look suspicious to me, surely they look the same to staff trained to sniff out trouble. But no—the woman just stamps the papers and turns her attention to Belvedere like nothing’s wrong.
Shock fogs my brain, my mouth opening, ready to protest—but Belvedere slides a hand to the small of my back, the subtle pressure a silent command: calm down. Calm down? What the hell is going on? My instincts scream to call out the impostors, to bare my teeth and demand justice. But against every shred of sense in me, I don’t. I hold my tongue. Because as much as it kills me, I trust Belvedere.
He produces a different set of reservation papers as though they’d been waiting in his sleeve all along. “My deepest apologies, darlings. We had a very late night and woke up with the wrong file in the wrong briefcase. Happens all the time.” His laugh is smooth, his bow a performance polished by centuries.
The attendant takes the papers, brows knitting. For a beat too long, silence drags. My stomach knots. She flicks her gaze between the papers and our faces, lips pursing like they’re about to ask another question. My throat dries. It doesn’t make sense to me that the real impostors got waved through without a moment’s glance, yet she’s surveying our paperwork as though we’re the criminals.
But then Belvedere leans in just enough, lowering his voice conspiratorially, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You know how it is,” he says with a wink. “Too much wine, not enough sleep.”
The tension splinters. The attendant exhales a short laugh, shaking her head as if amused against her better judgment. She stamps the corner of the papers, hands them back, and waves us through with a clipped nod.
The knot in my chest loosens, but my jaw tightens slightly.
That was too easy. I don’t like it, but I force my feet to keep moving. Every step feels like it’s one step closer to exposure. Esmerelda’s lips part, outrage flashing in her eyes, but just like Belvedere did to me, I press my hand to the small of her back as a warning. Not here. Not now.
Minerva mutters under her breath, sharp enough for only me to catch, “This stinks.”
Leonard’s nostrils flare like he’s scenting the air for a fight.
Serafina stares at her nails, looking like she’s inspecting her manicure but I can feel her tension.
We walk on, the polished floor echoing under our steps, the fake “Marcus Benyamina” and his party disappearing behind us. My wolf rages under my skin, claws itching to rip through my forced, calm façade.
