Page 29

When we hit the tree line just past the edge of town, everything changed. The pack territory spread out in front of us like something out of a magazine shoot for Rustic Gothic Estate Weekly. Fenced-in pastures. Rolling green hills. Impossibly manicured gardens. Gravel crunched under the tires as we wound up the drive, and then I saw it.

The mansion.

Three stories of stone wrapped in ivy and arrogance. Tall, arched windows that were framed in wrought iron gleamed like mirrors. Balconies lined the second and third floors, and towering oaks stood like sentinels along the perimeter. The front doors were double-wide and carved with wolves chasing each other in a circle.

“Okay, wow. This is… not what I was expecting.”

Roman chuckled. “It’s been in the pack for decades. Maybe a century. The outside’s been restored a few times, but the bones are original.”

“Original bones. Great. Love that for us.”

He pulled up to the front, and before I could reach for the door, a man in a fitted black vest stepped forward, opened it, and offered a hand I absolutely did not know how to accept.

Roman walked around the front of the car and held out his arm.

I hesitated just long enough to feel the awkward bloom in my chest. But then I remembered…this was a performance. A show of unity. We were pretending to be together, romantically.

So I looped my arm through his. He gave me a subtle squeeze, then we walked inside.

The place smelled expensive, like citrus and money and something spicy I couldn’t place. The marble floors were polished to a mirror shine, and the ceiling above us stretched so high it could host its own weather system. Crystal chandeliers glittered with a casual opulence that made my throat dry.

A woman in a sleek black suit appeared at our right, her posture so perfect it looked sculpted. “Good evening, Mr. Velasquez. Ms. James.”

I glanced sideways at Roman, raising an eyebrow.

“This is Heather,” he said. “One of Lucien’s personal assistants.”

Heather extended a perfectly manicured hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. James. Welcome.”

I shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, too.”

She gave me a polite smile. “Lucien is expecting you. He’s at the bar. Please follow me.”

As we walked through the house, I felt like I was stepping into a movie I hadn’t auditioned for. The hallways were long, with dark paneled wood and intricate crown molding. Massive paintings of wolves—some mid-shift, some full beast—lined the walls. There were alcoves with velvet seating, antique lamps glowing like fireflies, and doors I suspected led to rooms full of secrets I was not emotionally prepared for.

At the end of one hallway, Heather pressed a button, and sleek elevator doors slid open. We stepped inside, and I caught Roman watching me from the corner of his eye.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded, though my hands were clenched around my clutch, and I was pretty sure I’d forgotten how to blink.

The doors opened to a massive bar. Black marble floors. Dozens of flat-screen monitors playing everything from the news to shifter sports leagues I’d never heard of. The back wall was floor-to-ceiling shelves of liquor, bottles glowing under backlighting like stained glass in a chapel of chaos.

And somewhere in the middle of it all was Lucien.

But I hadn’t made it that far yet. I was still standing there, in a too-perfect skirt, beside a man I wasn’t actually dating, about to meet the alpha of a literal werewolf pack.

No pressure.

The click of my heels on the marble echoed just loud enough to make me regret every life choice that led to this moment. I tried to look calm, but my nerves were strung so tight I felt like one wrong glance would snap me in half. My stomach was doing that slow, nauseous roll it did right before dentist appointments and emotionally loaded conversations.

I followed Roman’s lead through the bar, but my eyes had already locked on the man sitting alone at the center. Tall. Chiseled jaw. Crystal tumbler in one hand, the other draped over the back of his barstool like it was a throne. His legs were crossed. Designer suit, silver cufflinks that probably cost more than my entire car.

“That has to be Lucien,” I whispered.

But before Roman could confirm or deny, there was movement behind him.

Another man stood, rising from a booth like a mirage made of muscle and drama. He was huge. Like, superhero-level. His platinum-blond hair was slicked back and held in place with a silky black headscarf. He wore more rings than a Bond villain, and his black shirt plunged down his chest with the kind of confidence I could only aspire to. His cologne hit the air before he did—citrus, sandalwood, and something that screamed kneel, peasant.