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The Laws of the Pack
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2026-01-09 19:13:36I woke to the sound of a heartbeat that wasn’t my own.
It was a slow, heavy thrum that seemed to vibrate through the very mattress, a rhythmic pulsing that I felt in my own marrow. My eyes snapped open, the morning light filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the master suite, casting the room in a hazy, golden gloom. For a moment, I forgot. I reached out, my hand brushing against skin that felt like heated marble. Then, the memory of the night before crashed over me. The claws. The fangs. The terrifying, beautiful distortion of the man I had married. Girard lay beside me, propped up on one elbow. He was human again, but the air around him still crackled with that primal, predatory energy. His amber eyes were fixed on me, dark with a possessiveness that made my skin prickle. He was shirtless, the sheet draped low over his hips, revealing the corded muscles of a stomach that looked carved from stone. "You didn't scream when you woke up," he murmured, his voice a low, morning rasp. "That’s a start." "I’m too exhausted to scream," I whispered, pulling the silk sheet up to my chin. My body felt heavy, aching in places I didn’t know could ache. "What are you, Girard? Truly." He reached out, his hand tangling in my hair, pulling my head back just enough to expose my throat. His eyes dropped to the faint, red marks his teeth had left. "In your world, I am a businessman. A Don. In mine, I am the Alpha of the Roux Pack. A Loup de Sang. The blood of the first wolves runs through these veins, Arielle. It’s why your father feared me. And it’s why he sold you to me." "He sold me because he’s a coward," I snapped, trying to pull away. Girard’s grip tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me of the sheer power he held. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "He sold you because he knew my blood was reaching its boiling point. He knew that without a mate to ground me, I would eventually burn his entire Syndicate to the ground. You are my tether, Arielle. My biological anchor." He slid his hand down to the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. The heat radiating off him was intoxicating, a drug that my body was already beginning to crave. Despite the fear, I felt my pulse jump, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Rules, Arielle," he whispered, his hand sliding lower, a slow, deliberate claim. "Rule one: You do not leave this estate without me. Rule two: You do not speak to the other males of the pack unless I am present. Rule three..." He paused, his eyes flashing a sudden, brilliant gold. He flipped me over with a fluid, feline grace, pinning me beneath him. He was heavy, a solid weight that made me gasp. "Rule three: You are mine. Every inch of skin, every breath, every thought. If I find another man's scent on you, I won't just kill him. I will make you watch." "You're a monster," I breathed, my fingers digging into his shoulders. "I am," he agreed, his mouth dropping to the crook of my neck. "And you are the monster’s wife. It’s time you learned what that means." He didn't kiss me. He nipped at the sensitive skin of my shoulder, a sharp sting that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity through my nervous system. I arched my back, a traitorous moan escaping my lips. The bond was waking up. And it was hungry.
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Bait for the devil 24. The Rising Sun
The story of my life had begun in a basement, surrounded by the cold smell of damp concrete and the terrifying realization that my father had sold my soul for a patch of territory. But as I stood on the balcony of the North Tower, watching the sun begin to bleed over the Mediterranean, I realized that the story hadn’t ended in tragedy. It had transformed into a legend. The North Tower was no longer a place of screams and silver chains. We had gutted the torture chambers, replaced the stone basins with libraries of ancient lore, and turned the cold, spiraling staircase into a gallery of Roux history. It was no longer a cage for the “Devil”; it was a sanctuary for the Alpha. I held a bundle of soft, cream-colored wool in my arms. Inside, tucked away from the cool morning breeze, was a tiny, sleeping miracle. My daughter. She had been born three weeks ago, during the first snowfall Marseille had seen in a decade. She had my dark hair and the delicate features of a Monet, but when
Bait for the devil The Solstice Shadow
Three months had passed since the Moot, and Marseille had transformed. The estate was no longer a fortress under siege; it was the seat of a new supernatural power. I sat in the grand library, surrounded by the ancient scrolls of the Roux lineage and the digital files of the Monet Syndicate. I had become the pack’s primary strategist, using my human education and my father’s data to secure our borders and our bank accounts. But today, I wasn’t looking at ledgers. I was looking at a single image on my laptop—a photo taken by a drone in the Swiss Alps. It showed a sterile, black facility built into the side of a mountain. “The Solstice Group,” I whispered to the empty room. The door opened, and Girard walked in, carrying a tray of coffee. He looked relaxed, his shirt unbuttoned, the Alpha’s crown sitting lightly on his head. But as he saw the screen, his expression darkened. “Bastien found the coordinates?” he asked, setting the tray down. “They’re not just a sha
Bait for the devil 22. The Aftermath of Fire
The master suite felt different that night. The fireplace was roaring, casting long, dancing shadows across the velvet curtains and the mahogany furniture. For the first time since I had been traded to this house, the air didn’t feel heavy with secrets. It felt light. It felt like victory. I stood on the balcony, the cool Mediterranean breeze pulling at my silk robe. Below, the fires of the pack were still burning, the sounds of celebration echoing up from the olive groves. They were singing ancient songs, melodies of blood and moon that I finally understood. Girard stepped out behind me. He had showered, his skin smelling of cedar and the expensive soap I liked. He didn’t speak; he just wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me back into the furnace of his heat. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his stubble grazing my skin. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rumble. “You could have been lost in that void, Arielle.”
Bait for the devil 21. The seven minutes of hell
The attack wasn’t physical. It was as if the air had turned into liquid lead, pouring into my ears and eyes. The Seven—the pack’s most ancient shifters—didn’t move. They simply stared. Through the Lien de Sang, I felt a sudden, violent surge of images that weren’t mine. I saw the cellar where I was first held. I heard my father’s voice, cold and mocking, telling me I was nothing but bait. I felt the sting of the silver harpoon in the North Tower. They were using my own memories against me, trying to find the crack in my soul where my humanity would break. “You are a toy,” a voice hissed in my brain. Soline? Or the pack’s collective unconscious? “A human parasite clinging to a god. He will grow tired of you. He will find a female of his own kind, and you will be discarded like a broken doll.” I fell to one knee, the stone of the amphitheater biting into my skin. My vision was blurring, the glowing eyes of the pack swirling into a dizzying vortex of gold. I could feel Gi
Bait for the devil 20. The judgement of the moon
The descent from the private jet into the cool, salt-heavy air of Marseille felt like stepping into the mouth of a waiting beast. We didn’t head for the limestone arches of the estate. We didn’t head for the safety of our bedroom. The black SUVs sped toward the northern cliffs, where the ancient amphitheater sat—a natural scar in the earth where the Roux pack had judged its own for five centuries. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs as I stepped out of the car. The night was oppressive. Above us, the moon was a bloated, silver eye, watching. Hundreds of pack members stood on the surrounding ridges, their human forms motionless, but their eyes—those glowing embers of amber and gold—betrayed their hunger. They weren’t just here to witness; they were here to see if their Alpha was still the Apex, or if he was finally prey. “Stay close,” Girard murmured. He had shed his ruined suit jacket, standing now in a black silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Even in the dim lig
Bait for the devil 19. The Silent Island
The hum of the private jet’s engines was a low, vibrating drone that seemed to pulse in time with the headache throbbing behind my eyes. I sat in the oversized leather captain’s chair, staring out the window at the French coastline as it blurred into a smear of indigo and charcoal. We were flying low, skimming the edge of the Mediterranean, avoiding the radar of the remnants of the Moretti family and whatever was left of my father’s fractured Syndicate. Across the aisle, Girard was a statue of obsidian and repressed violence. He hadn’t changed out of the suit he’d worn in the Monaco lab, though it was ruined—the silk of the lapel was scorched, and there were faint, dried splatters of purple ichor on his cuffs. He was staring at his own reflection in the darkened window, his jaw so tight I could see the muscles jumping in his cheek. Through the Lien de Sang, the connection between us was a raw, frayed wire. I didn’t just see him; I felt the absolute, crushing weight of his
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