Bought by the Feral Billionaire

The liquid silver burnt like liquid fire on Clara’s exposed skin.

Her knuckles became stark white as she clutched the edges of the marble vanity in the luxury dressing room of The Velvet Den. A low, agonised whimper boiled up in her throat, but she clamped her teeth together and forced it down. Tears threatened to spring from the corners of her eyes, threatening to destroy her painstakingly applied smoky eyeshadow.

Her voice trembled as she spoke to her reflection, “Just a few more drops.”

Her fingers shook as she tipped the small glass vial over her collarbones. The clear liquid hissed a little when it hit her skin. It was a black-market scent-suppressant, strongly silver-laced. To the average human, it was like a soft scent. To a werewolf, it was just pain. The silver ate at her inherent biological signature, dissolving her smell until she was nothing but pricey vanilla and artificial roses.

It was the one thing that kept her going.

If any member of a nearby pack caught a rogue woman-wolf skulking in human territory without an Alpha’s permission, she would be chased down and shot immediately. Even worse, her twelve-year-old brother, Toby, would be left all alone. Toby was hooked up to life-support machinery in a secure, specialised human medical facility. The price to keep him stable was exorbitant, and no average employment could ever cover the amount.

That's how Roxy became Clara Lane.

Clara moved her weight, running a hand down the fabric of her garment. The club management had dressed her tonight in a custom-tailored emerald-green silk gown. It adhered to every curve of her like a second skin, dipping low at the back to reveal the smooth expanse of her spine. It was classy but very tempting, designed to attract the notice of the wealthy men that visited the VIP lounges.

A harsh rap on the door of the dressing room disrupted the calm. 'Roxy? “You’re on,” the faint voice of the floor manager yelled out. The client in VIP Suite One just arrived. He’s the biggest fish we have client we’ve had herehim waiting.

Clara swallowed hard, the burn in her neck sinking down to a dull, throbbing ache. She took a deep, calming breath, trying to slow the wild, frenetic beating of her inner wolf. And another night, she said to herself. Just smile, let them pour the champagne, and pick up the bill. She opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit, sumptuous hallway of the club. The air was saturated with the aroma of fine cigars, expensive spirits and the subtle, tantalising musk of human yearning. The Velvet Den was a playground for millionaires who thought their money could buy anything. And today she was the prize.

As she neared the huge mahogany doors of VIP Suite One, a weird feeling abruptly seized her. The hairs on the back of her neck raised. Her inner wolf, normally quieted by the silver suppressant, started to claw at the walls of her consciousness. It wasn't dread she felt. It was an electric draw, so strong it made her blood heat.

Clara stopped, her hand lingering over the gold doorknob. The air surrounding the entryway was dense with a suffocating pressure, making it almost impossible to breathe. It was an atmosphere. A monstrous force of supernatural terror and atmosphere loomed.

Inside...there's a werewolf, her mind shouted.

Panic caught in her chest. She wanted to turn and go, wanted to bolt from the club and never look back. But flashes of Toby’s pallid hospital bed visage crossed her mind. She couldn’t leave. If she lost this job, Toby would be dead.

Clara took a breath, then turned the knob and opened the door.

The VIP apartment was spacious with black velvet couches, low crystal chandeliers and a private bar. On the left were two elderly men in well-tailored clothes, drinking and laughing heartily, glasses of scotch in their hands. But Clara didn’t look at them long. Her eyes were at once, magnetically, drawn to the man sitting alone in the middle of the room.

Dominic Vance.

He sat there with the look of absolute, despotic authority. Broad shoulders filled out a charcoal tailored suit, dark hair was neatly styled, and his jawline was sharp enough to cut glass. He said nothing. He sat with an air of utter detachment, brilliant, piercing grey eyes looking down into a crystal tumbler of whisky.

Clara walked into the room, and the temperature plummeted.

Dominic lifted his head.

A real physical tremor passed through Clara’s chest at the sight of his grey eyes. It was as if a bolt of lightning had struck her spine, sending an instant, searing fire deep inside her core. She caught her breath. The smell-suppressing chemicals on her skin suddenly felt utterly impotent against the pure, overpowering force that radiated from him.

Dominic stiffened. His nostrils expanded as he took a deep breath, beyond the heavy smell of booze and smoke in the room. His pupils dilated till his eyes were practically black, drinking the grey.

Clara’s heart pounded in her ribs like a bird in a cage. She could sense his strength, which was crushing, primitive, and very intoxicating. He was more than a wolf. He was the Alpha. And not just any alpha; he was an alpha king.

Dominic rose slowly from the leather couch, his huge, powerful body looming over all the other people in the room. His business associates were in a complete hush, which was a testament to his terrible status. His eyes never left Clara, tracking the line of her neck, the rise and fall of her breasts, and the tremor of her hands.

A low deep growl rumbled in the depths of his chest, a frequency only another werewolf would be able to hear. A delightful, terrible tingle went straight up between Clara's thighs.

He took a cautious, purposeful stride toward her, his alpha aura extending and anchoring her to the floor. Clara was unable to move. She couldn't even shut her eyes.

Dominic halted within inches of her. The dizzying aroma of cedarwood and dark chocolate and rain flooded over her senses, and her head spun with immediate, unabashed hunger. He bent down, hot breath skimming the tender skin of her ear, just above the blazing silver suppressor.

"Who the hell are you?" Dominic growled, a gravelly, possessive command that made her inner wolf want to drop to its knees.

The heat pooled in her lower abdomen, heavy, and Clara forced herself to meet his eyes, striving to keep her human guise. "Sir, I'm Roxy. Your amusement for the night."

There was a dangerous, golden flame in Dominic’s eyes. His massive warm hand reached out and curled tightly around her small waist and pulled her hard into his chest.

"You lie," Dominic murmured against her lips, his fingers digging into a delicious bruise. And I'm going to find out what exactly you're hiding.