His Wildest Desire: 90 days with the sexy billionaire

Prologue — Twenty Years Ago

"Give her to me."

Lirien doesn't look back.

She can't. Looking back means seeing the hall, and seeing the hall means seeing Cedric, and if she sees Cedric she will stop running. She knows this about herself with the cold certainty of someone who has already made the calculation and cannot afford to make it again. So she keeps her eyes on the treeline and her arms tight around the infant pressed against her chest and she runs.

Her wolf runs with her. Silver and desperate and saying the same thing over and over in the way wolves do — not words, not exactly, but the shape of words, the direction of them: this way. this way. this way.

She follows.

Behind her, the Ashvale pack hall is burning.

She doesn't look back.

"Give her to me," Seraphine had said, two months ago, in the voice she used when she wanted something badly enough to pretend she wasn't asking. They were standing in the Ashvale courtyard, late afternoon, and Seraphine had her hands folded in front of her and her eyes on the infant in Lirien's arms. "You know what she is. You know what's coming. Let me take her somewhere safe. Somewhere they won't look."

"Somewhere you control," Lirien had said.

Seraphine's expression hadn't changed. It never changed — that was the thing about her, the thing Lirien had learned too late. She wore patience like a mask over something else entirely. "I'm trying to help you."

"No," Lirien had said. "You're trying to own her."

She'd walked away. Cedric had told her she was being paranoid. The coven was an ally, he said. Seraphine had resources, connections, and a network that stretched across all six territories. What did they have? One pack. One bloodline. One infant daughter with silver in her veins and violet eyes and every mark of the True Alpha blood that the founders had spent centuries trying to preserve.

Cedric had said: we need allies.

Lirien had said: not that one.

Cedric had said: you worry too much.

Cedric had been wrong.

The treeline is forty feet away. Thirty. Twenty.

Her wolf is guiding her — has been guiding her since the moment the first torch went up, since the moment Lirien felt the wrongness move through the pack bond like a crack through ice, spreading fast and cold and final. Her wolf had said now and Lirien had grabbed the infant from her crib without waking her and run.

She hadn't looked for Cedric.

She hates herself for that.

She will hate herself for that for the rest of her life, however long or short that turns out to be, and she has made her peace with it in the forty seconds since she made the decision because there was no other decision to make. The baby is the bloodline. The bloodline is what they came for. The baby has to survive.

Everything else is secondary.

Everything.

Ten feet.

Five.

She hits the treeline and the dark closes around her and she keeps running.

She runs for an hour before she lets herself stop.

A clearing, small and moonlit, far enough from the pack territory that she can't hear the fire anymore. She sinks to her knees. The infant is still asleep — somehow, impossibly, still asleep — her small face pressed against Lirien's shoulder and her breath warm and even and completely unaware of the fact that the world she was born into no longer exists.

Lirien sits in the dark and breathes.

Her wolf sits with her. Not speaking now. Just — present. The way wolves are present when there's nothing left to say and everything left to do.

"I know," Lirien says aloud. To no one. To herself. To her wolf. "I know."

She looks at her daughter's face.

The silver-white hair. The violet eyes, closed now, lashes dark against pale cheeks. The marks of the Ashvale bloodline were written into her before she could speak, before she could choose, before she could understand what it would cost her to carry them.

Seraphine will look for her.

Seraphine will look for them both, but she will look hardest for this one — for the infant, for the bloodline, for the thing she tried to own and couldn't. She will send people. She will be patient. She will have all the time in the world, because that is what Seraphine has always had and used better than anyone Lirien has ever known.

Which means Lirien has one option.

She presses her hand flat against her daughter's chest. The infant stirs slightly — a small sound, not quite waking — and then stills.

"I'm sorry," Lirien says. "I'm sorry. This is going to hurt us both and I need you to know that I know that."

Her wolf makes a sound that is not quite a protest.

"I know," Lirien says. "I know."

The oldest dark working she knows — her grandmother's working, learned in a winter when the Ashvale pack nearly broke, kept as a last resort, never used. A cage. Not cruel. Not permanent. Just — a door, closed gently, from the outside. Enough to hide what she is. Enough to make her look like nothing. Enough to keep Seraphine from finding her until she is strong enough to survive being found.

She says the words.

The hex settles into her daughter's chest like a held breath.

Lirien feels it close — something silver and sleeping, tucked away, waiting. Her daughter's wolf, caged before she ever knew she had one.

"When you're ready," Lirien says quietly. "It will break when you're ready. I promise."

She sits in the clearing for a long time after that. Then she stands.

She leaves her daughter at the Voss pack border just before dawn. She watches from the treeline as they find her. She watches until the door closes.

Then she disappears.

She has work to do.

Twenty years of it.

She can be patient too.