THE ALPHA'S COLD GLARE

Chapter Two

“Tell me why you have restricted pack-herbs in your chambers.”

Valen Vance didn't raise his voice. Somehow, that made the question worse.

Sylvie stood beside her dressing table, trying not to look at the evidence pouch in Captain Rourke's hand. The vial inside was small enough to fit between two fingers. It might as well have been a loaded weapon.

“I'm waiting,” Valen said.

“And I'm trying to understand why three armed men have invaded my bedroom over a bottle of something you haven't even identified.”

One of the guards shifted. Rourke's expression remained flat.

Valen's silver eyes narrowed. “You want to challenge my authority?”

“No.” Sylvie swallowed the instinctive panic rising in her throat. “I want to know what I'm being accused of before I answer.”

It was a reasonable response. Or at least, it sounded reasonable when delivered by a woman wearing silk and standing in a bedroom that probably cost more than Chloe's entire neighborhood.

Valen stepped farther into the room.

“Wolfsbane is restricted within the Blood Moon estate. Possession without authorization carries a penalty. Poisoning a pack member carries a much worse one.”

“I haven't poisoned anyone.”

“Then explaining the vial should be easy.”

Sylvie's mind raced.

In the original story, she had planned to use the wolfsbane against Lyra. She knew exactly what it was and why it was dangerous. Unfortunately, claiming ignorance would make her look suspicious, while admitting what it was would put her directly on the road to execution.

She needed a believable explanation that didn't involve murder.

Her gaze landed on the open bottle of lavender oil beside the mirror.

An idea struck.

“The vial contained an essential oil blend.”

Silence.

Rourke looked at the evidence pouch.

Valen looked at her.

Sylvie resisted the urge to cross her fingers behind her back.

“Essential oils,” Valen repeated.

“Yes. For stress.”

“Wolfsbane is an essential oil now?”

“Not the plant itself.” She forced a small, irritated laugh. “It's a preparation I was given. I didn't know it was restricted.”

That was the first lie.

The second came more easily.

“My sleep has been terrible lately. I've been trying different blends.”

Valen's expression suggested he considered sleep an unnecessary privilege.

“And you decided to experiment with an unidentified substance on the evening of a formal gathering?”

“When you put it that way, it sounds foolish.”

“It is foolish.”

“Then we agree on something.”

Rourke coughed into his fist.

Sylvie immediately regretted speaking.

Valen approached the dressing table. His gaze moved over the perfume bottles, the jewelry, and the half-open drawer where Sylvie's collection of humiliating love letters lay hidden.

He paused at the letters.

Her soul nearly left her body.

“Those are private,” she said quickly.

“I'm aware.”

His eyes returned to hers.

“Are they all addressed to me?”

Oh, hell.

The original Sylvie apparently hadn't believed in dignity, privacy, or postage limits.

“I'm not discussing my correspondence with you.”

“Interesting. You were quite willing to discuss your sleep.”

“Because you asked about the vial.”

“And now I'm asking about the letters.”

“Then I decline to answer.”

For one terrible second, Sylvie thought he'd order Rourke to read every letter aloud.

Instead, Valen turned back to the vial.

“Prove your explanation.”

She blinked. “What?”

“If it was an essential oil blend, demonstrate that you believed it safe enough to use.”

He extended his hand to Rourke.

The captain opened the evidence pouch and passed him the vial.

Sylvie's stomach dropped.

She had emptied the original contents down the drain. But the dark residue hadn't vanished completely, and she had no idea what remained inside the glass.

Valen held it toward her.

“Drink.”

Her mouth went dry.

In the novel, wolfsbane poisoning caused severe weakness and could disrupt a werewolf's ability to shift. She didn't know whether the residue was enough to hurt her, and she wasn't about to discover the answer with Valen watching.

“I didn't bring it here to drink,” she said.

“Then your explanation has a problem.”

“It's concentrated. Essential oils aren't generally meant to be swallowed.”

A pause.

For the first time, Valen looked faintly interested.

“Yet you said it was an essential oil blend.”

“For external use.”

“Convenient.”

“Would you prefer I apply it to my face? Because I suspect your guards would find that suspicious too.”

Rourke's mouth twitched.

Valen didn't smile.

Sylvie's fingers curled against her palm. She had to stop trying to win arguments with a man who could have her locked in a dungeon before breakfast.

“Give it to me,” she said.

Valen watched her closely as she took the vial.

She tipped a single drop onto her fingertip, touched it to her tongue, and immediately regretted every decision that had brought her into this room.

It tasted bitter, metallic, and absolutely nothing like lavender.

She fought the urge to spit.

“There,” she said, setting the vial down. “Satisfied?”

“No.”

Of course not.

Valen moved closer.

Sylvie's back met the edge of the dressing table. He was taller than she'd expected, broad-shouldered, and far too calm for someone who had just watched a woman voluntarily taste suspicious liquid.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

She did.

His gaze sharpened. Then he leaned down, bringing his face close to hers.

Sylvie stopped breathing.

He wasn't kissing her. He wasn't even considering it. He was studying her as if she were a problem he'd been given to solve.

Then he inhaled.

Once.

His nostrils flared slightly.

“You've changed your perfume.”

Sylvie stared at him.

That was not the accusation she had prepared for.

“Have I?”

“You usually smell like half a flower shop.”

The insult was so unexpected that she almost laughed.

“Perhaps I developed a headache.”

“Perhaps.”

His eyes remained fixed on hers.

“You're also unusually quiet tonight.”

“Would you prefer I scream?”

“I'd prefer the truth.”

There it was again. That unbearable certainty that he could pull honesty out of someone simply by staring at them long enough.

Sylvie forced herself to hold his gaze.

“The truth is that I wanted to sleep, I tried something I shouldn't have, and now I'm being interrogated in my own bedroom. If you want a confession to something more interesting, you'll have to find someone else.”

For several seconds, neither moved.

Then Valen straightened.

“You'll remain in your chambers tonight. Captain Rourke will escort you to the gathering tomorrow, where you will stay away from anything intended for another person's consumption.”

“That seems excessive.”

“Would you prefer a cell?”

“No.”

“Then don't test my patience.”

He turned toward the door.

Relief swept through her so abruptly that her knees nearly weakened.

She had survived.

Not gracefully, perhaps, but she had survived.

Valen stopped at the threshold.

“One more thing, Lady Sylvie.”

She stiffened.

“If I discover that you lied to me, the consequences will be considerably worse than a night under guard.”

“I understand.”

“Good.”

He left with Rourke and the other guards.

The door closed.

Sylvie stood motionless until the footsteps faded.

Then she grabbed the edge of the table and exhaled.

“I'm alive,” she whispered. “I'm actually alive.”

A knock came from the adjoining door.

She spun around.

A young maid entered carrying a tray, her eyes lowered.

“Lady Sylvie, the Alpha has arranged for you to have an escort at all times. Two guards will remain outside your chambers.”

“Fine.”

“And someone will accompany you whenever you leave the estate.”

Sylvie's relief evaporated.

“Someone?”

The maid nodded nervously. “The Alpha's personal scouts, my lady.”

Sylvie stared at her.

The elite scouts were the best trackers in the territory. They could follow a wolf through dense forest, recognize a disguised scent, and report a person's movements without being seen.

In the original novel, Valen used them to hunt down traitors.

Now they were watching her.

She hurried to the window and looked down into the courtyard.

A man stood beneath the archway, dressed in plain dark clothes. He appeared to be examining a saddle.

Then he looked directly up at her window.

Another figure moved near the garden wall.

A third waited beside the servants' entrance.

Sylvie stepped away from the glass.

Her first instinct had been to avoid Valen and disappear into the background.

Instead, she had attracted his attention before the first dinner had even begun.

She glanced at the vial on the dressing table.

Then at the door.

Her phone was gone. Her old life was gone. And the man who would eventually destroy Sylvie Vane had just assigned his most dangerous people to follow her every move.

She pressed both hands over her face.

“Wonderful,” she muttered. “I've been reincarnated into a murder mystery, and now the final boss has put me on a leash.”

Outside, the scout beneath her window touched two fingers to his ear.

“Target is inside,” he murmured. “Maintain visual contact.”

A voice crackled through the tiny receiver.

“Orders from Alpha Prime. Report everything she does.”

The scout looked up at Sylvie's window again.

“Everything?” he asked.

The answer came immediately.

“Everything.”