Chapter 6

I stood back, out of breath but with a triumphant smirk on my face, watching the last bubbles fizzle out in the lake behind my father’s mansion. It had taken a brutal, split-second leap to jump from the moving Stingray as it propelled straight into the water. Crashing into the hard dirt and jagged stones had scraped my skin to hell, but the pain was worth it.

The best part of it all? The lake wasn’t deep enough for the Stingray to disappear entirely. You could still see the red gleam of the roof from the bank. But the base of the lake was thick, suffocating clay mud, which had already swallowed the chassis and locked it in place. It would take a massive team, heavy machinery, and draining the entire lake to drag it out.

I knew this because it wasn’t the first car the water had eaten. After family parties and too much alcohol, the mud had claimed more than its fair share of metal.

Take that, shithead.

I dusted my hands off on my jeans and rounded the property toward the front gate. Every step sent a sharp ache through my bruised side, a small price to pay for totaling Jace’s pride and joy. He would come looking for it, and the moment he did, I’d tip off the staff to his whereabouts while banning him from the estate entirely. With the security cameras lining the grounds, I’d get to watch his full-on meltdown from the comfort of the monitors.

He was a textbook jock; his tantrums would no-doubt match.

Sticks and dry grass crunched beneath my shoes as I rounded the final corner, stopping short when I spotted a flashy, low-profile black sports car parked near the gates.

My brow furrowed. Dad only traveled in his armored limos, and for safety reasons he never specified, guests were strictly forbidden from parking inside the secure perimeter. It certainly didn’t belong to the staff; no one on his payroll could afford a machine like that.

The realization hit me with a wave of disgust. Oh, great. Another one.

Dad had a new girlfriend. Or a fiancée, considering the speed he cycled through women. He might even be married by now. The rotating door of mistresses were the only ones ever granted parking privileges.

With a dismissive sigh, I jammed my finger into the intercom button.

“Miss Cartwright, what a beautiful sight for sore eyes!” The voice of our butler, Harris—a short, scrawny, balding man—crackled through the speaker.

The heavy iron gates began to roll open. I offered a genuine smile to the security camera, waving slightly. “I missed you, Harris.”

It wasn’t a lie. He was the closest thing I had to a grandfather, and far more of a father figure than the Alpha who shared my blood.

“I shall have a bowl of Skittles and a Coke ready for you in the kitchen, yes?” he asked warmly.

“You know me too well,” I said, walking through the threshold. “But I’m afraid I’ll need something a lot stronger to drink today.”

A heavy silence stretched over the line. When Harris spoke again, his voice was dropped to a hushed, urgent whisper. “You are going to need a few bottles of tequila, Miss, if you know what awaits you inside.”

I froze on the driveway, the iron gates clanging shut behind me. “What do you mean?”

My mind immediately jumped back to the car. “Let me guess. He’s getting married again? Or is the new wife already filing for divorce because of a mistress?”

A sharp click cut me off. Harris had hung up. He never hung up on me—not unless my father was close enough to overhear.

“Just lovely,” I muttered, stalking toward the front steps.

Before I could reach the door, it swung open. Outside stepped a young woman dressed in a skimpy, tailored maid outfit. She looked right around my age, with a bust the size of watermelons. Naturally. It was exactly what my father required of the agency. I felt a familiar pang of pity for the girls; they needed the income, which meant tolerating a leering old mob boss who dropped constant, filthy comments about their bodies.

“Miss Cartwright, welcome home!” She flashed a rehearsed smile and held out a small gift wrapped in silver paper. “Your father couldn’t be here to welcome you himself. He is away on a business trip, but he wanted you to have this.”

“Oh.” My expression soured as I stared at the silver box. I forced my gaze up to meet hers before taking it. “Hi. I prefer to be called Elise.”

“Elise, of course.” She nodded quickly. “It’s a pleasure.”

“What’s your name?” I asked, tearing into the paper.

Her eyes went wide, a flash of panic crossing her face as if I’d asked something forbidden. To the Syndicate elite, the staff were nameless ghosts. But I wasn’t like my father. “You won’t get in trouble,” I added gently. “My dad knows I prefer to know who lives in our house.”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, though her smile remained cautious. “E-Elizabeth.”

“Do you actually go by that, or do you prefer Liz? Or Lizzie?”

The tension left her face, replaced by a softer, genuine expression. “Beth.”

“Beth. It’s nice to meet you. And thank you for this.”

I pulled the lid off the box. Beth took the crumpled wrapping paper from my hands, waiting while I looked inside. The small container held nothing but a folded piece of paper. My smile vanished, replaced by a hard scowl as I read the words aloud: Welcome home. We will talk when I get back. Stay out of trouble.

Beth’s smile evaporated. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I should have known.” I handed her the empty box, my blood simmering. “Thank you anyway, Beth.”

She offered a small nod and held the heavy mahogany front door open for me.

As soon as I crossed the threshold into the grand foyer, Harris half-ran toward me, wrapping his thin arms around me in a tight, protective hug. “Ah, Miss Cartwright.”

“Stop calling me that,” I murmured, hugging him back tightly. He had been our butler since I was in diapers, and despite my constant protests, I knew I’d never break his formal habits. But I still tried.

When he stepped back, his eyes scanned my face with an anxious sort of affection. “Your breakfast and snacks are waiting in the kitchen, Miss. I will have them sent up to your room once you are settled.”

“Thank you, Harris.” I glanced past his shoulder into the quiet depths of the mansion. “So, where is this woman?”

Harris went entirely rigid. Behind him, Beth spun on her heel and practically fled the foyer.

I blinked, the hairs on my arms standing up. “Harris?”

“There is no woman, Miss.”

“Then what is going on?” My pulse began to kick against my ribs, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of my neck. “Is someone from the gang here to chew me out?”

“No, Miss.”

“Harris,” I gritted, my voice dropping an octave as my inner wolf stirred, sensing his fear. “Tell me.”

“Miss, I feel you should see for yourself,” he muttered, shifting his weight uneasily. He looked toward the corridor, his voice dropping to a barely audible rasp. “I swore loyalty to your father when I took this job, but… you must watch your back, Miss. Never trust a wolf who runs outside a pack.”

My eyes widened in sheer disbelief. “A rogue? There is a rogue inside my house?”

Harris gave a single, tense nod toward the formal dining room. “Go have your breakfast, Miss. But do not touch anything currently sitting on the table. It may be spiked. The kitchen staff will bring your food directly to you.”

He turned and hurried away, leaving me alone in the center of the foyer. He hadn’t even commented on the fresh dirt on my jeans, the scratches painting my arms, or the wild state of my hair. But if there was a dangerous variable waiting in the dining room. Someone who apparently wished me harm.

I wasn’t going in there looking like a victim.

It took me exactly fifteen minutes to tear upstairs, change into a pair of fresh black jeans, and pull on a tight, clean white-lace top that hugged my curves. I brushed out my tangled hair, leaving it down to partially obscure the scratches on my neck. Taking a sharp, centering breath, I headed straight back downstairs to face the threat.

The moment I crossed the threshold into the formal dining room, my entire posture locked up. The air in the room was thick, heavy, and charged with an intense, suffocating energy that hit me like a punch to the stomach.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I hissed.

Hunter glanced up from a piece of bacon held lazily between his fingertips. He sat back in the heavy leather chair, his dark eyes sweeping over my new clothes with a cold, calculated intensity that made my skin flush hot. His expression was just as detached and unreadable as the night he had sold me out to the police.

But he wasn’t the one who answered.

“Oh look, the princess decided to grace us with her presence.”

My gaze snapped toward the mocking, low timber vibrating from the opposite side of the table. A tall, sprawling potted palm partially blocked the view of the far end, but I didn’t need to see his face to recognize that velvety, dangerous voice.

It was Darius freaking Monroe.

The Savage.