CHAPTER 3

“You aren't what I’d call a high-end vintage.”

Alejandro shoved Victor toward the glass desk, the movement jagged and cold. “Teo has a thing for strays, but I don’t eat garbage.”

Victor ripped his arm back, baring his teeth. “Don't we? I thought the Vargas twins shared everything. Or is the big bad Alpha suddenly picky about his meat?”

Alejandro stepped into Victor’s space, his scent—burnt pine and rain—crushing the air out of the room. “I don't touch trash. My brother might be obsessed with your scent for a week, but he’s flighty. He wants you for one reason, and it isn't your conversation.”

“Then why am I still here?” Victor’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm he hoped Alejandro couldn't smell. “If I’m so beneath you, throw me out.”

“I’m going to give you a better reason to run.” Alejandro’s hand clamped onto Victor’s wrist, ignoring the sharp hiss of protest. He dragged him through the penthouse to a room of white marble and cold gold. “Sit. Don't make me repeat it.”

Alejandro yanked a drawer open and slapped a thick stack of papers onto the desk.

“What’s this? Your grocery list?”

“Your death warrant if you break it.” Alejandro sank into the leather chair, eyes tracking the way Victor’s chest heaved. “Sign it.”

“I’m not signing anything until I read it.” Victor flipped the first page. “This is longer than a pack treaty. You really think I’m going to ink my life away in a bikini?”

“Read fast.” Alejandro leaned back, his shadow stretching long across the floor. “Once you leave this office, the offer is dead. Along with your protection.”

“This feels a lot like a threat, Vargas.”

“It’s a reality check. Do you want the Silver-Oak pack hunting you, or do you want to stay under my roof?”

Victor’s fingers tightened on the paper. He wasn't here for the luxury; he was here for the secrets buried in the Vargas history. He couldn't leave. He turned to the first document. Non-Disclosure Agreement.

“Sign the NDA first,” Alejandro commanded.

“Why? Planning on showing me where you hide the bodies?”

Alejandro didn't crack a smile. He rolled a gold pen across the glass. Victor snatched it, scrawled his name, and shoved it back. Alejandro tucked it into the drawer without a glance. Then Victor hit the second document.

This is a Bonding and Service Contract between the Property, hereafter referred to as 'The Subordinate,' and the Owners: Alejandro Vargas (Owner One) and Mateo Vargas (Owner Two)...

Victor looked up, a bitter laugh bubbling in his throat. “'The Property'? Are you serious?”

“I don't joke about ownership. If you don't like the terms, the elevator is behind you.”

Alejandro wanted him to bolt. It was written in the harsh set of his jaw. Victor turned back to the page, his eyes scanning the draconian lines:

By signing, the Subordinate grants total authority over his physical form to both Owners. This includes, but is not limited to, dietary restrictions(1), wardrobe mandates(2), and ritual sexual acts(3).

Victor skipped to the footnotes. His blood went cold.

(1) sexual Acts: The subordinate shall provide relief to both owners upon request, regardless of moon phase, time of day, or territory. This includes oral, primal, and penetrating sex. All encounters may be recorded for the private owner's archives.

It was madness. Total, absolute subjugation. No drugs, no outside contact, no fated mates. They were turning him into a ghost.

“Having second thoughts, dancer?” Alejandro’s voice was a low purr of triumph. He expected Victor to crumble. He expected him to beg for the door.

Victor sat up straighter, the gold trim of the chair digging into his bare skin. He met Alejandro’s predatory gaze with a look of pure iron. “Are you going to let me finish the fine print, or are you too busy celebrating a victory you haven't won yet?”

Alejandro’s eyebrows shot up. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his massive chest.

“Keep reading,” Alejandro muttered. “It only gets worse.”