CHAPTER 6

"You won't be wearing any," Mateo growled.

The sheer dominance in his tone made the air in the kitchen feel heavy, charged with the scent of pine and raw power. I was too stunned by the sudden violence of the act to protest, my breath hitching as I realized the internal rules of this pack were far more literal than I’d imagined.

"Eat," Mateo commanded, stuffing the shredded black cotton into his pocket as if it were a trophy. "I ordered the full spread since I didn't know your palate."

I climbed down from the marble, my skin buzzing where the cold stone had met my bare thighs. I grabbed a croissant and a strip of thick-cut bacon, mirroring the exact breakfast Alejandro had taken earlier. Mateo watched me, his dark eyes tracking every movement of my jaw. We finished in a silence that felt like a countdown.

"Where are we going?" I asked as I slid into the passenger seat of the Black Jaguar XF.

"Surprises are the soul of the hunt, Victor. Just sit back."

---

The "surprise" was a grueling tour of the Vargas Nightclubs. We hit every neon-lit den in the city—The Shadow, The Crystal Stage, Club Venom. At each stop, Mateo performed a five-minute ritual. I stayed in the car, watching through the tinted glass as high-ranking pack enforcers met him at the back entrances.

At the third stop, he emerged from the alley carrying a heavy duffel bag that smelled faintly of silver and ozone. He tossed it into the trunk without a word. By the time we cleared the city limits, heading toward the private airfield, my nerves were frayed into jagged wires.

"Are you going to bury me in the woods?" I asked after an hour of silence.

Mateo didn't look away from the road, but his grin was razor-sharp. "I’m not wasting a prime omega in the dirt, Victor. Relax. Your heart is racing so loud I can hear it over the engine."

I forced my hands to let go of the leather seat. "What do you want from me, Mateo?"

"Interests," he said, shifting gears. "What do you actually like? Aside from dancing in a glass box for Alphas with too much money."

"I like the theater," I muttered, caught off guard by the normalcy of the question. "The big touring shows. The repetition is... stable."

He nodded, absorbing the information like a scout mapping new territory. "And dates? What's the ideal scenario for a guy like you?"

"I wouldn't know. My history is mostly dive bars and one-night stands."

"Lie to me again, and I'll pull the car over," Mateo warned, his voice dropping an octave. "I hate being lied to more than I hate losing territory."

I swallowed hard. "Fine. A walk on the Lake Tahoe shore. A quiet dinner where no one is trying to kill anyone. The boring stuff."

"Boring," he echoed, sounding almost disappointed. "We'll see about that."

The mystery deepened when we pulled into Private Hangar 7. A Vargas Gulfstream Jet sat idling on the tarmac, its engines a low whine that vibrated in my teeth. We were airborne within twenty minutes.

---

The jet touched down in the Chicago nightlife district as the sun dipped below the skyline. A car whisked us straight to the Grand Chicago Ballroom.

"Your first mission," Mateo said, taking my hand as we stepped out onto the curb.

"Should I have brought a weapon?"

He chuckled, a dark, melodic sound. "Rico said you were too sharp for your own good. We're attending a wedding. An old friend is tying the knot, and the whole council will be watching."

The ballroom had been transformed into a Resplendent Forest. It was a werewolf’s fever dream—ethereal trees, moss-covered tables, and the heavy, intoxicating scent of hundreds of shifters in one room. As we entered, a man with teeth too white and a tan too deep practically sprinted toward us.

"Mateo!" Dalton yelled, throwing his arms around him. He leaned in, whispering loud enough for my enhanced ears to catch: "The betting pool is in shambles. No one thought you'd show."

"A Vargas never misses a blood-vow celebration," Mateo replied, his gaze flickering toward the head table. I followed his eyes. The bride sat there, an Icy Beauty in white lace. When she caught Mateo’s eye, she looked away so fast it was like a physical blow.

"And you've brought a stray," Dalton said, his eyes flashing as he scanned me. "Does he have a name?"

Mateo gripped my hand, his fingers lacing through mine with possessive strength. "Dalton, meet my fiancé, Victor Cruz."

Dalton choked. I nearly did the same. I looked at Mateo, searching for the punchline, but his face was a mask of Alpha calm.

"Engaged?" Dalton stammered. "Since when?"

"A few nights ago," Mateo said with a casual shrug. "He swept me off my feet. It was fated."

Dalton led us to a table where the air was thick with the scent of high-society wolves. Two men, Tyler Brooks and Marcus Stone, immediately exchanged a hundred-dollar bill.

"We heard you were coming alone, Teo," a woman named Vanessa Clarke said, her eyes narrowed at me. "You rarely bring your playthings to pack functions."

"He's not a plaything, Vanessa," Dalton interjected, his voice trembling with the weight of the gossip. "He's the fiancé."

The table went silent. Mateo sat down, pulling my chair out with a mock gallantry that made my skin crawl. He introduced the group—Luke, Beal, Chip, and Ava—all while spinning an elaborate web of lies. In his version of the story, I was a high-end concierge he’d met a year ago. He’d crafted a history for us while I was sleeping, using my earlier answers about theater and quiet dates to build a believable shell.

"You could have warned me," I hissed under my breath once the others started arguing about the bar tab. "A fiancé? Really?"

"It’s a strategic play," Mateo murmured, leaning close so his breath hot-hunted my neck. "You can handle the role, can't you?"

"There’s a massive gap between a 'Property' contract and a wedding ring, Mateo!"

Before he could answer, the bride floated toward our table. Maeve Bennett was a goddess of the pack, her movements fluid and intimidating. As she approached, Mateo’s entire scent profile shifted—the smell of yearning and bitter envy rolled off him in waves.

He wasn't just here for a wedding. He was here to watch the woman he loved give herself to another man.

I instinctively reached out and squeezed his hand. Not for the act, but because the raw pain coming off him was a scent I knew all too well.

"Maeve," Mateo said, standing up. "You look lethal."

The groom trailed behind her—a shorter, unremarkable wolf named Connor. He looked like a cub compared to the power radiating from Mateo and Maeve. Connor was quickly swept away by other guests, leaving the three of us in a pocket of suffocating tension.