CHAPTER 7

"You're marking me," Victor whispered.

The air in the cramped medical suite at the Grand Chicago Ballroom was thick with the heavy, musk-laden scent of an Alpha who had just claimed his territory. Mateo didn't answer with words. He remained on his knees between Victor's splayed legs, his fingers slick as he massaged his own spent essence into the pale skin of Victor's thighs and chest.

"I'm making sure the message is clear," Mateo growled, his voice a low vibration that made Victor’s still-sensitive core twitch. "Every wolf in that ballroom has a nose. When you walk back in, they won't smell a dancer. They’ll smell me."

Victor’s breath hitched. The cooling fluid felt like a brand. He looked down at Mateo’s dark head, the brutal contrast of the Alpha's power bowed before him, yet entirely in control.

"Dress," Mateo commanded, standing up and wiping his hands on a silk handkerchief. "We have a wedding to finish."

---

The transition from the sterile, quiet room back into the thrumming heat of the Resplendent Forest was a sensory assault. The music had shifted to something more primal, the drums echoing the heartbeat of the pack.

As they re-entered, the atmosphere changed instantly. It wasn't just the eyes on them anymore; it was the nostrils. Conversations died as they passed. Tyler Brooks dropped his drink. Marcus Stone’s head snapped up, his pupils blowing wide as the scent hit him.

It was the smell of a claim. Total and undisputed.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Ava," Mateo said, sliding back into his seat and pulling Victor close to his side.

Ava Vanessa Clarke didn't respond. She was staring at Victor’s throat, where the scent was strongest. "You... you actually did it."

"I told you," Mateo replied, grabbing a glass of dark wine. "He's mine. I don't share."

Victor sat stiffly, the drying slick on his skin under the suit acting like a second, tighter layer of clothing. He felt the weight of every gaze, the predatory curiosity of the pack now replaced by a wary respect. He wasn't just a guest; he was a Vargas Alpha's chosen mate.

Across the room, the bride’s eyes found them. Maeve Bennett’s face paled. She didn't look at Mateo this time. She looked at Victor. The ice in her expression shattered, replaced by a raw, jagged realization. The man she had rejected, the Alpha she thought she could keep on a leash, had found a replacement that smelled more of him than she ever had.

"She's coming over," Victor murmured, his hand tightening on Mateo’s arm.

"Let her," Mateo said, his voice lethal.

Maeve approached, her white lace gown trailing like a shroud. Connor, the groom, was nowhere to be seen. She stopped at the edge of their table, her gaze fixed on the faint, damp sheen on Victor’s collarbone that the suit couldn't quite hide.

"Mateo," she breathed. "A word. Privately."

"Everything I have to say can be said in front of my fiancé," Mateo replied. He didn't even look up from his wine. "Unless you’re here to apologize for the seating arrangements."

"You're being cruel," she hissed.

"No, Maeve. I'm being thorough." Mateo finally turned his head, his eyes glowing a faint, dangerous amber. "Go back to your husband. He’s looking for you. And he smells like he’s about to piss himself from the stress."

Maeve flinched as if he’d slapped her. She turned her glare toward Victor. "You have no idea what you've walked into, dancer. The Vargas pack doesn't keep pets. They consume them."

"I'm not a pet," Victor said, his voice surprisingly steady. He leaned into Mateo’s heat, letting the Alpha’s scent wrap around him like armor. "I'm the one who stayed when you ran."

The silence at the table was absolute. Maeve’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. She turned on her heel and vanished into the crowd.

"That," Mateo whispered, his hand sliding to the small of Victor’s back, "was the right answer."

---

The flight back to the Private Hangar 7 was a blur of exhaustion and adrenaline. By the time the Vargas Gulfstream Jet touched down in Vegas, the sun was beginning to bleed over the desert horizon.

"Go to the Las Vegas Penthouse Loft," Mateo told Victor as they stepped onto the tarmac. "I have to meet Ricardo at the Vargas Grand Casino. There’s an issue with the Diamond Crown Jewelry shipment."

"Is it Dragunov?" Victor asked.

Mateo’s jaw tightened. "It’s always Dragunov. Carlos will drive you. Stay inside. Don't shift, don't leave, and for the love of the Moon, don't put on any underwear."

Victor watched the Black Jaguar XF disappear into the distance before climbing into the SUV with Carlos Vega. The drive was silent until they reached the penthouse.

"Mr. Cruz," Carlos said as they stepped into the elevator. "The Alpha Santiago called. He wants a report on the wedding."

"Tell him it was lovely," Victor said dryly.

The elevator doors opened, but Victor didn't step out. Standing in the center of the living room was a man he hadn't seen since the "Choosing" ceremony.

Alejandro Vargas.

He wasn't wearing a suit. He was in tactical gear, a heavy silver-edged blade strapped to his thigh. He looked like he had just come from a slaughter. His eyes moved over Victor, his nose twitching as he caught the fading scent of his brother.

"You smell like a kennel," Alejandro rasped.

"Your brother has a territory marking problem," Victor shot back, stepping into the room. "What are you doing here, Alex? I thought you were in Chicago dealing with the legal side."

"The legal side involves putting a bullet in a courier who tried to steal from the Castillo Research Lab," Alejandro said, stepping closer. He invaded Victor’s space, his own scent—harsh, cold, like a winter storm—colliding with Mateo’s warm musk. "My brother thinks he’s won a prize. I think he’s brought a Trojan horse into our home."

He reached out, his hand gripping Victor’s chin, forcing him to look up. "Tell me the truth, dancer. Who sent you? Was it Dragunov? Or did the Caruso pack leave a little parting gift before they died?"

"I'm just a dancer, Alex. Check the bloodwork Elena did."

"I did." Alejandro’s thumb pressed into the soft skin under Victor’s jaw. "Your DNA is clean. Too clean. No pack markers. No history. You’re a ghost."

He let go, but his gaze didn't waver. "Mateo is soft for you. Ricardo is indifferent. But I see you, Victor. I see the way you watch the exits. The way you never fully relax."

"It's called survival," Victor snapped.

"In this house, it's called a challenge." Alejandro turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Get cleaned up. Santiago is coming for dinner. If he smells Mateo on you, he’ll laugh. If he smells fear, he’ll kill you."

"And what if he smells you?" Victor asked, a sudden spark of defiance hitting him.

Alejandro paused, his back to Victor. A low, predatory rumble started in his chest. "Then we’d have a real problem, wouldn't we?"