CHAPTER 7

"What the hell is this place, Victor? A museum or a tomb?"

Elodie’s voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling of the High Estate. The iron gates had shrieked shut behind them five minutes ago, a sound that felt like a guillotine blade dropping. Outside, the Montana peaks were jagged teeth against a bruising sky. Inside, the suite smelled of expensive floor wax and old, cold power.

"It’s your room," Victor said. He didn't look at her. He was busy punching a code into a sleek silver panel by the door. "Stay inside. The windows are reinforced. The walls are lined with silver mesh. Don't try to shift. You’ll just burn your lungs out."

"You locked me in a cage." Elodie spun around, her heels digging into the thick Persian rug. "I’m an assistant, not a prisoner. Let me talk to Camille. She was crying, Victor. She thinks I’m a traitor."

Victor finally turned. His face was a mask of granite. "Camille is at the secondary estate. She needs to get her head straight. She’s being re-educated on what it means to keep pack secrets. You won't see her."

"Re-educated? What is this, a cult?" Elodie’s hand flew to her stomach. It was a subconscious flinch, a need to protect the tiny, impossible heartbeat inside her. This place was gold and silk, but it was dead. It was a beautiful coffin.

"It’s survival," Victor snapped. He stepped out, the heavy door clicking into place with a sound of finality that made Elodie’s wolf howl in the back of her mind.

She was alone. She paced the perimeter, her fingers trailing over gold-plated fixtures that felt like ice. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Camille’s face breaking. Every time she breathed, she smelled Victor—pine, ozone, and the scent of a man who owned everything he looked at.

By midnight, the air in the room felt like fire.

Elodie slumped against the bathroom tiles, her skin slick with a cold, greasy sweat. Her stomach twisted into a knot, a violent heave sending her to her knees over the porcelain. This wasn't just morning sickness. It was the Alpha’s heir. The pup was a sun inside her, burning for a bond that wasn't fully sealed. Her blood felt like it was boiling.

The door hissed open.

Victor stood there. His tie was hanging loose around his neck, his white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He looked exhausted, his eyes bloodshot from whatever hell the Council had put him through. He didn't say a word. He walked over, scooped her up from the floor, and carried her to the bed.

"Don't touch me," she wheezed, even as she shivered.

"Shut up, Elodie." He kicked off his shoes and climbed into the bed, pulling her back against his massive chest.

The contact was like a drug. The second his skin touched hers, a low, tectonic rumble started in his chest—a wolf’s purr. It vibrated through her spine, cooling her blood and settling her stomach instantly.

"God," she breathed, her fingers involuntarily clutching his forearms. They were thick, corded with muscle and covered in fine dark hair.

"I’ve got you," he whispered into her hair. His hand flattened over her belly, and for the first time, he wasn't gripping her. He was holding her.

He didn't mention the Council. He didn't mention the pregnancy. He just let his heat soak into her, a steady anchor in a world that was trying to tear her apart. She hated him. She hated that she needed him. But as the fever broke, she fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep, wrapped in the arms of her jailer.

At dawn, the bed was empty.

Elodie rolled over, the sheets still smelling of him. Her hand hit something hard on the nightstand. Victor’s phone. He must have left it in a rush.

She grabbed it, her thumb sliding over the screen. It wasn't locked. She went for the dialer, wanting to scream for Camille, but a notification popped up. An encrypted message.

2018. The truth about the arrest.

Her heart did a slow, painful thud. She tapped the file. A video loaded—grainy, low-angle footage from a security camera in a police station. A younger Victor stood there, his jaw bruised, his eyes wild. He was facing a man she recognized instantly. Alpha Thomas. Victor’s father.

"She’s a blight, Victor!" the old man screamed in the video, his face purple with rage. "The Hart bloodline is tainted. I’ll have her throat slit before the sun comes up. It’s my right as Alpha!"

"You won't touch her," Victor snarled, stepping into his father's space. "I’m putting her in the county lockup. Human jurisdiction. You can't reach her there. No pack law, no execution. She stays in that cell until you're too old to remember her name."

"You'd choose a stray over your own father?"

"I'd choose her over the world."

The video ended. Elodie sat there, the phone shaking in her hand. Six years. Six years of hating him for the cold steel of the handcuffs and the years of rot in a cell. He hadn't betrayed her. He had hidden her in the only place the old King couldn't kill her.

The door burst open.

A maid ran in, her apron wrinkled and her eyes wide with terror. "Miss! You have to get up! Now!"

"What? What is it?" Elodie shoved the phone under the pillow.

"The Council! They’re at the gates!" the girl hissed, her voice cracking. "They’re demanding a Wolf Check. They say there's a rogue in the house. If they find you... if they see your wolf..."

Elodie scrambled to the window. Down in the driveway, three black sedans had disgorged men in gray suits. They didn't look like politicians. They looked like executioners. They were walking toward the front doors with a slow, predatory confidence.

She looked at the door. Two sentries stood there now, wearing the red armbands of the Council Guard. Victor’s men were gone.

"Where is Victor?" Elodie grabbed the maid’s shoulders.

"In the Council chamber. They locked the doors, miss. He can't get out."