C4

"He isn't just an Alpha, Charlotte. He’s a hurricane wrapped in a three-piece suit. Dark hair, eyes like frozen amber, and a jawline that looks like it was chiseled from a glacier. He’s massive—six-three at least. I barely cleared his sternum."

"Dangerous?"

"Lethal. My wolf was practically pacing behind my ribs the second he scented me. And ever since that kiss... I feel like I'm running a fever. My skin is hypersensitive. Just thinking about his mouth makes my pulse skip."

"So you’re saying you’re in heat for the boss?"

"I'm saying I’ve never felt an attraction this primal. It wasn't just a kiss, Char. It was a claim. I could smell his need—thick, dark, and demanding. It was like standing too close to a wildfire. I wanted to sink my claws into him right there on that mahogany desk. If I stay, he’s going to ruin me."

"And I want a front-row seat to the wreckage. I’m serious, Rhea. If he’s as well-hung as those elite Wolfe genes suggest, I want to hear every detail of him pounding you into those expensive Persian rugs."

"Get out! You’re a menace, Charlotte. My ten minutes are up."

"I’m leaving! But think about it—the 'Wolf Whisperer' finally getting tamed by the biggest beast in Blackport. It’s poetic! Unless he has a tiny knot. That would be a tragedy."

"Go away! I’m here to save a pup’s hockey career, not measure the Alpha’s equipment."

"Good luck with the multitasking! But seriously, Rhea... be careful. I did some digging while you were out. There are rumors that Don Alejandro Wolfe didn't just build an empire on legitimate trade. They say the Wolfe line is stained with rogue blood and back-alley pack wars."

"He’s an Alpha, Char. They all have bodies in their closets. But he gave me his word. He won't touch me unless I ask for it."

"And you trust him?"

"He makes me feel safe. It’s the weirdest thing. When he was holding me, I felt like the entire world could go to war and nothing would touch me because I belonged to him. It was terrifying... and perfect."

The gates of the Wolfe Pack Estate didn't just open; they retreated. I stood before the iron spikes of the Blackport territory, feeling the hum of high-voltage security buzzing in the air. I didn't even have to touch the intercom. The pack knew I was there. Every shadow held a sentry; every window held a pair of eyes.

I felt like a prisoner already, but the bars were made of gold and silk.

Ethan Knox appeared from the side of the stone fortress, his suit jacket barely containing his massive frame. He looked like he’d been bred specifically for violence.

"Any other gear?"

"Just the one bag, Ethan."

He took the suitcase as if it were a feather, his movements silent and predatory. He punched a sequence into the heavy oak doors, the lock clicking like a bone snapping.

"Can I get that code?"

"Alpha’s orders: no code for the staff."

"I’m the head trainer, not the maid. I need to be able to get Lydia to the rink on my own schedule."

"Talk to the Alpha. I just follow the scent."

The interior was a cathedral of power. Marble floors so polished they looked like ice, chandeliers dripping like frozen waterfalls, and the heavy, intoxicating scent of Dominic Wolfe everywhere. Margaret Hale, the housekeeper, met me with a face that looked like it had been carved from a winter gale. She led me on a silent tour, passing by the Alpha’s private wing with a sharp nod.

My mind wandered behind those double doors. Was it a den of sin or a war room? Probably both. I found myself wondering if he brought his omegas back here, and the thought made my wolf snarl with a jealousy so sharp it hurt.

Lydia’s suite was a palace of silence. A hockey locker room converted into a high-end activity center, complete with a synthetic ice patch for shooting drills.

"Where is she, Margaret?"

"Training. You'll see her at the evening meal."

My own room was down the hall—a sanctuary of cream and gold with a view of the Blackport coastline. I unpacked quickly, feeling the weight of the silence. My work clothes looked out of place in the walk-in closet, but I didn't care. I wasn't here to be a trophy.

A sharp rap on the door broke my focus.

"Enter."

A woman stepped in, her posture so rigid she might have been a statue. She wore an olive suit and glasses that looked like they were designed to spot a lie from a mile away. Vivienne Laurent, the Alpha's lead coordinator. She looked less like a personal assistant and more like a high-ranking inquisitor.

"Miss Callahan. I have your schedule. And your rules."