The Untamed Matriarch

"Mason, he’s watching us."

I didn't look up from my latte, but the hair on my arms stood up. My wolf—dormant, useless thing that she was—didn't even growl. She just shivered.

Mason Cross didn’t flinch. He sat across from me in the Sunset Strip Photo Booth cafe, his tailored charcoal suit straining against shoulders that could break a man’s spine. He looked like a CEO. He smelled like a forest fire.

"Ignore him, Rowan," Mason said, his voice a low, melodic hum.

"Ignore him? Mason, he’s six-foot-five and looks like he eats silver for breakfast." I gestured vaguely toward the corner where a man with a jagged scar splitting his face stood like a gargoyle. "He hasn't blinked in three minutes."

Mason reached across the table, his fingers brushing my wrist. His skin was unnaturally warm. "That's Caleb. He’s my Lead Guardian. My father is... overprotective of the bloodline. He thinks the West Coast Territories are crawling with Ferals."

I pulled my hand back, tucking a strand of red hair behind my ear. "A guardian? Mason, you’re a grad student. Why do you need a wolf-guard?"

"The Cross family has a lot of... logistics to handle," he said, flashing a grin that didn't reach his emerald eyes. "Honestly, the Old Man is so high-strung he needs a session with you at the Unit to keep from shifting in public."

He laughed, but the sound felt heavy. I looked at his wrist—a heavy platinum watch. I squinted. The markers weren't just stones; they were Lunar Diamonds. A pack-alpha’s dowry.

Who the hell are you, Mason?

"Refills?"

The barista, a golden-haired shifter named Ryan, hovered by the table. He didn't look at me. He looked at Mason with an intensity that made my stomach curdling.

"Actually," I said, checking my phone. "I’m going to be late for my shift at the Behavioral Unit. The Alphas don't like it when the head-shrinker is tardy."

"I'll get your coffee to go," Mason stood, his presence suddenly swallowing the room's oxygen. "Wait here."

He followed Ryan toward the back supply room. I started shoving my journals into my bag, but a buzzing sound stopped me. Mason had left his burner on the table. The screen lit up.

Incoming Call: The Patriarch.

The wallpaper was a high-def shot of a brutalist fortress—the Cross Estate. In the center stood a man who looked like a god of war, flanked by Mason and a younger, darker-looking wolf.

The phone buzzed again. On instinct, I grabbed it and headed for the counter. "Mason, your dad is—"

The counter was empty. The espresso machine hissed, unattended.

A muffled groan drifted from the storage room. A heavy thump against the drywall. I stepped around the corner, the scent of musk and heat hitting me like a physical blow.

"Mason?"

The words died in my throat.

Mason had Ryan pinned against a stack of cedar crates. His hand was buried in the barista’s blonde hair, his head tilted as he buried his face in the man's neck. Ryan’s shirt was shredded at the shoulder, revealing a fresh, bloody bite mark.

Mason wasn't just kissing him. He was marking him.

Ryan’s hands were down Mason’s slacks, his back arching, a low, submissive whimper vibrating in the air.

"What the fuck?" The scream tore out of me before I could stop it.

They jerked apart. Mason’s eyes were glowing a predatory, haunting gold. His pupils were slits.

"Rowan—wait—"

I didn't wait. I hurled the vibrating phone at his chest and bolted.

"Rowan! Stop!"

He caught me on the sidewalk, his grip on my arm like a steel shackle. The power rolling off him was suffocating—the True Alpha scent of the Cross bloodline.

"I can explain," he hissed, his face contorting. "It’s a territorial thing. A pack debt. I still want you, Rowan. You’re the only thing that keeps me grounded."

"You used me as a scent-shield!" I spat, twisting my arm. "A 'wolfless' human girl to keep your father from realizing you're rutting with the help? Get off me."

"Rowan, listen to me," he leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous rasp. "My family... they don't approve of his rank. If you stay, if you play the part, I can make it worth your while. Five million. Ten. Name a price for the silence."

I looked at him—really looked at him. The "nice guy" from the bookstore was gone. In his place was a monster in a suit.

"Keep your blood money, Mason. I’m done."

I turned and ran toward the transit line, my heart hammering a rhythm of pure, unadulterated rage.

Two hours later, the salt air of the Pacific Northwest felt like needles against my skin. I stood in front of the heavy titanium doors of the Pacific Behavioral Unit.

I needed to work. I needed to forget the taste of Mason’s lies.

"Rowan Blake?" The lead warden, a scarred Beta, didn't look up from his clipboard. "You’ve been reassigned. We’ve got a high-priority 'Feral' evaluation in Block Omega."

I frowned. "I usually handle the low-level deltas. Who is it?"

"The big one," the warden grunted, hitting the buzzer. "Mason’s old man. The King of the Lunar Syndicate himself."

My blood turned to ice. Victor Aldridge. No, that wasn't right.

The doors slid open. I walked down the silver-lined hallway, the magnetic dampeners humming in my teeth, suppressing the shift-reflex of every wolf in the building.

In the final cell, a man sat on a concrete bench. He wasn't old. He wasn't balding. He was a mountain of scarred muscle and dark, terrifying authority. He wore the orange jumpsuit like a royal robe.

As I approached the glass, he looked up. My breath hitched.

The same square jaw. The same piercing green eyes. The same lethal grace I had seen in the bookstore three hours ago.

This was Mason Cross. The real Mason Cross. The Alpha King.

The man I’d been dating wasn't Mason. He was Julian—the wayward prince.

The man behind the glass stood up, his scent—pure cedar, ozone, and dominance—piercing through the vents. He pressed a hand against the reinforced glass, his eyes locking onto mine with a hunger that felt like a death sentence.

"So," the Alpha King purred, his voice vibrating in my very marrow. "They sent me a little red-headed lamb to play with."