CHAPTER 3

I shifted my gaze from the heavy titanium door, the sensation of his presence still crawling over my skin like phantom heat. I could almost feel his claws tracing the knobs of my spine.

"The state mandates that you answer with total transparency for this psychological clearance," I said, my voice coming out in that practiced, clinical hum I used at the Unit. "Do you understand the terms, inmate?"

Silence.

I looked up. Mason Cross was smirking, his pupils blown wide, swallowing the forest-green of his irises. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on thick, scarred thighs.

"Little lamb," he rasped, the sound a low vibration that made the water in the plastic cup on the table ripple. "What makes you think a piece of paper gives you the right to scent my mind?"

I flattened my palms on the table, trying to ignore the way the silver dampeners in the walls made my head throb. "The Lunar Syndicate has authorized this evaluation—"

"Do you even have your mark yet?" he cut in, his voice dripping with animal derision. "Or are you just some cub playing dress-up in a blazer?"

I didn't answer. I reached into my bag and pulled out my credentials, the gold seal of the Pacific Behavioral Unit flashing under the harsh fluorescent lights. "Here. If you doubt my authority." I slid the paper across the table toward his cuffed hands.

I realized the trap a second too late.

His hand shot out, a blur of motion. He didn't grab the paper. He clamped his fingers around my wrist, his grip like a heated vice, and hauled me forward until my chest slammed against the edge of the table. A gasp escaped me as he pulled my arm toward his face.

He didn't bite. Instead, he dragged his nose slowly across the pulse point of my wrist, inhaling deeply.

"Chamomile. Sage," he murmured, his eyes fluttering shut as he tasted my scent on the air. "Clean. Untouched." He snapped his eyes open, pinning me with a predatory stare. "You haven't been claimed. You're a virgin."

My heart thrashed against my ribs like a caged bird. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.

The door hissed open. "Get back!" a guard barked, hand on his silver-baton.

Mason let go instantly, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head, the picture of bored dominance. "Easy, Beta," he chuckled. "Just checking the doctor's vitals."

I pulled my hand back, rubbing the red marks his fingers had left. I wasn't hurt. I was... electrified. My wolf, usually a silent ghost, let out a tiny, traitorous whine.

"I'm fine," I told the guard, straightening my blazer and trying to steady my breath. I looked back at the file. "We will continue."

I glared at him, forcing my chin up. I had to be tougher than this monster.

"Tell me about the slaughter at the Northern Border," I said, my pen poised over the paper. "The reports say—"

"That skirt," he interrupted, his eyes roving down to where my hem had hiked up. "It’s a provocation. You have long, delicious legs, Rowan. Perfect for pinning to a—"

"Enough!" It came out as a small, shaky growl. "I demand your cooperation. Your psychological profile determines if you stay in this silver cage or walk back to your estate. Start acting like an Alpha and answer the question."

He laughed. A deep, chesty sound that felt like a physical touch. "Darling, I couldn't take you seriously if I tried. You’re vibrating with fear. Or maybe it’s something else?"

I slammed my hand onto the table. "Sir! This is a legal proceeding!"

My hand stung. He just watched the way my chest heaved.

"I'm all yours, Doc," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Assess me. Take your time." He gestured to his broad frame, the power of his form practically radiating through the orange jumpsuit.

I stared into his eyes and felt a strange, dizzying pull. I looked down at the floor, unable to hold the heat of his gaze.

"You blinked first," he whispered. "In the wild, that’s when I’d throat-rip you. Weak."

That snapped it. I looked up, baring my teeth in a sharp, human snarl.

"Good," he grinned. "I like it when the prey bites back."

I felt my face go hot, then cold. I realized with a jolt of pure mortification that my nipples were peaking under my blazer, reacting to the raw, masculine pheromones he was pumping into the small room. He knew. The hum in his throat deepened.

I grabbed my pen and scrawled across his file: Sociopathic tendencies. Zero remorse. Hyper-aggressive Alpha dominance. Recommend permanent containment.

"We're done," I snapped, shoving my papers into my bag. I could hear his soft, dark chuckling as I marched toward the door. I hammered on the metal, and the locks disengaged.

"Oh, Rowan," he called out.

I paused, my hand on the frame, making the mistake of looking back.

"I’ll see you at the Cross Estate," he said with a jagged smirk. "Count on it."

"Not in this lifetime," I muttered, slipping out into the hall. My report would bury him. As far as I was concerned, he was a ghost.

"I'm just saying," Harper said, sliding a plate of charred meat onto the table. "A guy who won't even show his face at the pack house is a red flag. Who the hell is this Julian guy?"

I froze on the stairs of the Blake house.

"Trust her," Samuel’s voice drifted from the kitchen. "Rowan has a good head on her shoulders." He caught my eye as I walked in. "Right, kid?"

"I'm twenty-three, Dad. The 'kid' thing has to die," I said, kissing his cheek.

Harper patted my head like I was a pup. We weren't blood, but ever since Samuel took me in after my mother, Elaine, vanished into a 'federal op' and never came back, they were the only pack I had.

"So, Julian," Harper pushed, sitting across from me. "There has to be a reason you're actually calling him a boyfriend. You've been a hermit since grad school started."

I felt the heat rise in my neck. They didn't know the "gentleman" I'd been dating was actually a lying submissive who used me as a beard. I’d tell them about the breakup in a few days.

"He’s just... different," I said, picking at my food. "Not like the loud, chest-thumping Alphas at the gym. He’s polite. He reads."

And he was marking a barista while I waited for my coffee, I added bitterly to myself.

"He's gentle?" Harper asked, her tone dripping with skepticism. She let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, Rowan. Poor, sweet Rowan."

I dropped my fork. "What's wrong with a guy who isn't trying to claim me every five seconds?"

"Does he even touch you? Or does he just hold your hand and talk about poetry?" She rolled her eyes. "In this territory, 'gentle' is just another word for 'weak.' You need a wolf who’s going to take what he wants."

My mind flashed back to the interrogation room. To Mason Cross’s hand on my wrist. To the way he’d scented me like I was a meal.

"I think I've had enough of 'strong' wolves for one day," I muttered, pushing my plate away.