CHAPTER 5

"Your sister's sick."

Dean's voice was a low, oily grate. He leaned over the booth, his thick neck pulsing. "She's puking her guts out. Green around the gills. Shifter flu, maybe."

I lunged for the staff door, my wolf pacing a frantic, jagged line behind my ribs. "I'm going to find her."

His hand clamped onto my shoulder, digging into the silver silk. "No. She doesn't want you seeing her like that. Come with me. I'll put you somewhere quiet where you can wait."

He didn't wait for an answer. He hauled me toward a heavy black door at the edge of the VIP lounge. I stumbled after him, my heels catching on the carpet. He shoved the door open.

The Champagne Room was a cavern of dark mirrors and pinprick floor lights. The air was heavy with the scent of musk, expensive liquor, and the raw, salt-smell of pheromones. Dark velvet benches curved along the walls, and as my eyes adjusted, I saw the silhouettes. Limbs tangled. Bodies writhing. A girl on her knees in the corner, her head moving in a rhythm that made my blood run cold.

"Wait here," Dean grunted, settling me at a tiny obsidian table. "I'll get you a drink. Harper'll be out soon."

He vanished. A server dropped a glass of dark amber liquid in front of me. I touched the rim, then shoved it away. Laced. It had to be.

I stood to bolt, but the door swung open. Dean again.

"Leaving so soon, baby?" He stepped into my space, his hand sliding up my bare arm. I jerked back, but he kept coming, a slow, predatory prowl. "Where's the fire?"

I backed up until the edge of the table bit into my spine. He leaned in, his hot, sour breath coating my face. "You better play nice. Your sister owes me more than a few pack-debts. Tonight, you're going to help her work off the interest."

A whimper climbed up my throat. I was trapped.

"Do you mind?"

The voice was a cool, lethal drawl that sliced through the room's noise. I knew that vibration. It lived in my nightmares.

Dean stiffened, his weight lifting off me. I peered around his shoulder.

Mason Cross stood there, silhouetted against the dim lights. He looked like a god of the underworld, his hands shoved into his pockets, his expression bored but his eyes glowing a faint, dangerous gold.

"That's my head-shrinker you’re pawing at," Mason said. "We weren't finished with our session. Get the fuck off her."

"Boss," Dean stuttered, his bravado evaporating. "I didn't... I didn't know she was yours."

Mason flicked his chin—a silent command to vanish. Dean didn't look back, scurrying toward the bar.

Mason stepped forward. He caught my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face up. The heat of his skin felt like a brand. "Hello, Rowan Blake. Miss me?"

I was a bird under a hawk’s shadow. My brain screamed run, but my legs were lead.

"We have to put on a show, Rowan," he purred, his thumb grazing my lower lip. "If I let you walk out now, Dean will have your throat slit for making him look small in front of his crew."

I glanced at the bar. Dean was knocking back a shot, his eyes burning with a hateful, bruised ego.

"Just a little theater," Mason whispered.

He slid a finger under the silver chain holding my dress up. He twisted it slowly, drawing the fabric tight against my skin until it cut in. Then, with a sudden, violent yank, he snapped the wire.

The silver silk sagged, baring the curve of my breast and the lace of my bra.

"You know, Doc," he breathed, his eyes devouring the exposed skin. "I’ve been thinking about this since the silver-cells."

The fear in my gut shifted. It shouldn't have happened, but the way he looked at me—like I was the only prey in the forest—sent a thrum of heat straight to my core. I felt the ache of my own slickness between my legs.

What is wrong with me? I was about to lose my virginity to a monster in a den of wolves. Panic spiked again, sharper this time. My hand flew to my stays, my fingers closing around the cold hilt of my mother's blade.

I yanked it out, the silver steel flashing. I screamed and swung, aiming the point directly for the column of his throat.

Mason moved like a blur. He didn't flinch. He just caught my wrist in a crushing grip.

The blade bit into his palm, a shallow red line blooming across his skin. He growled—a real, animal sound—and twisted my arm back until I felt the bones of my wrist grind.

I cried out, my knees hitting the floor as he forced me down. He loomed over me, his breath ragged.

"Clever girl," he huffed, a dark laugh bubbling in his chest. "Carrying silver. Too bad you don't know how to gut a wolf."

He wrenched the knife from my failing grip and slipped it into his own pocket. He let me go, and I slumped against the table, gasping as the blood rushed back into my hand.

Mason stood over me, his jaw tight. He’d followed me on instinct, saving me from a low-life like Dean, but now the math was changing. Dean wasn't just a manager; he was a node in the Syndicate’s web.

If the other Alphas found out the King of the West Coast had moved this fast for a human-born psychologist, they’d hunt me just to watch him bleed.

He ground his teeth, the sound like stone on stone. "There’s only one way out of this room for you, Rowan."

He grabbed my hair, forcing me to look at him. "From this second on, you belong to the Cross Estate. If you leave my side, you’re dead. Do you understand?"

I looked into those emerald eyes, and for the first time, I realized the interrogation hadn't ended. It was just beginning.