Bought by Lycan Kings

The Hunter's Grip

The private elevator rose too fast, making my empty stomach drop like a stone in oil.

I pressed my back against the mirrored wall, my fingers clawing at the thick wool of my oversized sweater.

Water dripped from my soaked auburn hair, leaving dark, damp patches on the collar of my shirt.

When the brass doors finally slid open with a soft, heavy hiss, the sheer scale of the penthouse office made me freeze.

It was a massive room of dark mahogany, black steel columns, and glass.

A massive glass wall overlooked the rain-lashed city, the distant yellow lights flickering like dying sparks in the storm.

The air inside was warm, thick with the scent of expensive cedarwood, bitter black ink, and the dark, heavy musk of the Alphas.

"Move," the driver muttered, nudging me from behind.

I stumbled forward onto the thick, charcoal-colored carpet.

My wet boots left dark, squeaking prints behind me as I dragged myself into the room.

I felt completely dwarfed by the sheer height of the ceiling and the heavy, expensive furniture.

I folded my arms over my chest, squeezing my elbows against my sides to hide my full hourglass figure.

My mother had always warned me that my soft, deep curves were a distraction, a useless physical mistake compared to Isolde's perfect, lean frame.

But right now, my curves were the least of my worries.

My hand pressed flat against my lower stomach, guarding the tiny life secretly growing inside me.

*If they find out Eamon left his child in my womb, they will tear me apart.*

"Sit," Ragnar rumbled, pointing a thick finger toward a massive, black leather armchair in front of his desk.

I fidgets nervously, my knuckles turning bone-white as I pulled the damp fabric of my sweater tighter around my hips.

My voice trembles slightly as I forced myself to speak to the giant standing before me.

"I... I can stand," I whispered, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth.

Ragnar grinds teeth silently, the muscle in his razor-edged jaw bunching until the skin turned pale.

He did not repeat himself.

He simply stared down at me with his burning, amber-gold eyes, his towering six-foot-six frame casting a long, heavy shadow over my soft body.

I sank into the deep leather chair, my voluptuous frame feeling completely swallowed by the massive seat.

The cold leather clung to my damp thighs through my wet pants, sending a shiver straight up my spine.

From the dark shadows near the bookshelves, Zephyr Sterling stepped forward.

He adjusts leather gloves, pulling the black leather tight over his long, lethal fingers.

He tilts head slowly, his cold, slate-gray eyes scanning my shivering form with a terrifying, clinical stillness.

"She is trembling like a wet leaf, Ragnar," Zephyr said, his voice a smooth, dangerous chill.

"Why are we wasting our time with a weak, unawakened human when her sister is the one who stole the silver formula?"

"The contract is signed," Thorion grunted, walking over from the glass wall.

He squares massive shoulders and towers over the back of my chair, his presence radiating a thick, suffocating heat that made my wet clothes start to steam.

He cracks knuckles loudly, the sharp, popping sound echoing through the quiet office like dry branches snapping.

"She is the collateral," Thorion added, his smoldering hazel eyes dropping to my full, soft hips.

"Her body is the anchor for the debt now."

I avoids eye contact, keeping my gaze locked onto the silver buckles of Ragnar's heavy boots.

"I had nothing to do with the formula," I whispered, my throat feeling dry and tight.

"My father... he forced me to sign. Isolde is the one who worked in the lab."

"And yet, you are the one sitting in our chair, Morana," Zephyr retorted, as he narrows eyes coldly.

"Your sister is warm in her bed, while you are here, smelling of rain and terror."

*Oh, look. Another group of powerful Alphas pointing out how completely worthless I am to my family. I'd laugh if I wasn't busy trying not to bleed out or throw up on their expensive carpet.*

A sharp, painful memory cut through my mind, stinging like lye in an open cut.

Just three weeks ago, Eamon had pressed my soft body against the stone wall of the pack greenhouse.

His hands had been warm, sliding under my shirt to grip my full waist with a desperate, heavy hunger.

*"You are my beautiful, curvy secret, Morana,"* he had whispered against my neck, his breath hot and smelling of sweet mint.

*"Isolde is nothing but a cold business arrangement. I will never let anyone take you from me."*

It was all a sickening lie to keep me compliant while he used me.

Yesterday, he had stood in the council hall, holding Isolde's hand, looking at me as if I were a piece of dirt stuck to his boot.

*"I would never touch her,"* Eamon had sneered to the pack elders, his green eyes cold and empty.

*"She is just a fat, desperate human who threw herself at me to feel important."*

The memory made a hard, bitter lump rise in my throat.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a brief second, fighting the burning sting behind my eyelids.

Ragnar walked slowly around the desk, his movements heavy and deliberate.

He taps heavy gold signet ring against the dark mahogany wood, the rhythmic clicking sound matching the frantic beating of my heart.

He stopped directly beside my chair, his massive build radiating a heavy, primitive heat that made my skin tingle.

Suddenly, he reached down.

His massive, warm hand came down onto my shoulder.

The heat of his palm sank through the damp wool of my sweater, sending a sudden shock of electricity straight down my spine.

My breath hitched, my chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow gasps.

His hand was so large it easily covered my shoulder, his long fingers curling slightly near the collarbone where my silver crescent scar lay hidden.

"Look at me, Morana," Ragnar lowers voice to a dark rasp.

The command in his voice was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest until my lungs screamed for air.

I slowly tilted my head up, my chocolate-brown eyes meeting his burning amber ones.

His pupils were dilated, almost swallowing the gold of his irises as he stared down at my soft, flushed face.

My curves felt heavy and flush under his intense, possessiveness-filled gaze.

"You are ours now," Ragnar murmured, his grip on my shoulder tightening just enough to let me feel his raw strength.

"Your pack sold you. Eamon sold you. You have no one else."

Thorion flares nostrils deeply, his chest expanding as he took a step closer to the chair.

"She smells of him," Thorion rumbled, his voice dropping to a low, warning growl that vibrated through the floor.

"The faint, sour scent of that coward Frostwood is still on her skin."

"It will fade," Zephyr said quietly, his gray eyes tracking the way my hand still clutched my stomach.

"Or we will wash it off her ourselves."

My stomach gave a sudden, violent, liquid twitch.

The rich, heavy scents of sandalwood, pine-smoke, and leather in the warm room suddenly became suffocating.

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as a thick wave of hot saliva pooled under it.

A cold sweat broke out along my hairline, my vision blurring at the edges.

*No. Not now. Please, not in front of them.*

My baby chose that exact second to violently reject the tension in the room.

My stomach rolled over, a hard, acidic heat rising straight up my throat.

I gasped, my hand slamming over my mouth as my body shuddered.

Ragnar's eyes narrowed instantly, his hand tightening on my shoulder. "Morana?"

I didn't answer.

I couldn't.

I ripped myself away from his grip, my soft body launching out of the leather chair.

I bolted toward the small, private bathroom door near the corner of the office, leaving the three Alphas staring after me in shocked, heavy silence.