The Lycan Don's Unclaimed Mate

Chapter 2: The Recognition

Draxus Point Of View

The private jet touched down at 3:00 AM on the wet runway of Teterboro Airport.

I stepped out onto the mobile stairs, undoing the top two buttons of my black silk shirt to let the cold night air cut through the exhaustion of three straight days of territorial talks in Chicago. My coat hung over one arm, my dark grey suit sleeves rolled up past my forearms.

Marcus was waiting at the bottom of the ramp, holding an umbrella he knew better than to open over my head.

"Report," I said, my voice a low, rough rasp as I stepped into the back of the waiting SUV.

"Midwest territory is locked down," Marcus said, getting into the front seat. "The Laurent Syndicate pulled their enforcers back across the river. But we had an emergency collateral deal while you were still in the air."

I didn't open my eyes. I rested my head against the leather headrest, letting the beast inside me settle after hours of holding back my Alpha presence in boardroom meetings. "Hector Silva?"

"He couldn't come up with the five million," Marcus said quietly. "He offered his niece instead. A full blood debt collateral contract."

My jaw tightened. A cold, sharp disgust turned in my stomach. "I don't deal in human trafficking, Marcus. Tell the Under Boss to put a bullet in Hector's head and dump the girl back on the Silva doorstep by sunrise."

"Don Draxus, the contract is already sealed under Syndicate law," Marcus pushed carefully. "She's already in the west wing penthouse suite."

I opened my eyes. Gold flared bright in the dim light of the car. "Then she can spend the night in the holding cell until I personally tear that contract up in the morning."

Thirty minutes later, the armored SUV pulled into the private underground bay of my penthouse complex.

I closed the vehicle door shut behind me and stepped into the private express elevator. The brass numbers ticked upward, forty, forty five, fifty. The doors slid open with a soft, pressurized hiss into the dark tiled entrance of my suite.

The penthouse was completely silent.

I pulled off my tie and tossed it onto the table at the entrance. I took three steps into the main hallway, meaning to go straight to my study, and then I stopped dead.

The air shifted.

A scent hit me, sharp, dark, and impossibly sweet, strong enough to make my lungs lock up.

It wasn't perfume. It wasn't the metallic smell of blood. It was rose, fresh rain, and hibiscus scent that hit my brain like a physical blow.

Something inside me moved against my ribs, roaring to life so fast my vision broke into bright, burning gold. My claws pushed against the skin of my knuckles, threatening to break through. My heart pounded in my throat like a war drum.

Mate!

The word tore through my mind, raw and primitive, breaking through five years of cold self control.

Five years ago, I had caught a brief, powerful trace of this exact scent in a dark alley in Manhattan, before my father's men forced me to cut the thread to save her life. I had spent half a decade telling myself it wasn't real. Just a fever dream.

I turned slowly toward the west wing guest suite.

The fingerprint door was locked, the red light glowing softly in the dark hallway. But the scent was pouring out through the air vents, thick enough to drown in.

I didn't use the keycard.

I gripped the handle with my bare hand, my strength surging until the electronic lock broke apart with a violent, metallic crunch.

I pushed the metallic door open.

The room was dark, lit only by distant city lights bleeding through the floor to ceiling glass. In the center of the oversized maroon bed lay Cornelia.

Her dark hair spilled wildly across the white pillows. Her boots were still laced tight, her wrists purple and raw where the zip ties had bitten into her skin. She was pale, her breathing shallow and painfully fragile as the last of the paralyzing drug held her under.

I crossed the room in two strides, my heart pounding against my chest hard enough to shake my shoulders. I dropped to one knee beside the bed, my bare hand hovering over her pale face. My fingers trembled, a pureblood Don, a terror across the entire Eastern Seaboard, shaking like a nervous young wolf.

The moment my fingertips brushed the soft skin of her cheek, a blinding, golden jolt shot through my arm.

Cornelia let out a sharp, ragged gasp, her eyes snapping open in the dark.

Dark, alert, and dangerously sharp, her eyes locked straight onto mine. The paralyzing drug broke under the heat of our contact, her instincts overriding the poison in an instant. Her hand shot out from beneath the sheet, a silver blade sliding from her sleeve, the tip stopping a hair's width from the pulse point under my jaw.

"Touch me," she whispered, her voice rough with sleep and deadly calm, "and I'll cut your throat."

I didn't move. I didn't pull back.

I looked down into her fierce, beautiful eyes, the golden heat of our bond burning between us, and for the first time in five years, a slow, dark smile spread across my face.

"Welcome home, Cornelia," I said with pride in my voice.