Lion’s Den
1205 Words
Alie POV
"You look like s**t, Alie. A very expensive, very tailored piece of shit."
The voice dripped with saccharine poison. I didn't look up from my glass of neat bourbon. The bar—a dive off 6th Street called The Rusty Nail—reeked of stale beer and desperation, a stark contrast to the sterile, high-rise luxury I’d just left.
I took a slow, deliberate sip, letting the amber liquid burn. Then, I looked up.
Sienna Saint-Claire hadn't changed. Her platinum hair was still a wild, bleached mane, and her lips were painted the color of arterial blood. She was draped in a leather waistcoat that barely contained her breasts, and the Siren tattoo on her throat pulsed with a subtle, shimmering ink—the mark of a wolf who took pleasure in the hunt.
"And you look like you’ve been wearing Rhett’s hand-me-downs for five years," I countered, my voice as cold as a morgue slab. "It’s a pity. You used to have such good taste."
Sienna didn't take the bait. She slid into the booth opposite me, her movements feline and fluid. She smelled of ozone and musk—the unmistakable scent of a female who spent too much time in an Alpha’s territory. She was marking me, shoving her proximity to Rhett into my face like a blunt instrument.
"He missed you, you know," she purred, tracing the rim of her glass with a sharp, crimson fingernail. "For the first few months, anyway. He’d pace the compound until the floorboards groaned. He’d growl at anyone who even said your name. But then… the Cage happened. The RICO case. The stress. He needed something to take the edge off. Something warm. Something that didn't argue with him about the law."
I didn't blink. I’d spent five years in the pressure cooker of corporate litigation; I had a thicker hide than any shifter in this city. "Is that what you call it? 'Relieving tension'? I’m sure he appreciates the charity work, Sienna. But we both know Rhett doesn't take on projects. He takes on property. And you’re just the one holding the leash while he’s in the kennel."
Sienna’s eyes flashed—a brilliant, predatory gold. She leaned forward, her chest brushing the table. "He’s mine, Alie. He’s been mine for every night you spent in that ivory tower in Dallas. You want to know what it’s like to be claimed by a King? To have him bury his teeth in your shoulder while he’s shifting? You’re a lawyer. You deal in ink. I deal in blood."
"You deal in gossip, Sienna. And you’re doing a terrible job of it," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous, low register. I felt the wolf inside me begin to pace, its hackles rising. I could feel the ambient energy of the bar shifting—the other patrons, human and shifter alike, sensing the spike in pheromones. "I didn't come here to talk about your bed-hopping habits. I came here for the case."
"The case is a circus," she spat, her smug veneer cracking for a second. "And you’re the lead clown. But you’re wrong about one thing—he didn't ask me to relieve his tension because he wanted to. He did it because he knew he couldn't have you. He’s a martyr, Alie. He’s been suffering for five years, playing the villain so you could stay 'pure.' God, you’re so f*****g stupid."
My grip tightened on my glass. Martyr. The word echoed the note he’d left at the hotel.
"If you have something to say, say it," I commanded, my eyes beginning to glow with a faint, dangerous light. "Stop dancing around the fact that you’re terrified I’m back."
Sienna’s expression went dark. The playfulness vanished, replaced by a raw, jagged resentment. She reached into her leather vest and pulled out a manila envelope. She slapped it onto the wet wood of the table.
"You think you’re so smart," she whispered, her voice trembling with an emotion I couldn't place. "You think you’re the only one who cares about the family? You think your sister is safe just because you’re back in town?"
My heart stopped. The world around us—the clinking glasses, the low hum of the jukebox, the smell of cigarette smoke—seemed to drop away.
"Don't," I warned, my hand reaching for the envelope. "If you’ve touched her, Sienna, I will tear that Siren ink right off your throat."
"I haven't touched her," Sienna growled, leaning back, a look of profound, bitter pity crossing her face. "But the people you’re playing with? The people you think you’re 'defending'? They aren't just bikers. They’re meat in a grinder. And your sister? She’s the garnish."
She nudged the envelope toward me. "Open it. See how much your precious 'clean' Dallas life protected her."
I tore the paper open. My hands were steady—a habit learned from years of holding a pen in a courtroom—but the moment I saw the contents, the control shattered.
The photo was high-resolution, taken in a dimly lit basement. Elena was there, tied to a wooden chair, her hands bound with heavy-duty zip ties. She was bruised, her dark hair matted with grime, her eyes wide with a terror that clawed at my soul.
But it wasn't Elena that made my breath hitch.
It was the hand holding the camera.
The hand was steady, framed in the bottom corner of the image. On the ring finger, glinting under the harsh, industrial lighting, was a silver signet ring.
It was a federal agent’s ring. The same crest, the same heavy, archaic design.
I looked up at Sienna, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped beast.
"Who?" I gasped, the word barely a whisper. "Who took this?"
Sienna’s smile was no longer smug. It was broken.
"The feds, Alie. Your friends. The ones who you think are 'the law.' They aren't trying to convict Rhett. They’re trying to bait the entire Pack into a massacre."
She stood up, her leather jacket creaking in the silence.
"You want to save her? Stop being a lawyer. Start being the b***h who married the King. Because if you don't go to the compound tonight... if you don't submit to him, fully and without a leash... Elena is going to be the first body they drop on the courthouse steps."
She turned and walked toward the door, leaving me alone in the booth with the photo. I looked at it again, the ring burning into my retinas.
Thorne.
I hadn't just been tracked. I’d been played from the very start.
The bar felt like it was closing in, the air turning thick and heavy with the scent of an impending hunt. I downed the rest of the bourbon, the burn doing nothing to soothe the ice in my veins.
I was going to the compound. Not as an attorney. Not as a hostage.
I was going as the Queen who had just realized that her King hadn't betrayed her.
He’d just been waiting for her to finally wake up and realize that in a world of wolves, you either hunt, or you end up on a plate.
- Writer
