Five years later, The Ice Queen Returns
1621 Words
Alie POV
“Mr. Holloway, would you say you’re a man of God?”
The question was soft, almost melodic, cutting through the stagnant air of the Dallas County Courthouse like a silk ribbon. I didn’t look at the witness. I was too busy smoothing the invisible wrinkles in my charcoal Saint Laurent suit.
The man in the stand, a greasy corporate embezzler with a sweating upper lip, stammered. “I—yes. I attend church every Sunday.”
“Every Sunday,” I repeated, finally lifting my gaze. My eyes were a flat, predatory hazel, stripped of any warmth. I didn’t see a human being; I saw a jugular. “Then you’re familiar with the Commandment regarding false witness? Or does that only apply when you aren’t being paid fifty thousand dollars by my client’s competitor to lie through those capped teeth?”
“Objection!” the prosecutor barked, his face a frantic shade of puce. “Counsel is badgering!”
“I’m not badgering, Your Honor,” I said, turning to the judge with a smile that never reached my eyes. “I’m performing an exorcism. I’m casting the bullshit out of this courtroom.”
I didn't wait for a ruling. I stepped into the witness’s personal space, the scent of my perfume—expensive, sharp, and cold—acting like a physical barrier. In the underworld of the Dallas legal elite, they called me the Ice Queen. They whispered that I’d traded my soul for a partnership at twenty-seven. They didn’t know the truth. I hadn't traded my soul; it had been ripped out of my chest five years ago in a garage in Austin, and I’d simply never bothered to replace the bloody hole it left behind.
“The bank records, Mr. Holloway,” I hissed, leaning over the rail. “Do you want to explain them, or should I let the jury decide how much you’ll enjoy federal prison?”
Ten minutes later, Holloway broke. He sobbed. He confessed. The case didn’t just crumble; it turned to dust.
I didn't stay to celebrate. I didn't shake hands. I snapped my briefcase shut, the sound a sharp click of finality, and walked out of the courtroom. My heels echoed against the marble—clack, clack, clack—the heartbeat of a woman who was dead inside but still moving.
“Alessandra.”
I stopped. Standing by the elevators was Judge Horatio Black. He was a mountain of a man with a silver mane and eyes that had seen too much of the darkness that crawled beneath the Texas sun. He wasn't just a judge; he was an Elder in the legal circuit, one of the few who knew that the urban area in Austin and Dallas was just a cover for the primal.
“Horatio,” I said, my voice neutral. “If you’re here to congratulate me, don’t. It was an easy kill.”
“I’m here because I have a Special Appointment for you,” he said, tucking a thick, manila folder under his arm. “A RICO case. High-risk. Multiple defendants.”
“I’m a private defense attorney, Horatio. I pick my own poison. I’m not taking a court appointment.”
“You’re taking this one.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “The DOJ is breathing down the neck of the Iron Vow, Alessandra. They’ve finally locked down the leadership.”
The name hit me like a physical blow. My lungs seized. For a split second, the phantom itch of the tattoo on my ribs, the wolf’s head I’d tried so hard to forget, burned like a brand.
“No,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. I forced my features back into a mask of granite. “Find someone else. I don't do biker trash.”
“They aren't just bikers, and you know it. They’re the most powerful Pack in the South. If the Iron Vow falls, the power vacuum will turn Austin into a slaughterhouse. Nicklaus Vane is already moving his pieces.”
“I don't care if Austin burns to the ground,” I snapped, turning toward the elevator. “I left that life. I’m done with the Bond. I’m done with the blood.”
“The Bar Association might have questions about that, Alessandra,” Horatio said, his voice as sharp as a gavel. I froze. “Questions about certain... irregularities in your early filings. About the fact that you were once married to the primary defendant. If you refuse this appointment, I won’t be able to stop the ethics committee from looking into how a ‘broken-hearted’ girl from Austin suddenly became a Dallas star without a single c***k in her history.”
I turned back, my teeth bared in a silent snarl. It was a slip, a glimpse of the wolf I was born to be, the one I’d suppressed under layers of silk and law. “You’re blackmailing me? To defend the man who threw me out like garbage?”
“I’m giving you a chance to settle the debt, Alie,” he said, his eyes softening just a fraction. “Go to Austin. See the case. If you can honestly tell me there’s nothing there, I’ll let it go. But if the DOJ wins this on a technicality, nobody is safe. Not even you.”
He held out the folder.
I stared at it. It felt like a death warrant. But I knew Horatio. He didn't bluff. My career, the palace of glass I’d built to hide my shame, was at stake.
I snatched the folder from his hand. “I’m billing the state triple,” I spat. “And the moment this is over, you’re going to erase every trace of my name from that city’s records.”
“Deal,” he said.
The drive to Austin took three hours. Three hours of the Texas heat screaming through my vents, the familiar rolling hills of the Hill Country feeling like the walls of a cage.
I didn't go to a hotel. I didn't go to my sister’s. I drove straight to the Austin Federal Detention Center, a brutalist slab of concrete and rebar that smelled of misery and ozone.
The security was tighter than usual. Handheld scanners, scent-blocking mists, and guards with silver-lined batons. They knew who was inside. They knew the type of animals they were holding.
“Counselor Cruz,” the guard said, checking my credentials. He looked at my suit, then at my face, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “It’s been a long time. Thought you’d moved on to bigger things.”
“I did,” I said, my voice a frozen tundra. “Just open the door, Miller.”
The heavy steel door buzzed—a long, jarring sound that vibrated in my teeth. I stepped into the visiting block. It was empty, save for one booth at the very end. The glass was reinforced, thick enough to stop a bullet, and the air was thick with the heavy, cloying scent of pine and something dark, something ancient.
I walked toward the booth, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. It won’t be him, I told myself. It’s a RICO case. It’s probably some low-level enforcer. Some pup who doesn't know any better.
I rounded the corner.
The man sitting on the other side of the glass wasn't a pup.
He was a monster.
He was shackled at the wrists and ankles, the heavy silver chains clinking as he shifted his weight. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit that strained against the sheer mass of his shoulders. His hair was longer, a messy mane of dark brown, and a new scar slashed through the edge of his jaw, making him look even more lethal than the day he’d broken me.
His scent hit me then, not through the glass, but through the Bond that I thought I’d killed. It roared to life, a savage, agonizing heat that flooded my veins. My wolf whimpered, a sound of pure, pathetic longing that I silenced with a mental lash.
Rhett Callahan didn't look up immediately. He was staring at his hands, his knuckles bruised, his presence filling the small room until I felt like I was drowning.
I didn't sit down. I stood there, my briefcase clutched so hard my knuckles were white.
Slowly, he lifted his head.
His eyes weren't the amber I remembered. They were a dark, burning gold—the eyes of an Alpha who had spent five years in hell and liked the heat. He looked at me, his gaze dragging over my expensive suit, my polished hair, my trembling lips, with a hunger that was almost physical. It was the look of a predator who had finally cornered the prey that got away.
He didn't look surprised. He didn't look remorseful.
He picked up the phone, his movements slow and deliberate, the silver chains singing a song of captivity.
I reached for the receiver, my hand shaking so violently I had to use both to hold it to my ear.
“Rhett,” I whispered, the name tasting like ash and old blood.
He leaned forward, his face inches from the glass, his breath fogging the surface. A slow, dark smirk spread across his face, the same smirk he’d worn when he told me I was nothing.
“You’re late, Alie,” he growled, his voice a low, rhythmic vibration that settled right in the center of my heat. “I’ve been waiting five years for you to come home. I was starting to think I’d have to burn Dallas down to find you.”
- Writer
