The Alpha's forbidden contract

Shadows Of The Wolf

Isabella Vega’s arms ached as she pushed the cleaning cart down the dimly lit corridor of Jaxon Creed’s mansion. The marble floors gleamed under her efforts, reflecting the soft glow of wall sconces, but her mind was far from the mop in her hands. Jaxon’s voice echoed in her thoughts...Stay out of places you don’t belong, his words laced with a warning that felt more like a dare. And that word, mate, overheard in his heated exchange with the man called Damon, clawed at her, stirring something restless in her chest. It wasn’t just nerves. It was something deeper, wilder, like a pulse she couldn’t silence.

The wolf painting in the hallway loomed ahead, its amber eyes glinting as if alive. She paused, her rag dripping water onto the floor. The painting’s power hadn’t faded since her first glance hours ago; if anything, it was stronger, pulling her like a magnet. Her fingers twitched, aching to trace the brushstrokes, to understand why it felt like it was watching her. Her mother’s old stories...tales of wolves and moons and destinies, whispered in her memory, but she shoved them aside. Fairy tales didn’t pay bills.

“Focus, Isa,” she muttered, forcing herself to move. Scarlett’s sharp orders had kept her busy all night, scrubbing bathrooms and polishing banisters in the west wing. The mansion was a maze of opulence, every room dripping with wealth, silk drapes, gold accents, ocean views that made her long for her sketchbook. But the claw marks on that door, the painting, Jaxon’s gray eyes, they were pieces of a puzzle she couldn’t ignore.

The clock on the wall read 11:47 p.m. Her shift was nearly over, but Scarlett had left her alone to finish the last hallway, muttering about “other duties” with a scowl. Isabella didn’t mind. Scarlett’s presence was like a storm cloud, heavy with suspicion, and being alone let her thoughts wander...dangerously...to Jaxon. The way he’d leaned close, his breath brushing her ear, had left her flushed and unsteady. He was her boss, a billionaire with a reputation colder than ice, but her body hadn’t cared. It still didn’t.

She reached the end of the corridor, where a heavy oak door stood ajar, revealing a glimpse of a library. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, packed with leather-bound books, and a fireplace cast flickering shadows across the room. The scent of old paper and woodsmoke drew her in, a welcome change from the sterile polish of the rest of the mansion. She glanced over her shoulder, no Scarlett, no security cameras in sight. Just a peek, she told herself. She was an artist, not a thief, but curiosity burned hotter than caution.

Stepping inside, she let the door close softly behind her. The library was vast, its air thick with secrets. A massive desk dominated one end, strewn with papers and a crystal decanter of amber liquid. Above it hung another painting, this one of a moonlit forest, wolves circling a shadowed figure. Her heart skipped. The figure’s silhouette was unmistakable, tall, broad, commanding. Jaxon.

Her fingers brushed the desk, grazing a leather journal. She froze, Jaxon’s warning ringing in her ears. Don’t wander. But the journal’s cover was embossed with a wolf’s head, its eyes carved with the same amber glow as the painting. Before she could stop herself, she opened it, revealing pages of sharp, slanted handwriting. Words jumped out, pack, alliance, mate and a sketch of a woman’s face, her features hauntingly familiar. Dark curls, sharp cheekbones. It was her.

A creak behind her made her spin, the journal slipping from her hands. Jaxon stood in the doorway, his gray eyes blazing with something between fury and hunger. He was out of his suit now, wearing a black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a glimpse of tanned skin and muscle. The air crackled, and that clawing feeling in her chest surged, like a beast waking up.

“What are you doing here?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, each word a step closer. He stopped inches away, towering over her, his scent, sandalwood and wildness, flooding her senses.

“I...I got lost,” she stammered, her back pressing against the desk. It was a lie, and his eyes narrowed, seeing through it.

“Lost?” He leaned closer, one hand bracing on the desk beside her, caging her in. “Or curious?” His gaze dropped to her lips, and her breath hitched. The heat of him was overwhelming, pulling her like gravity. She should’ve been scared, her boss had caught her snooping but all she felt was a reckless spark, a need to push back.

“I’m not a spy, Mr. Creed,” she said, lifting her chin. “I was just...”

“Touching what’s mine,” he cut in, his voice a low rumble. His eyes flickered, not with anger now, but something hotter, darker. “You don’t know what you’re stepping into, Isabella.”

Her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine, warm and electric. “Then tell me,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “What’s with the paintings? The claw marks? Mate?”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, she thought he’d snap. Instead, he stepped closer, so close their bodies nearly touched, his breath warm against her cheek. “You heard that,” he said, not a question. “You’re in deeper than you should be.”

Her heart pounded, but she didn’t back down. “Maybe I want to know more.”

His eyes darkened, and a low sound...almost a growl...rumbled in his chest. “Careful, Isabella. Some secrets bite.”

Before she could respond, a crash echoed from the hallway, glass shattering against marble. Jaxon spun, his body tensing like a predator ready to strike. “Stay here,” he ordered, his voice sharp as he strode toward the door.

But Isabella’s blood was racing, that clawing feeling urging her to move. She followed him, ignoring his command, her sneakers silent on the floor. The hallway was dark, the wolf painting’s eyes glowing like beacons. Shards of a broken vase littered the floor, and a shadow moved at the far end,

a figure, tall and lean, slipping around the corner.

“Who’s there?” Jaxon barked, his voice carrying a power that made her skin prickle. He moved faster, and Isabella struggled to keep up, her heart hammering. The figure vanished into a stairwell, and Jaxon cursed under his breath, his hand grazing hers as he turned back.

“I told you to stay put,” he snapped, but his touch lingered, his fingers warm against her wrist. The contact sent a jolt through her, and she swore his eyes flickered gold, not gray, for a split second.

“I’m not your dog,” she shot back, pulling her hand free, though her skin burned where he’d touched her. “What’s going on? Who was that?”

He stared at her, his expression unreadable, but the air between them crackled with something alive, anger, desire, she couldn’t tell. “You’re not ready for the truth,” he said finally, his voice softer but no less intense. “Go back to your work. Now.”

She wanted to argue, to demand answers, but the weight of his gaze stopped her. She nodded, stepping back, her mind a storm of questions. As she returned to her cart, the clawing in her chest grew sharper, like something was fighting to break free. She glanced at the wolf painting one last time, and this time, she was certain: its eyes followed her, glowing brighter, as if it knew her secret before she did.