Ruined by the Sovereign

Chapter Four

Ryan stopped breathing. The silence in the dining room was so absolute Jane could hear the expensive grandfather clock ticking in the hallway. Three ticks. Four.

Michael kept his thumb pressed against her pulse. The heat from his skin was a live wire, sinking through her silk collar, diving straight into her bloodstream. The feral venom he had pumped into her three nights ago woke up. It answered him. A heavy, aching wetness pooled low in her stomach, entirely inappropriate for a hostile takeover.

Jane stared at the silver salt shaker near her plate. She counted the small holes in the metal cap. Seven holes. If she focused on the salt, she would not shatter.

Ryan stared at Michael's hand. His boyish, catalog-model face contorted. The arrogance fractured, replaced by an ugly, desperate confusion. He looked at Elena. Elena was gripping her linen napkin so hard her knuckles were white, her golden-blonde hair suddenly looking very dull in the harsh chandelier light.

You are lying, Ryan said. His voice cracked. He tried to inject a roar into the words, but it came out thin. You were locked in a lightless box for years. You are a feral animal. You did not touch her.

Michael slid his thumb off Jane's neck. The loss of contact made a cold shiver wreck through her spine. She wanted to lean back into his hand. The urge was disgusting. She picked up her water glass, her hand remarkably steady, and took a slow sip.

Michael picked up his crystal tumbler of bourbon. He did not look at his younger brother. He looked across the long mahogany table at Marcus Sterling. Jane's father.

The Elder Council is dead, Michael said. His voice was a soft, cold drawl that carried into every corner of the room. The two heads in the duffel bag were the architects of my imprisonment. The rest of the traitors will be dealt with by morning. I am taking my seat. You will transfer all pack financial holdings back into my name by midnight.

Marcus swallowed hard. The older man looked at the blood seeping through the canvas of the duffel bag on the floor, then at the bespoke suit of the monster sitting at his table. Marcus nodded once.

And the transition of power requires a binding treaty, Michael continued, taking a slow sip of his bourbon. The old laws demand a Luna. I am taking Jane.

Ryan slammed his hands on the table. The crystal glasses rattled.

She is mine to discard, Ryan shouted, the panic fully setting in. You do not just walk in here and take my leftovers. She is defective. Her bond to me was weak.

Elena leaned forward, her voice a shrill, desperate whisper. Ryan chose me. Jane is nothing. She is ruined.

She is exactly what I want, Michael said.

He finally turned his golden eyes to Ryan. The sheer, suffocating weight of his Alpha aura slammed into the room. It was not a roar. It was a physical pressure, like being at the bottom of the ocean. Several pack members at the far end of the table dropped to their knees, gasping for air.

Jane sat perfectly straight. The aura did not crush her. It wrapped around her, heavy and possessive, feeding the unnatural heat burning between her thighs. She crossed her legs under the table, trying to crush the ache.

Ryan fought the aura. His jaw ticked. He pushed himself off the table, desperate to prove to the room that he was still the Alpha. He lunged toward Jane, his hand reaching out to grab her shoulder, to pull her out of Michael's orbit.

Get up, Jane, Ryan snarled.

Jane did not flinch. She watched Ryan's hand reach for her.

Michael moved. He did not drop his glass. His left hand shot out and caught Ryan's wrist mid-air.

The movement was a blur of violence, but Michael's face remained entirely blank. He held Ryan's arm suspended over the table. Ryan grunted, trying to pull back. He could not move an inch. It was like his arm was bolted to a steel beam.

Michael looked at the crystal tumbler in his right hand. The amber liquid swirled gently.

I do not like it when other men touch my things, Michael whispered.

He twisted his left hand.

The wet, heavy snap of bone echoed through the dining room. It sounded like a thick tree branch breaking in half.

Ryan let out a high, agonizing scream. His knees buckled. He collapsed onto the floor, clutching his ruined wrist to his chest, sobbing violently.

Michael set his bourbon glass down on the table. He had not spilled a single drop.

The room was paralyzed. Elena let out a muffled sob, staring at Ryan writhing on the floor, but she did not move to help him. She looked at Michael, true terror finally breaking through her performative sweetness. She realized in an instant that the man she had manipulated Ryan to secure was nothing but a weak puppet. The true power was sitting calmly at the head of the table, and he belonged to the sister she had spent her entire life trying to destroy.

Jane looked at the broken wrist. Then she looked at Michael's knuckles. There was a tiny speck of blood on his cufflink from the duffel bag. She felt a sudden, inappropriate urge to wipe it off.

Marcus cleared his throat, his eyes fixed on the table. The Sterling family accepts the treaty, Sovereign. Jane will be moved to the lower estate by morning.

No, Michael said.

He stood up. He buttoned his suit jacket, his broad shoulders blocking out the light from the chandelier. The feral beast from the cell was gone, replaced entirely by the surgical tactician. But Jane could smell the pine. She could smell the blood. She knew exactly what was hiding under the Italian wool.

She is not going to the lower estate, Michael said. She is moving into the glass penthouse. Tonight.

Jane's clinical detachment finally cracked. The penthouse. The highest point in the city. The place where the Alpha lived, isolated, locked behind reinforced glass and security codes. There would be no pack members there. No servants. Just him.

She looked up at him. Her ice-blue eyes met his glowing amber ones.

I need to pack my things, Jane said. Her voice was flat, empty, giving him absolutely nothing.

Michael stared down at her. A dark, terrifying smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

Leave it all, Michael whispered, leaning down so his lips were mere inches from her ear. The heat radiating from him made her breath hitch. You will not be wearing clothes where we are going. Pack your bags, little wolf. You belong to the Sovereign now.