Chapter Four
871 Words
Damon's hand shot out, clamping Lucas's wrist like a vice before his brother could bolt. The study
door hung half-open behind them, Alfred's rasping snores filtering through like a dying engine. But
the bedroom—that room—reeked of finality, blood's copper bite seeping under the frame.
Damon's wolf stirred, a low rumble in his chest he barely caged. Not now. Not with him."What the
hell are you—" Damon growled, yanking Lucas close. Up close, his brother's face was a mirror
cracked— same dark hair, same sharp jaw, but Lucas's green eyes flickered with cornered-rat
cunning. No shock. No gasp at the corpse they'd wheeled past. Just calculation, cold as a
boardroom bluff.Lucas twisted free, casual as shrugging off a coat. "Easy, big brother. I heard the
crash. Thought Father might've keeled over on you." His gaze flicked to Damon's blood-flecked
cuff—Hansel's arc, faint but damning. "Looks like he didn't go quiet."Damon's nails bit into his
palm, sharpening to claws he forced blunt. The envelope burned in his jacket pocket, its words
seared: Claim a true mate. Bind the pack's legacy. Or watch the empire bleed out by the next full
moon. Alfred's "truth"—not just fangs and fur, but a billion-dollar curse. The Cross fortune wasn't
built on deals; it was wolf-blood, old packs funneled into shell corps, rivals "vanished" under
moonlit hunts. And now? Marry— mate—or lose it all to the shadows circling: Vanessa's
conglomerate vultures, Lucas's whispers,
Tina's ghost from the past."You pushed him in there," Damon hissed, alpha instincts flaring. The
air thickened, his scent—pine and storm—flooding the space, a dominance play Lucas ignored
with infuriating ease. "Hansel. You think I didn't smell your stink on him? Five years of leaks.
Affairs. Deals. You're no better than the Eclipse strays sniffing our borders."Lucas's laugh was a
bark, bitter and short. "Eclipse? Cute, Damon. Always the pack loyalist. Father's the
stray—modest insurance hack one day, alpha-wannabe the next. Frieda's warning? 'Watch the
moon.' He bought that fortune with blood, not brains. And you? You're next in line to lap it up." He
stepped closer, voice dropping to a venomous thread. "But that envelope? Share it. Or I'll dig my
own claim."Damon's wolf howled inside—betrayer, runt, end him—but duty chained it. Pack first.
Empire over blood. He released Lucas with a shove, the younger man stumbling into the
mahogany desk. "Touch it, and you're done. Father's will isn't a game. It's survival." He
straightened his tie, the silk whispering like fur against skin. "Clean up your mess in there. And
stay out of my hunt."Lucas rubbed his wrist, eyes narrowing to slits. "Hunt? For what—a sheep in
the fold? Good luck, alpha. Some legacies bite back."Damon stormed out, elevator cables hissing
him down to the garage. The city blurred past as his Bentley snarled through Manhattan
traffic—neon veins pulsing under a slate-gray sky. He needed a wife. A fake one, human enough
to sign papers, omega-scent faint to fool the bond. Six months, $5 million payout, empire
secured. No strings. No shattering his walls.But the wolf clawed deeper, whispering of true.
Fated. A pull he'd rejected once before—Tina's betrayal, her belly swelling with lies, fleeing to
rivals with pack secrets. Not again. He pulled up the art site on his phone, thumbing
ShadowWolfNYC—his alias, buys locked in. Lila Hart's canvases screamed fire: abstracts of
shadowed beasts, crimson claws against midnight blues. Her bio? Bare. Brooklyn studio,
journalist gigs under a ghost name. Perfect pawn—desperate, disposable.He double-parked
outside a Midtown cafe, the kind with overpriced lattes and harried servers. Rain spat against the
windshield as he strode in, suit impeccable, mind a storm. Order. Consume. Propose. Simple.The
door chime drowned in the rush-hour din. He scanned the line—suits barking orders, steam
hissing from machines. Then: chaos. A woman barreled backward, wild auburn curls bouncing,
freckles stark against flushed olive skin. Paint-splattered jeans hugged curves that hit him like a
gut punch. Her tray tilted—scalding coffee arced through the air, drenching his crisp white shirt in
a hot, dark bloom.She whirled, brown eyes flashing like embers. "s**t—oh God, I'm so sorry!"
Hands flew up, napkin bunching against his chest—too close, her jasmine-and-charcoal scent
slamming into him. Mate. The word detonated, wolf surging, veins igniting with need. Her touch
sparked, electric, bones humming in recognition. Mine.Damon froze, breath ragged. No. Human.
Fake. But his hand caught her wrist, gentle despite the growl building. Up close: fierce,
unyielding, lips parted in defiance. Not fear. Fire."You," he rasped, voice gravel over silk, "just
ruined a Brioni."Her chin lifted, stubborn spark igniting. "Bill me, suit. Or learn to dodge."The
barista gaped. Patrons whispered. Damon's world narrowed to her—fated, forbidden, a threat
wrapped in paint. He should've fired her on sight. Instead: "My office. Now. We need to...
talk."She yanked free, but those eyes held—pulling, promising ruin. Or redemption.As she
stormed ahead, his phone buzzed: Lucas. Found something on your "art buy." Hart's digging
where she shouldn't. Careful, brother. Some wolves hunt in packs.
- Writer
