The Pact Of Five

COUNTING DOWN

THE PACT OF FIVE

CHAPTER 4: COUNTING DOWN

The sheets are tangled around my legs, damp with sweat from the dreams I can’t remember but can *feel*—hands on my skin, mouths on my body, voices growling my name in the dark. The early morning light filters through the heavy velvet curtains of my suite in Blackthorn Manor, painting stripes of gold across the dark hardwood floor. My bedroom is a sanctuary of deep blues and blacks, the kind of space that feels like a hug and a warning all at once. The four-poster bed is massive, the comforter soft as sin, and the view from the balcony shows the valley waking up, mist curling over the forest like a living thing.

I stretch, my body aching in places it shouldn’t, and the memory of yesterday slams into me like a punch to the gut.

*Jax’s hand on my waist. Zane yanking him off. Knox’s voice like a whip. Cole’s guilt.*

*Fuck.*

I drag myself out of bed, my bare feet sinking into the plush rug as I pad toward the bathroom. The marble floor is cold under my toes, the mirror fogged from my shower last night. I splash water on my face, the cool liquid doing nothing to wash away the *heat* still lingering under my skin.

Daniel’s already gone—probably off to some pack meeting or another. The house is quiet, the only sounds the distant clatter of the kitchen staff preparing breakfast and the soft hum of the air conditioning. I pull on a silk robe, the fabric sliding against my skin like a lover’s touch, and tie the belt tight.

That’s when I see it.

A slip of paper, folded in half, sitting on my pillow like it’s been waiting for me.

My heart *stops.*

I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that it wasn’t there last night. That *one of them* put it there. That it’s for *me.*

My hands tremble as I reach for it, the paper crisp and expensive under my fingers. I unfold it slowly, my breath catching in my throat.

*"We’re counting down, little shadow."*

That’s it. That’s all it says.

But it’s *enough.*

Because I know what it means.

*Twenty-seven days.*

And they’re *all* counting.

I press the note to my chest, my pulse hammering so hard I’m surprised the whole damn manor can’t hear it. The handwriting is neat, precise—*Knox’s.* Of course it’s his. The man doesn’t do anything halfway.

A shiver runs down my spine, and I’m not sure if it’s fear or *excitement.* Maybe both.

I glance at the clock on my nightstand—7:15 AM. Too early for this s**t. But my mind is already racing, my body already *aching* with the need to see him. To see *all* of them.

I drop the note on my dresser and move to the window, pushing aside the curtain to let the morning light spill in. The view is breathtaking—the valley below is a patchwork of green and gold, the forest a dark line in the distance. But I’m not seeing any of it. All I can see is *them.*

Cole, with his golden hair and green eyes that look like sunlight through whiskey.

Jax, with his leather jacket and bad-boy smirk, his hands always too close, his touch always too *hot.*

Zane, with his silent intensity and piercing gray eyes, the way he watches me like I’m a puzzle he’s determined to solve.

Micah, with his wicked humor and knowing grin, the way he sees right through my bullshit.

And Knox. *f*****g* Knox. With his dark eyes and darker promises, the way he makes my skin burn with just a *look.*

I should be *terrified.* I *know* I should be. But all I feel is... *hunger.*

A sharp knock at my door makes me jump, my heart leaping into my throat. I grab my robe tighter, like it’s armor.

"Lena?" Daniel’s voice is muffled through the wood. "You up? Breakfast in ten."

I clear my throat, forcing my voice steady. "Yeah. Be down soon."

His footsteps retreat, and I exhale a shaky breath. But my relief is short-lived.

Because that’s when I hear it—the *creak* of the floorboards outside my door.

Not Daniel. *Him.*

I don’t even have to see him to know it’s Knox. I can *feel* him, like the pull of the moon on the tide. His scent—dark coffee and power—seeps under the door, wrapping around me, intoxicating me.

The doorknob turns.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. The door swings open, and there he is, filling the doorway like a dark god. His black suit is gone, replaced by a tight black t-shirt that clings to his chest, the fabric straining over muscle. His hair is slightly tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his dark eyes are *burning* into me.

"Morning, little shadow," he murmurs, his voice rough like gravel.

I lift my chin, even though my hands are *shaking.* "What are you doing here?"

His lips curl into a dark smile, and he steps into my room, shutting the door behind him with a quiet *click.* "Checking on you."

I take a step back, my back hitting the dresser. The note is still there, between us. *We’re counting down.*

His gaze flicks to it, then back to me. His eyes *darken.* "You found it."

It’s not a question. It’s a *statement.*

I swallow hard. "What’s it supposed to mean?"

He takes another step forward, his body caging me in. The air between us is *thick* with tension, with *hunger.* "You know what it means."

My breath hitches. *Twenty-seven days.* Until my birthday. Until the pact *ends.*

His hand lifts, his knuckles brushing my cheek. A spark. A *brand.* "You’re *mine,* Lena. And in twenty-seven days, I’m going to *prove* it."

I *should* push him away. Should tell him to get the hell out of my room. But I don’t. I just stand there, trapped between the dresser and his body, my heart *hammering.*

His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I *whimper.* "Knox—"

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his voice a dark caress. "Tell me to *leave.*"

I *should.* I *know* I should. But the words *die* in my throat.

Because the truth is, I *don’t* want him to stop.

And that makes me the *worst* kind of *slut.* Or the *best* kind of *omega.*

His other hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back. His eyes are *black* with hunger. "No? Then *taste* me, little shadow."

And then his lips are on mine.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a *claiming.* His mouth is hot, demanding, his tongue sweeping into my mouth like he owns it. Like he *owns me.* And *f**k,* maybe he does. My hands fly to his chest, my body arching into his, my mind *screaming* at me to stop, to *think,* to *breathe.*

But I don’t *want* to stop.

I want *him.* I want *them.*

And in twenty-seven days, I won’t *have* to choose.

His lips trail down my neck, his teeth grazing my skin, and I *moan,* my head falling back. His hand slides under my robe, his fingers *teasing* my n****e, and I *gasping,* my body *aching* for *more.*

And then—

*Click.*

The sound of the doorknob turning *again.*

We *freeze.*

Knox tears his lips from my neck, his chest heaving, his eyes *wild.* And when I look past him, there they are—Cole, Jax, Zane, and Micah, all standing in the hallway, their expressions a mix of *rage* and *hunger* and *betrayal.*

Knox’s jaw *clenches,* his hand *tightening* on my waist. But he doesn’t let go. Not yet.

And I *know*—this isn’t over.

Not by a *f*****g* long shot.