by Bella Jacobs
Most of the kids living in the tower right now have never run wild in the woods, never smelled the magic of the forest on the night of a full moon. Many of them have never been beyond these walls or the small park on the roof.
Human Side New York is more civilized than Parallel NYC, but it’s still a big, unpredictable, rough-around-the-edges metropolis.
It’s not the kind of place to take a young wolf out for a walk around the neighborhood. All it would take is a backfiring car or a shouted word from the drunk hanging out on the corner, and you’d have a kid shifting into their fur form, exposing our secret and attracting the wrong kind of attention.
In The Parallel, a child can grow up wild and unafraid.
That used to be the case, anyway, and it will be again. When I take back our territory, I’ll take the Blood River lands as well. And as soon as I’m the most powerful Alpha in The Parallel, things are going to change. I’ll bring peace to the supernatural lands.
As much peace as I prefer, anyway.
A little trouble isn’t a bad thing, especially after a long day shipping new product and bribing the officers of the Lower East Side to ignore said shipments.
I reach for my cell, intending to text Trix, my fairy friend, to see if she’d be up for a little fun later tonight after my intelligence meeting, when the doorbell buzzes again.
Leaving my drink on the bar, I cross to the door, anticipating the delivery of the intelligence report or perhaps Troy returning with word that Diana’s been found more swiftly than usual.
Instead, I open the door to reveal Hermione and…a drowned rat.
I arch a brow at my second-in-command and then cast a pointed look at the shorter woman dripping all over the hall carpet. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Refugee from The Parallel,” Hermione says. “Our lookout just pulled her out of the river.”
I blink, making no move to invite either of them inside. “Couldn’t you have dried her off a little first? And since when are we accepting refugees, Hermione? I thought we had an understanding.”
And the understanding is that any wolf who isn’t our wolf should be considered a Blood River pack spy. My father made the mistake of accepting a refugee last year. Not three months later, he was fighting for his life after being poisoned and Shane, the wounded Beta wolf he’d allowed to start work in the kitchen a few days before, was gone.
Hermione thinks he ran because he was afraid of being blamed for the poisoning, not because he actually did it—Hermione is as tough as they come but has a soft spot for damaged wolves.
I don’t share her opinion.
And I’m not about to put my family or people at risk for an outsider again.
“I thought you’d want to hear what she had to say,” Hermione says, arching one pale blond brow. With her white-blond hair cut in a close crop, impeccably fitted suit, and natural grace, Hermione consistently looks more put-together than most people.
Compared to the dripping wreck of a woman beside her in an oversized navy tracksuit, she looks like fucking royalty.
What’s that in that wretch’s hair…a glob of fish guts?
“I’m sorry,” the walking disaster says, lifting big green eyes framed by dark lashes. Eyes that are more attractive than the rest of her, I admit, though that isn’t saying much. “I tried to dry off, but there was just so much...water.” She lets out a breathy laugh. “But that’s what happens when you jump off a bridge. Better than not enough water, I guess. If you didn’t have enough water, you’d be…” She drags a finger across her throat, gulps, then drops her hand to her side, heaving a breath in and out before adding, “You’re even scarier in person than in pictures.”
“And you’re wasting my time,” I say, shifting my gaze back to Hermione. “What could this person possibly have to say that would interest me?”
“I’m Pax Darius’s mate,” the damp wolf says. “Or…I was.”
I arch a brow at Hermione, who nods subtly, confirming she’s already verified the story with our intelligence team. “And you came here because…?”
“Because I had nowhere else to go,” the woman says. “And because I’m hoping the enemy of my enemy will be my friend? I’m Willow, by the way.”
“I don’t care. I don’t need friends. And I don’t have any use for Pax Darius’s rejected mate.”
“He didn’t reject me, I rejected him,” she says, heat in her voice, and in those extraordinary eyes. “He’s a monster, a drunk, and the worst thing that ever happened to my pack, aside from his father and the rest of the Darius family.”
I agree with the bedraggled thing there, but the fact remains that she’s of no use to me. If she’d stayed with Pax and played the obedient mate for a few months, maybe we could have worked together.
But now…
“Is there any chance he’ll take you back?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
She gulps again. “Um, no. No chance. I hit him over the head with a statue, tied him up, and ran. If he catches me, he’ll kill me.”
“That’s unfortunate, for both of us. More unfortunate for you, however.” I motion to Hermione. “Get her dry clothes, give her some pocket money, and put her on a bus somewhere, then bring me the—”
“I can’t leave alone,” the girl—Willow, a name that’s vaguely familiar for some reason—says. “If I leave town without protection, I’m as good as dead. Pax probably already has his assassin team looking for me. And unlike him, they’re smart, sober, and very good at their jobs.”
I lift a shoulder and let it fall. “Not my problem, and you’ve already taken up enough of my time. Next time you come begging for protection, make sure you have something to bargain with.”
She rolls her shoulders back, standing her ground when Hermione puts a hand on her back. “What about Pax Darius’s child?” she challenges. “Any interest in that? Because I can’t think of anything Pax and his father would hate more than knowing Maxim Thorn is raising his son.”
I can’t think of anything they’d hate more, either.
And this ragamuffin just got a lot more interesting…
Chapter 3
Willow
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
Holy fucking shit.
I gulp and force my thoughts back to the conversation at hand instead of the insanity of my encounter with the North Star Alpha.
“Really? Mold?” the tall blond asks.
“Yes, several species of mold have psychotropic properties.” I tail her through a maze of hallways, presumably bound for a place where I can be “cleaned up,” in accordance with Maxim’s orders.
Maxim, who is so insanely gorgeous it should be illegal. Maxim, who also seems as heartless and arrogant as every other Alpha I’ve had the displeasure to meet.
Not true, he was going to give you dry clothes and money before he threw you out. Most Alphas wouldn’t have bothered.
I ignore the inner voice—I’m not in the mood to think even semi-kind thoughts about that devil-eyed, too-pretty-for-his-own-good man—and add, “And fungus, too. And not just mushrooms. There are others that looked promising in my early trials, and I know I could replicate those experiments in your facility. I could go to work right away. Tomorrow if you’d like.”
“There’s no need for you to work,” the woman says. “You’re here as our guest.”
Right…their guest, until they find out I’m not pregnant and toss me out on my ass.
I have one month, maybe five weeks if I push the angle that some women won’t test positive for a week or more after missing their period, to convince these wolves to keep me around. I don’t have a moment to waste. I need to get in that lab and show them how valuable I can be to the street drug side of their business—ASAP.
“But I’d love to be helpful,” I say. “Show the Alpha how grateful I am for his protection and good will.”
The woman’s lips twitch up at the edges. “Good will might be a slight exaggeration.”
“Right.” I wrinkle my nose. “Maybe he’ll like me better when I don’t have river slime in my hair?”
Her lips twitch again. “Maybe.”
“You don’t sound very optimistic.”
“I’m not,” she says, opening a plain white door on the right side of the hall and motioning me inside ahead of her.
“Why not?” I ask, trying not to feel deflated. I can’t afford to lose hope yet, not when it’s one of the only things I have left.
“Our Alpha’s a busy man. He doesn’t waste his time ‘liking’ anyone. There’s no need to take it personally.” She nods toward the door again. “Go on, in with you.”
I step into what looks like the entry to a spa. There’s a rock façade with water burbling down it against the far wall behind a semi-circular partition. A woman with silky black hair wearing orange scrubs types on a keyboard I can’t see behind the counter.
As we enter, she looks up from her screen, curiosity replacing the boredom on her face.
“Hey there, Hermione,” she says with a smile. “How can I help you?”
So, the Nordic princess’s name is Hermione. It fits her, I think. She’s more militant and reserved than the bookish, buoyant Harry Potter character, but she’s clearly smart. And kind, too. I could feel the compassion in her the moment I explained who I was and how I’d ended up in the river.
“Dara, this is Willow,” Hermione says. “She’ll be staying with us for a while. She came through the East River portal. She has no other clothes or personal supplies. Can you get her washed up and set for the night?”
Dara circles around the counter, her smile widening. “Of course, I can. It will be my pleasure.” She extends a hand. I take it, and she presses my palm warmly between both of hers. “You’re safe now, honey. No one’s getting at you while you’re inside these walls. North Star tower is a fortress.”
“Thank you,” I say, shocked to find tears rising in my eyes. She’s just so nice, and despite my brave face at Maxim’s door, I’ve been scared to death.
To feel safe—even if it’s just for the night—will be so nice.
“Of course, of course,” she says, patting my back. She motions through the double doors to the left of the counter. “Just head back there to the locker rooms. Take any locker with a key in it. You’ll find towels, sandals, and a robe in there. After that, you can hit the showers. We have shampoo, conditioner, and soap available in the dispensers, as well as razors and anything else you need. I’ll find you a toothbrush and some pajamas and be in to check on you in half an hour or so. Is that okay?”
I nod, my throat still tight as I say, “That’s perfect. Thank you so much.” I glance back at Hermione. “And thank you, too.”
She tips her head. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Maxim wants me to debrief you on everything that happened at the Blood River mate claiming ceremony tonight, but that can wait until you’re washed, fed, and rested.”
“Thank you,” I say again, before turning and heading through the doors, my thoughts already racing.
I’m a terrible liar, but I’m going to have to color the truth a little.
If I tell Hermione that the reason Pax started hitting me tonight was because he couldn’t get hard enough to take what he wanted from me, my pregnancy story is going to swirl away, right down the drain.
I shudder at the memory. I swear, I can still smell Pax’s scent on me, even after my dunking in the river.
A shower sounds so damned good.
I’m about to head to the lockers, when the soft murmuring of lowered voices reaches my ears.
I hesitate. I’m not usually the kind to eavesdrop, but I’m technically in enemy territory, even if most of the North Star pack members have been kind so far. I would be smart to gather as much intelligence about my situation as possible, even if I have to get some of it on the sly.
Holding my breath, I tiptoe back toward the door and lean in until my ear is inches from the smooth wood and Hermione and Dara’s lowered voices are loud enough to decipher their words.
“You’re kidding,” Dara whispers, sounding scandalized. “He wants her in the consort’s wing? I didn’t think he ever let women sleep over, not even in his bed, let alone over there.”
“She won’t be sleeping over, she’ll be under observation,” Hermione says. “Maxim doesn’t trust her.”
Dara snorts in response. “He doesn’t trust anyone. That’s why he’s the best Alpha ever.”
I wrinkle my nose again, deciding maybe I don’t like Dara quite as much as I thought. She seems nice, but she’s clearly brainwashed if she thinks that man is the best anything ever. Except maybe the best at filling out a pair of suit pants.
Seriously, even terrified and not at all interested in boys at the moment, I couldn’t help but notice the way his powerful thighs strained the seams of his gray slacks.
“But if she’s the latest assassin,” Dara continues, “I think they could have tried harder, don’t you? She looks about as dangerous as a half-drowned kitten.”
“Maybe that’s their angle. Send someone non-threatening, get us to lower our guard, and then she strikes.”
“Do you think so?” Dara asks, still sounding doubtful. “Do you think she’s dangerous?”
“No, but I think she’s lying about something. Until we find out what, Maxim is smart to keep her under lock and key. Let him know as soon as you’ve shown Willow to the consort’s quarters. He’ll make sure everything is secure and she’s locked in for the night.”
My throat tightens.
So, I’m going to be a prisoner…
I’m honestly not surprised. I fully expected to be thrown in a dungeon as soon as I arrived. Or, more likely, a cell. Rumor has it the North Star pack has an entire block of cells in their basement, where they lock up their enemies as well as pack members who misbehave.
There’s allegedly a torture chamber down there, too…
So why is Maxim housing me in the consort’s wing? That isn’t just a guest room in his apartment. Those rooms will one day belong to his mate, and I doubt she’ll be thrilled to learn that he had a Blood River pack prisoner in there for a month while he waited to find out if she was knocked up.
But as soon as the thought drifts through my mind, I know Maxim won’t care what his mate thinks. Maxim is a man who does as he damn well pleases and acquiring a wife isn’t going to change that.
He probably wants me close so he can keep eyes—and nose—on me. Female wolves give off a scent when they’re pregnant, a cozy smell like warm milk and fresh baked bread. It usually isn’t noticeable until a woman is at least a few months along, but in some cases the scent shift starts right after conception.
Great, I think, as I tiptoe back into the locker room and fetch a robe and slippers. I’m going to be living right under the nose of an Alpha determined to sniff out my secrets and prove I’m an assassin.
Even knowing that I truly don’t mean this pack any harm can’t banish the anxiety the thought provokes.
I don’t have to be an assassin, after all. Maxim just has to decide I am.
To decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth and that he’d prefer I be tossed out on my ass.
Or killed.
That’s what Pax would do. All it would take is the whispered rumor of betrayal and the wolf in question would be tossed off a skyscraper.
Maxim doesn’t seem that ruthless, but what do I know?
His eyes are a brown so deep they’re almost black and I swear when he looked at me, it felt like he was seeing straight through my skin—and that he wasn’t the slightest bit impressed with my internal organs.
Or my soul.
Or whatever it was he saw with that glittering gaze.
I turn the water on as hot as I can bear, undress, and step under the spray. I close my eyes, pulling in slow, deep breaths and willing myself to calm down.
I have time. I have a bargaining chip. I have talents that can be useful to this pack and this Alpha.
&n
bsp; I just need to hold it together and show Maxim I’m worthy of his trust.
Or at least the benefit of the doubt.
I finish in the shower, wrap up in a fluffy towel, and pad into the dressing area, where vanity mirrors ring the walls, and pots and jars of various upscale toiletries vie for space on the counters. I find a curl cream that smells divine—like sage and lemon—and brush it through my hair with my fingers. I smooth on eye cream and face lotion but pass over the cosmetics and perfumes.
I’m headed to bed, not to a dinner date, and I don’t want Maxim to get the impression that I’m trying to be pretty for him. He seemed about as interested in me as a bowl of congealed oatmeal and I’d prefer it stay that way.
No matter how pretty he is, I’ve had my fill of that kind of attention from dominating wolves. Pax isn’t the first guy to try to take things further than I wanted him to.
Sexual violence in The Parallel has increased right along with all the other kinds of violence. It’s all connected. As soon as men stop feeling bad about killing each other, they stop feeling bad about taking what they want from the women in their pack, whether the women have given consent or not.
I was relatively safe tucked away in the science library or the lab at Parallel Uni, but there were still times when it was hard to avoid unwanted attention. In line for dinner at the cafeteria, shopping for groceries, and walking home after my one late night class. Even without makeup and with more curves than the average wolf, I attracted attention.
Despite the taunts about being the world’s biggest nerd when I was a kid and the general shunning involved with being on the Alpha’s Shit List, I know I’m attractive. I’ve seen the way men’s eyes follow me when I cut through the park or even pop out to take the trash to our apartment building’s communal dumpster. They’re definitely interested in a way that has more to do with the way I look than my sparkling personality or dazzling wit.
