Gone with the Wolf

by Kristin Miller

  “At least there’ll be more room in the file drawers.” Smiling ear to ear, Emelia rolled back from the desk and slid the waste bin farther beneath it. She checked the time on her iPhone. “Trixie didn’t mention when we break for lunch. I think it’s about time.”

  “I don’t think so,” a gravelly voice said from behind her. “Not yet.”

  Mr. Wilder’s office consumed the entire upper floor. There was only one person who could be standing behind her.

  Shitdamnshit.

  She’d moved too fast, had gotten too close to the fire and had been burned. How much had he seen? Wincing, Emelia spun around.

  “Drake?” She blanched.

  “Good afternoon, Emelia.”

  He was just as she remembered through her drunken fog. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his lips curving seductively into a smile. The width of his stance was commanding and stern, matching the hard clench of his jaw. His eyes were dark and brooding, hiding delicious secrets. Her body’s reaction to Drake hadn’t changed much in twelve hours. Her core heated and shook, quivering with anticipation.

  How fast could they get to the nearest closet?

  “Wha—what are you doing here?” She searched around his shoulder for Mr. Wilder, peering into the depths of the heartless CEO’s office. A stocky man with dark hair and darker eyes stepped out. The perfectly pressed suit he wore probably cost more than a year of her rent. “Mr. Wilder, I presume?”

  “Oh, no, but don’t I wish.” The man laughed, two deep belts that seemed to erupt from his belly. His gaze flipped from Emelia to Drake. “I think my guess was right on the mark, sir. You watch. She’s going to be your best personal secretary yet.”

  A low rumble filled the space between them. Emelia could’ve sworn it was a growl. Where’d that come from? She double-checked the power light on the shredder.

  “That’ll be all, Mr. Bloomfield,” Drake ordered, then met Emelia’s eyes. “Would you mind stepping into my office?”

  No, no, no, he had to be kidding; the hard-pressed line of his lips proved otherwise.

  “You’re not…I mean, you weren’t…” As reality hit, Emelia backed against the desk so the urge to jab him in the throat wouldn’t overtake her. “You lied to me.”

  “Well, that depends on how you look at it. Would you mind?” He spread his arm toward his open office door. “I promise I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

  The hard glare in Drake’s eyes defeated her rejection before she gave it. He wasn’t asking for a few minutes with her, alone in his office. He was demanding it. Emelia got the feeling he wasn’t turned down often.

  “Is your name even Drake?” she snapped, passing through the door.

  “My formal, given name is Russell Drake Wilder. I’m named after my father, but as I told you last night, my friends call me Drake.”

  Damn it. Russell D. Wilder. His name was emblazoned over the top of every piece of correspondence that left the building. Okay, so he hadn’t lied, but he hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with the truth, which was the same in her book.

  The door clicked shut and Emelia became hyperaware that very few people were ever invited into his personal space. Not only did he own the elaborate furnishings, he owned the building. Hell, he owned the entire block and the one across the street. He controlled every last ounce of breathable air and everything within the four mocha-painted walls. In this space—his space—did he think he ruled over her, too?

  Probably. Ass.

  She stood like a statue in the center of his office, on the edge of a bearskin rug, surrounded by dark leather and well-oiled wood. The place threw off a warm, soothing vibe, yet all Emelia could think about was how numb her insides felt—it was the cold, harsh sting of betrayal.

  “You could’ve said that we were in your cellar, drinking your wine. You could’ve said your name was Russell. You lied to me.” Anger surged through Emelia’s veins. First, Drake had tried to rip her bar from underneath her—the only thing she had in the world—and then he’d kissed her, turned her on, and left her in the basement of his mansion. He’d lied. Made her feel something for him that wasn’t real. Jacking with her business was heartless, but messing with her emotions was on another whole level of snake. “That was really messed up, even for someone like you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” He leaned against his desk, folded his arms and crossed his ankles. He exuded dominance, raw and unyielding. “Someone like me?”

  Oh boy. She teetered between telling him what she really thought of him and playing the part of a good little secretary so she could sharpen the dagger she held behind his back.

  Decisions, decisions.

  Why did he have to look so polished in that suit? The stark contrast between the baby-blue hue of his shirt and the fire in his dark eyes was startling. His good looks were more than distracting—they hindered her thought process completely. Is that how he got away with screwing people out of their livelihoods?

  Damn if she’d let him screw with her emotions, too. She pulled a rein on her rapidly firing libido and cinched it around her desire for vengeance.

  “I mean that you’re a savvy businessman. You play with numbers, figures, and loans all day. You play the stock market, and investors of foreign trade, but playing with someone’s emotions? That’s just plain evil.”

  His face didn’t twitch, flinch, flex. Nothing. He barely responded to her presence at all. Like the kiss last night never happened.

  She shouldn’t be feeling like this. He was a serpent in Italian threads. A corporate drone, stuck in the business of trampling kind, hardworking people to advance his own profits. Didn’t he care to talk about what happened with the building he’d presumably acquired? Didn’t he care to discuss how it was possible that she held a deed to the same building?

  “You didn’t think I was evil last night,” Drake said plainly. “Yet the moment you find out who I am, you have no problem insulting me. I’m sorry about lying to you last night, but I thought you’d act differently if I told you who I really was.”

  “Damn Skippy.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  She groaned. Was lack of humor a requisite on the Wilder Financial application? “If I’d known you were my boss, I would’ve been a completely different person. I wouldn’t have finished off that bottle of wine, I wouldn’t have let myself get so tipsy, and I sure as hell wouldn’t have kissed you.”

  His brow furrowed as he seemed to toss over her words. “Tell me, if you think I’m so evil and hate my name so much, why are you working in a building with my name on it?”

  This was it. The moment she’d been waiting for.

  Emelia wanted him to hear her out as she told him about how she’d bought the Knight Owl from her neighbor eight years ago. She wanted to tell him to stick his “legal” plot map in his pipe and smoke it. She’d given years of her life maintaining the Knight Owl and had struggled to keep the bar true to its historically famous roots. She wasn’t about to give it up to Wilder Financial so they could demolish the building and turn it into another stale coffee joint.

  But as Emelia stared into Drake’s warm, mocha-toned eyes, she caught sight of the man from last night. The man who showed her that passion wasn’t something that developed over time, or something you had to work at to achieve. True, skin-searing passion was something you either had, or you didn’t.

  With Drake, she had it.

  “Things are changing in my bar, and I’m struggling to catch up,” she said, offering a smidgeon of truth. “Profits are low, expenses are high, and I needed other income. My temp company placed me here.”

  “But you’ve hated working here so far?”

  Emelia nodded slowly.

  “I see.”

  Maybe if she worked as Mr. Wilder’s secretary for a week, they would build a mutual respect. When he realized there were hearts behind the businesses he was shutting down, maybe he would be more inclined to listen and understand what she’d been saying all
along.

  She’d purchased the Knight Owl free and clear.

  It wasn’t her fault that her neighbor took off with the money and then claimed to have sold the entire building to Wilder Financial. The least Mr. Wilder could do was look over her documents and let her keep the bar that was rightly hers to begin with. She didn’t know how much he paid for the building, or how he’d get his money back, but it would have to play out that way, wouldn’t it?

  Drake took a long sip of his coffee, set down the glossed mug, and stared out onto Seattle’s cityscape. Rain misted over the windows, blocking out any particular shapes of buildings in the distance. The entire city was one big blur.

  “And I’m an evil businessman.” Drake’s voice was hoarse. Barley a whisper. “Isn’t that what you called me?”

  When their eyes met, Emelia caught a glimpse of what looked like pain. Remorse? Sadness? Damn it, there went the pang in her stomach.

  “I didn’t say you were evil. Not exactly. I said lying to me was evil.”

  “I don’t think this should be drawn out any longer.” He stood, reaching out his hand.

  She felt her face puzzle. “What shouldn’t be drawn out?”

  “Good day, Ms. Hudson.”

  Emelia eyed Drake’s hand carefully, staving off the feeling that she was being baited for something. Shaking his hand was simple, a temporary peace offering. But touching him could unleash the same feelings as last night—she couldn’t walk straight for two hours after his lips had touched hers.

  “Good day.” She curled her fingers around his hand. The instant they touched, electric currents of something hot and palpable sparked over her skin, jump-starting her heart. She jerked back. “Whoa. Must be static electricity.”

  “Yeah.” His eyes shadowed over and he rubbed his hand. “Must be.”

  Chapter Four

  It’d been five days since Drake touched Emelia skin to skin, palm to palm. Five days since he realized that she was, unequivocally, his Luminary. He’d wrapped up business and bailed, taken his helicopter to the airport and flown straight to his home in LA. He had to put space between them so he could think properly.

  Two hundred years ago—hell, even last century—Drake would’ve howled all hours of the day and night to find his Luminary.

  His father, Alpha to their pack, had owned and maintained unbelievable amounts of property before he died. Half of Queens and Brooklyn, most of Chicago and Seattle, and decent parts of Los Angeles were all Wilder property. Beyond the property and investments, he ruled over the most powerful werewolf pack in the world.

  Handing control to an Alpha heir should’ve been simple. But Drake had a twin brother, Silas, and it’d been made perfectly clear that sharing control over the pack was not an option.

  Knowing the pack wouldn’t take commands from two Alphas, Drake’s father had decreed that the first son to find his Luminary would become Alpha. The order had been simple. Find your soul mate and control the pack. The other brother would inherit their father’s property and be financially set for life. The order had started a nasty race to search out their Luminaries. Silas had been born minutes before Drake and felt that control over the pack should’ve been given directly to him.

  Not wanting to destroy their relationship, Drake told Silas he didn’t care to find his Luminary—he’d given up the search. He wouldn’t let his thirst for control tear apart their family any longer. He and Silas had found peace, shared profits, worked alongside each other the way they should’ve all along. Some members of the pack naturally gravitated toward one of them or the other, and there was a large group of army-like mercenaries who refused to declare loyalty until a true Alpha was determined, but for the most part, they’d ruled equally.

  But now, finding Emelia—a human, above all else—changed everything.

  Silas would sense that Drake had found his Luminary. And he’d know that Drake would take control over the pack he longed to rule alone. That realization wasn’t going to sit well with a control freak like Silas.

  Drake had planned on staying away from Emelia longer—a month might’ve weakened the pull between them and fuzzed the signal between Drake and his brother—but he’d gotten sick. Headaches and chills wouldn’t quit. Vomiting increased as the days crept on. He hadn’t slept a wink.

  He’d instructed Raul to dive into ancient werewolf texts to see if there was some mention of the physical or psychological reaction an Alpha would have upon finding his Luminary. Within hours Raul had unearthed something disturbing: once an Alpha and his Luminary touched, they were connected by spirit. Sickness was common during long periods of absence, especially for the male.

  Bloody wonderful. Drake was connected to a woman who seemed to hate him, yet if he stayed away from her longer than a few days, he’d be sick. Emelia didn’t exactly say she hated him, but Drake sensed unbridled disdain bubbling within her.

  As he parked his BMW Roadster in front of the Knight Owl, he leaned beneath the doorframe and stared at the sidewalk welcome sign and warm, glowing interior. Chills gathered at the base of his spine. Why did he feel like he knew the building? He’d never been here before. Never even heard of the place.

  The Knight Owl. He would’ve remembered such a name, wouldn’t he?

  He exited the car and zipped up his coat, steeling himself against the crisp night wind. As he stepped onto the curb, Drake made a quick call to Raul that went straight to voice mail.

  “Find everything you can on the bar called the Knight Owl, located at 970 East Porter Street.” He ended the call, hesitating a beat before striding through the front door.

  Though the concept was ludicrous, Drake felt better already, merely being near the place that held such a strong tie to Emelia. Strength returned to his legs and the tomato soup he’d forced down at dinner finally settled in his stomach.

  Emelia was nearby.

  Striding through the creaky door, Drake was slammed with the mouthwatering aroma of BBQ burgers and roasted garlic. The walls were painted rich shades of brown and burgundy. Candles on the tables and lanterns in the corners cast a warm, buttery glow over the room. Mismatched chairs and wood-topped tables could’ve easily accommodated fifty people, though tonight the space was nearly empty. A group of four college-aged kids fought over a heaping plate of something brown that was situated in the center of their table—garlic-roasted onion strips, from the pungent smell of them. A lone guitarist in desperate need of a shave strummed away on the stage in the corner, giving a horrible rendition of “Stairway to Heaven.”

  The place had an interesting feel. It had character. Spice. And it was so unlike the other bars he’d visited in Seattle.

  Newspaper clippings in gold-tinseled frames covered the walls, snagging Drake’s attention. As an older couple emerged from the back half of the building and made their way toward the exit, Drake moved aside to let them pass. The faded headline of an article from October 30, 1929, caught his interest.

  Dow Plummets Thirty Points. Wall Street Scrambles to Recover.

  Drake remembered the day after the stock market crash well. He and Silas fought over whether to pull cash from their investments and hide it in overseas accounts or hold tight and ride out the drought. Seemed like they couldn’t agree on anything.

  “Hi, handsome. What can I getcha?” The brunette waitress who’d slid up next to Drake reeked of cheap cherry-blossom lotion. Chopped, razor-short hair framed a heart-shaped face and thin lips.

  “I’m here to see Emelia.” The sledgehammer pounding into Drake’s temple eased up at the mention of her name.

  “She’s working the bar on the flip side. Want me to call her for you?” The waitress smiled politely, the piercings on her upper lip, chin, and eyebrows shining in the flickering overhead lights. Why women thought they had to drive nails of silver into their skin to attract men was beyond him.

  “No, I was hoping to surprise her.” Drake gave one of his deviously slow winks. “You won’t give away my secret, will you?”

&n
bsp; “Not at all.” She shook her head as the scent of her arousal hit Drake’s heightened senses. “If you change your mind, and decide you want something after all…anything…let me know. My name’s Renee.”

  “Thanks,” Drake said. “I’ll remember that.”

  With one last glance at the deserted front of the bar, Drake stalked around the wall that split the building in half and stopped as his heart gave a jerk.

  Emelia stood behind a long, wooden bar, shaking a drink. Flipping the silver can in her palm, she poured the yellowish liquid into a glass and smiled when a tiny red straw dropped and spun, facing the customer in front of her.

  Drake’s gaze stuck to her like glue. The entire building could’ve gone up in flames and he would’ve stayed to watch Emelia a minute longer. Her hips swayed confidently as she walked to the opposite end of the dimly lit room. She smiled at a scruffy-bearded fellow wearing worn flannel and suspenders, laughed when he laughed, and lit up the entire bar. She was personable and friendly, refilling the drink of a curly-haired woman trying to catch the eye of a Goth-dressed guy standing next to her. Even though there were only three customers perched at the watering hole, Emelia spun to the till as if roller skates had replaced her shoes. She was all bar business, decked in ripped jeans and a black, lace-trimmed tank. Sexy as hell.

  In her natural space, Emelia didn’t fit the secretary bill Drake had initially pinned on her. Thank God. He wasn’t sure what he expected from Emelia, being a temp and all, but he’d never been hot and heavy over one of the ladies on his staff, and was secretly hoping his Luminary would have a passion for something other than filing papers.

  Sliding onto the nearest stool, Drake was amazed Emelia hadn’t spotted him yet. On second thought, maybe she had and was choosing to ignore him. The thought made something in Drake’s chest pinch. Rubbing the spot with his hand, Drake watched as Emelia placed an order through the window on the far side of the bar. An older man with short, spiky hair peeked his face through the window and held his gaze on Emelia’s backside a little too long for Drake’s taste.