Elsa

The Valtor family estate rivals the Stone mansion in grandeur, though it lacks the aggressive architecture. Old Mr. Valtor’s 70th birthday celebration is filled with pack elites, and his displeasure at Drake’s absence is evident in his furrowed brow.

“Drake couldn’t make it?” he asks after my third toast to his health. My liver’s going to fail before this night is over.

“Urgent business matter,” I lie smoothly, maintaining my professional smile. Yeah, the urgent matter of getting his dick wet with his new plaything. “He sends his deepest regrets and this gift.” I present an antique watch that I’d selected myself.

Mr. Valtor grunts, somewhat appeased. “At least he sent his competent assistant.”

At least someone recognizes competence when they see it. His son, Mike Valtor, appears at my elbow. “Father, let me show Ms. Hale the new eastern wing. I’m sure she’d appreciate the architecture.”

The old man waves us away, and I follow Mike, knowing this is my chance to address the report issue. Focus, Elsa. Get the job done and get out. Mike leads me down a hallway to a private study, closing the door behind us.

“Now,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, “let’s discuss how you’ll make up for that disastrous report.”

Before I can respond, his hand is on my waist, sliding lower. “You are so sex, unaccompanied? Drake must not value you much.”

Shit. Another entitled man who thinks Omegas are just walking fuck toys. My skin crawls where he touches me, nothing like the electric response Drake’s touch elicits. I step back, maintaining my professional smile. “Mr. Valtor, I’ve brought the corrected projections. Perhaps we could review them?”

He laughs, stepping closer. “I’d rather review what’s under that tight skirt of yours.”

The door swings open, and Drake stands there, Vera clinging to his arm like a decorative accessory.

She’s wearing the same emerald dress Drake gave me for my birthday last year—the one I never got to wear. You thieving little bitch. My wolf snarls silently, territorial rage flashing hot in my veins.

“Interrupting something?” Drake’s voice is deceptively casual, but I catch the predatory gleam in his eyes.

Mike steps back, smoothing his suit. “Just discussing business.”

I maintain my composure. Two can play this game. “I asked the waiter to knock in five minutes,” I explain to Drake. “With you here, I knew he wouldn’t try anything… serious.”

Drake’s jaw tightens. Without a word, he grabs my arm and pulls me into the adjacent changing room, locking the door behind us.

“Playing games, Elsa?” His voice is dangerously low.

Fuck you and your double standards. “Solving problems,” I counter. “Someone had to save the Valtor deal after Vera’s mistake.”

His hand shoots out, gripping my throat—not hard enough to choke, but enough to assert dominance. “You think you’re clever.”

“I think I’m good at my job.” Despite everything, heat pools between my legs. My scent changes instantly, broadcasting my arousal to his sensitive nose. I hate that my body still wants him even when my mind wants to claw his eyes out.

Drake leans in, his scent overwhelming me. Pine and smoke and power—my wolf rolls over, belly up. “You’re mine to do with as I please. Remember that.”

His mouth crashes against mine, brutal and possessive. I should fight, should push him away— but holy shit, the way he tastes makes me forget everything —my arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer. His hands tear at my clothing, and I claw at his shirt buttons, our mutual hunger overtaking reason.

He lifts me against the wall, his hardness pressing against my core through our clothing. His eyes have gone full wolf now, golden irises consuming the human brown. “Tell me you want this,” he growls.

“Fuck you,” I gasp, even as my body arches toward him. I hate you. I want you. I hate that I want you.

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