The ache in Cora's feet was a familiar, dull thud, a constant rhythm to the eight-hour shift she was still an hour from finishing. Another night, another tray of empty glasses and half-eaten appetizers. The air in The Argent was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, old money, and the low, smooth murmur of jazz that did nothing to soothe her frayed nerves.
She moved between tables, her steps silent on the thick carpet, her eyes scanning for an empty glass, a raised hand. It was a skill she'd perfected over the last three years: being invisible. Seeing everything without being seen. It was how you survived.
Her gaze drifted, as it often did, toward the grand staircase at the far end of the dining room. It led to the VIP lounges, soundproofed rooms where men like Damien Volkov conducted business. She'd never spoken to him, had only ever seen him from a distance—a tall figure in a tailored suit, moving with a predatory grace that made the hair on her arms stand up.
"Cora."
She flinched, her head snapping toward the head waiter, a man named Phillip whose smile never reached his eyes. He held a long, black box out to her, the kind used for the most expensive bottles in the cellar.
"Macallan 1926," he said, his voice low and sharp. "VIP Lounge 3. Do not drop it."
The weight of the box felt significant as he placed it in her hands.
Cora nodded, her throat tight, and turned toward the staircase.
The carpet on the staircase was thicker, swallowing the sound of her footsteps. The low thrum of the jazz from downstairs faded into a muffled, distant pulse, replaced by a heavy, expectant silence. The air grew cooler, scented with lemon polish.
The upstairs hallway was a long, narrow corridor lined with dark, wood-paneled doors. Each one was identical except for a small, brass plaque. There were no windows, only recessed lighting that cast long, dramatic shadows on the floor.
Cora's palms began to sweat inside the cheap black gloves the restaurant made her wear. The black box in her hands felt impossibly heavy, a lead weight pulling her down. She could hear her own breathing, too loud in the stillness. Her training screamed at her to just deliver the whiskey, knock, and leave.
She found Lounge 3. The plaque was cool under her fingertips as she reached to knock. But her hand froze. The door wasn't fully closed. It was slightly ajar, leaving a dark, vertical crack about an inch wide. A sliver of warm light cut into the dim hallway, and with it, a sound, A low, pained whimper.
Every instinct she had honed for survival told her to turn around. To walk away and pretend she'd heard nothing. But the other part of her, the part that had survived Mr. Abernathy by knowing when danger was at its peak, was frozen in place. That l curiosity, the one that had kept her alive for so long, now rooted her to the spot. She leaned in, just a fraction, her eye drawn to that sliver of light
She pushed the door open a fraction more.
Inside, a man in a cheap suit was on his knees. His hands were bound behind his back. Another man stood over him, and then his fist slammed down. There was a wet, heavy sound as the man on the floor crumpled.
But he wasn't the one in charge.
Seated in a leather armchair across the room was Damien. He hadn't moved. He hadn't touched the man. He was just watching, his legs crossed, his expression bored. His eyes, dark and cold, flicked to the man on the floor, then to his attacker. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
That was when the man on the floor looked up, his face a mess of blood and terror, and his eyes met Cora's through the crack in the door.
Her breath hitched. The black box slipped from her sweaty palms. It hit the marble floor just outside the room with a deafening crack. The expensive bottle inside shattered, the sharp scent of peat and alcohol instantly filling the air, mixing with the coppery smell of blood.
Every head in the room snapped toward the sound. Toward her. Damien's gaze locked onto hers.
She didn't think. She ran.
The sound of her shoes pounding against the marble was a frantic, desperate beat. She didn't look back, just lunged for the staircase, her only thought to get back to the noise, the people, the safety of the downstairs dining room.
A hand clamped down on her arm, the grip like iron. It yanked her back with such force that a cry of pain was ripped from her throat. She stumbled, her legs tangling, and was dragged backward down the hallway, away from the stairs. The man who held her was huge, his face a blank mask of indifference.
She kicked and struggled, but it was like fighting a statue. He hauled her back to the open door of Lounge 3 and threw her inside. She landed hard on the floor, her palms slapping on the marble, right in the mess of broken glass and spilled whiskey. Sharp pain shot through her hands.
She was on her knees, shaking, looking up at the three men who surrounded her. This was it. This was how it ended.
But Damien wasn't looking at the others. He was looking at her, his head tilted, his eyes narrowed. The world had fallen away. The scent of the blood, the whiskey, the fear—it was all gone, replaced by something else. Something that slammed into him with the force of a physical blow.
Vanilla. Rain. Something uniquely *her*.
The mate bond.
His first reaction was a white-hot flash of disgust. This? A terrified human child? A waitress? It was an insult. A joke. He, Damien Volkov, heir to the most powerful pack, bound to a fragile, insignificant girl who had just witnessed a man being beaten in his name. He hated her in that instant. Hated her for what she was, and hated the traitorous part of him that roared to life, screaming one word.
"Mine."
The man holding her, Rocco, grunted. "What's the order, Alpha? She's a witness."
Damien's jaw was tight, a muscle feathering in his cheek. He was still fighting a war inside himself, a battle between the primal instinct to protect her and the cold, logical need to eliminate the threat she represented. Every fiber of his being screamed to kill his men for even touching her, to throw her over his shoulder and carry her away from all of this. But he was an Alpha. He did not show weakness. He did not explain.
He rose from his chair, his movements slow and deliberate. He walked toward her, his shoes crunching on the broken glass. He didn't look at her trembling form on the floor. He looked at Rocco, his eyes a flat, cold blue.
"Take her to the estate," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that left no room for argument.
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the silent room. His gaze swept over his men, a clear, unspoken warning in his eyes.
"Lock her in the west wing guest room. No one goes near her. Is that understood?"
His men nodded, their faces grim. Damien didn't wait for a verbal confirmation. He straightened up, turned his back on the terrified girl on the floor, and walked out of the room, leaving his men to carry out his order. The scent of her fear, and the maddening scent of her, followed him out the door.
Rocco hauled her to her feet. The pain in her hands was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the ice-cold dread that flooded her veins. She was a dead girl walking. They were just taking her somewhere quieter to do it.
They dragged her down a back staircase and through a service exit into a cold, damp alley. A black, unmarked SUV was idling at the curb, its engine a low purr. They shoved her into the back seat, slamming the door behind her. The locks clicked with a final, terrifying sound.
She was sandwiched between two of the men, their bodies like walls on either side of her. She stared out the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of color as they drove farther and farther away from the only world she knew. They left the city behind, the roads growing narrower and darker as they wound into a dense, sprawling forest.
Finally, they turned through a set of massive iron gates and drove up a long, winding driveway. A fortress of dark concrete and glass emerged from the trees, looming against the night sky. It was the most intimidating place she had ever seen.