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I squirm in an effort to escape his grasp.
“Shut up,” Richard snarls, “or I’ll use an Alpha command to make you obey.”
I stop struggling in horror.
He wouldn’t.
Except, then I smell the burned coffee of his furious scent and I know that he’s been pushed far enough to do it.
Richard’s lip is busted, and his nose is bleeding. His golden hair is a mess. His preppy white shirt is ripped and stained with his own blood.
He looks like a posh frat boy who wandered into a biker bar.
And lost the fight.
I can’t help smirking because he lost the fight to my Omega.
And that’s satisfying on so many levels.
“What are you smiling about?” Richard asks, sullenly. He pulls me down the elegant corridor toward a door at the bottom. Our footsteps clatter loudly on the marble floors. “Do you have any idea what Raylan is going to do to you and your psycho friend? I once thought that you were smart, but you’ve played into Raylan’s hands, or do you truly have no notion what’s going on in this pack? This town? You know what? Fuck you.” He rubs at the scratches on his neck, wincing. “You deserve what’s coming to you.”
My insides turn to ice.
I’m about to meet the Mayor of Haven.
My family’s enemy.
My enemy.
The asshole who has hurt the men I love.
I’m trembling but I force myself to tilt up my chin, as Richard pushes open the high, carved oak door at the bottom of the corridor. Then he drags me inside, while three of the Beta enforcers yank Ghost into the room as well.
They’re holding Ghost too tightly. I can see purple bruises blossoming on his bare arms, where they’re holding him above the elbow.
I squint against the sudden bright light in the room.
It’s Raylan’s study.
The morning sunshine streams through the long, multi-pane windows that take up most of the study’s back wall. It gleams like dancing fire over the gold gilt, which covers the furniture, antiques, and heavy picture frames.
There’s a marble fireplace with wide lintel. Two golden, velvet armchairs are placed either side of it, which are gaudy with tassels.
The room is extravagant and ostentatious but also cold.
It screams status and power.
There are no photographs on the wall. No pictures of Thomas or Mercy.
It’s a room decorated to intimidate and boast of the Mayor’s power.
If I didn’t already know that the man’s political ambitions mattered to him above everything else, including pack and family, I know it now.
For the first time, my anger begins to extinguish my fear, giving me strength.
On the opposite wall to the window is a huge oak desk that’s covered in piles of files, diaries, state of the art technology, three phones, and two computers.
It’s neat and regimented like a war room.
