Page 92 of Purchased

“How?”

“They shot one of them,” he says. “The wolves, that is. But they missed, they think, and accidentally shot a nudist hiding amid the graves.A Russian nudist.”

He slides his phone across the desk to me. There’s a picture there from the local chat page. It’s a man looking sorry for himself, and nursing what looks to be a patched-up wound. The locals are raising funds and food for him, because they do not know a predator when they see one.

“We need to get this man into our custody immediately,” I say, standing up. “Let’s go get him. Bring the boys.”

“Are we taking the train?”

“Yes, and two cars. We’ll offer hospitality, the villagers will be relieved, and we will have these creatures where we want them.”

I am mobilizing the men when Mr. Volkov makes an appearance.

“If I could speak with you…”

“Not now, Mr. Volkov, we have important pack business to attend to.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder. I was not looking at him before. I am now. This man has been in my pack for weeks, getting deep inside the minds and hearts of everybody he speaks to. I have allowed him because I have regarded him, tattoos and strength and taciturn demeanor aside, to be mostly harmless. He does not look harmless now.

His expression is stoic as he looks at me. “We need to speak.”

I look him over, really look at him. I try to tell what has shifted and changed, why he suddenly seems more like a threat than a guest.

He’s wearing suit pants and a tight white shirt. I make a mental note to offer him the services of the chateau’s in-house tailor. Having a member of staff going about looking like he is about to burst out of his clothing is a poor showing.

I sit back behind my desk, well aware that I am in the process of being blindsided. Fortunately for me, I am quite used to being surprised by bad things, thanks to Trixie’s murder spree. I keep calm, because I truly do feel calm. Whatever this is, I feel equal to it. It could be delusion, could be confidence, could be the fact that I no longer care. Hard to say.

“I am not a therapist,” Mr. Volkov says.

I feel the internal clicking of things settling into place. Of course he isn’t. Of course the only man I could find capable of therapizing a pack is actually not a therapist at all. Werewolf therapist isn’t really a thing. But pretending to be a werewolf therapist? Well, that’s the perfect cover for someone who needs to add an inch to his neck size.

I have fucked up. I know that immediately, but I refuse to make a big deal of it. He is waiting for me to respond in shock, or surprise, or to curse him. I do not give him the satisfaction of any of those responses.

“Makes sense. You are terrible at it.”

I don’t ask him who he really is. I just wait while that burn sinks in, knowing that these events are all linked. Beatrix never trusted him. I was so concerned with helping her, changing her, that I never stopped to wonder if he needed to be trusted.

“I am Maxim Volkov, alpha of the Lesnik Siberian pack,” he declares. “My lineage is ancient.”

I stare at him blandly. “Do you want me to gasp, Mr. Volkov? Shall I faint? Or do you realize that quite literally everybody in this room has an ancient lineage and two thirds of us are alphas.”

“It’s like walking into a cake shop and calling yourself a fudge slice. Nobody cares,” Daniel adds helpfully.

Volkov makes an annoyed face at me and carries on with his grand reveal, which I am sure is already beginning to feel very anticlimactic. Sometimes, one of the greatest weapons of war is making your opponent feel like, as the British say, a complete wanker.

“Beatrix is one of ours,” he presses on bravely. “You’ll never contain her. But we respect the mate bond, so we’ve given you the chance to breed her. You can be assured she will be happier in more remote climes, with more opportunity to express her true nature. And your whelps will be well taken care of.”

He says all of that as if all I need are the bullet points of the situation. He’s a Siberian alpha. He intends to take my mate. I get the satisfaction of having knocked her up, and that’s the end of it, apparently.

“You mean dumped in an orphanage when you inevitably all get yourselves killed? I think not. I know you think we are weak, obsessed with pleasure, and given to frivolity. But I can assure you, Mr. Volkov, that we will tear you to pieces if you so much as try to touch my mate.”

“With what,Maître? Your pack is full of sad ladies, old men, painters, artists, librarians, cooks, financiers, almost nobody with any fighting experience. The most dangerous wolf in your pack is your mate, and you cannot control her. I have called in my pack—wolves all with Beatrix’s nature. Can you begin to imagine?”

“I can. I think it would be a bloody and inefficient invasion, and I suspect half of your force would be distracted by killing the wrong people. I think they have already started to do that in the village.”

“My pack is better trained than your wild mate,” he says. “We have actual discipline, not a little slap and tickle when it takes our fancy.”

“My dad could beat your dad,” I respond, as the conversation devolves into a sort of childish set of threats. He cannot intimidate me, because I am single minded when it comes to Beatrix. I will do anything, be anything to keep her.

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