Page 12 of Sun's Roar

He approached the reception desk with the confidence of one accustomed to command. “Your finest penthouse suite. Three bedrooms minimum.”

The receptionist’s eyes widened slightly before her training kicked in. “I’m afraid our Presidential Suite is currently?—“

“Check again.” Sol’s voice dropped lower as he placed his black card on the counter. “I’m sure you’ll find it’s available.”

Ten minutes later, the hotel manager personally escorted them to the top floor, babbling about amenities and services that Sol barely registered. His mind was elsewhere—on a fiery-haired chef who’d dismissed him like he was nothing.

The penthouse spread before them, all floor-to-ceiling windows and elegant furnishings. A massive terrace overlooked the Pacific, and through an archway, Sol spotted the gleaming jacuzzi big enough for six.

“This will do,” Sol stated, taking the key cards and dismissing the manager with a nod.

Joshua whistled as he wandered through the space. “Not bad for a last-minute booking.”

“I need to be alone.” Sol wasn’t asking for understanding. Mitesh and Joshua exchanged glances but knew better than to argue.

“We’ll be in our rooms if you need anything,” Mitesh offered before retreating, Joshua following close behind.

Sol headed straight for the fully stocked bar, selecting a crystal decanter of whiskey. He poured a generous amount into a tumbler, then downed it in one burning swallow. The alcohol warmed his throat but did nothing to soothe the fire in his blood.

With quick, efficient movements, he shed his clothes, dropping them carelessly on the marble floor as he made his way to the jacuzzi. His naked body—sculpted by centuries of shifting and fighting—reflected in the room’s many mirrors. His intricate tattoo on his upper right arm seemed to shimmer in the dimmed lighting, the symbols of the Sunflare lineage etched into his skin.

Sol turned the jets to their highest setting and sank into the steaming water, letting it envelop his tense muscles. He placed his phone on the edge of the tub, within arm’s reach for when Helena called.

When, notif. An alpha didn’t entertain doubt.

He closed his eyes, his mind drifting to the image of Helena, to the way her chef’s coat had deliciously hugged her generous curves. What would she look like without it? His imagination painted a vivid picture—her pale skin flushed with heat, those full breasts rising and falling with each breath, and her long red hair spread across his pillows like liquid fire.

“Damn it.” Sol wiggled in the water as his body responded to the mental image. His wolf stirred, hungry for more than just a glimpse of their mate.

He imagined pressing her against a wall, capturing her mouth with his, and tasting the fire he knew burned within her. Would she fight him at first? Or would she surrenderimmediately to the unmistakable pull between them? Either way, the chase would be exhilarating.

Sol’s hand drifted beneath the water, but he stopped himself with a growl. “Patience,” he muttered to himself, though the word felt foreign on his tongue. Alphas took what they wanted. They didn’t wait.

But for Helena, he would try. She wasn’t just another conquest. She was his Luna—his missing half.

Sol finally extracted himself from the jacuzzi, water dripping off his muscular form. He dried himself roughly before throwing himself onto the king-sized bed, not bothering with clothes. The silk sheets felt cool against his overheated skin.

His phone remained silent on the nightstand. Sol stared at it, willing it to ring, while his wolf paced restlessly.

FIVE

HELENA

The door to the restaurant banged open just ten minutes after Sol’s departure, startling Helena out of her daydream. Her fingers had been absently tracing the edges of Sol’s business card in her pocket, the thick cardstock somehow burning against her skin.

“This place better be worth what I paid for it.” A sharp voice cut through the dining room.

Helena looked up to see a tall man with slicked-back hair and a suit that probably cost more than her car. His eyes were cold, assessing everything with a calculating gaze that made her skin crawl.

“You must be who we’re waiting for,” Helena said, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. “I’m Helena Divata, executive chef and former owner.”

He shook her hand, his touch lingering a beat too long before dropping it. “Victor Sulick. And yes, I own this establishment now.” His eyes swept over her like a predator sizing up its prey.

“Let me show you around.” Helena gestured to the dining area. “As you can see, we have the main dining room with seating for sixty-five, plus the bar area that can accommodate another twenty.”

“The décor is outdated,” Victor muttered, running a finger across a table and examining it for dust. “We’ll need to modernize everything.”

Helena’s stomach clenched. The rustic, homey atmosphere was part of what made their restaurant special. “The locals really appreciate the?—“

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