Page 48 of Bonds of Fate

And still—his wolf is quiet.

Rowan straddles his beloved mate and slides down on his cock—relishing the burn and leaning forward enough to take Grayson into his mouth.

And still, his wolf is quiet.

Rowan feels his rut break as he works them to completion, moving his hips in tight circles instead of bouncing up and down so he can keep the head of Grayson’s cock in his mouth while his mates’ moans take him higher. When Finn rises, tall and beautiful, from his cave of pillows to take Rowan’s cock in hishand, biting his shoulder—he comes and comes and comes as his mates follow him over the edge.

And still, his wolf is quiet.

Finally.

Chapter Thirteen: Gideon

Gideon

Gideon’s earliest memory of his father is one of violence.

He’s sure that his child’s mind has blown it out of proportion, but the noise, the blood, and the screams have remained as sharp in his mind as the day he’d heard them. He’d been five or six, and his father had deemed him old enough to bear witness to what happens to traitors in their organization—committed atrocities in his name not long afterward, too.

Gideon’s father never shied away from getting his hands dirty and rather enjoyed doing the work himself when the opportunity arose. He hardly worried about the authorities, as many on both the Human and the Were sides of the police force knew the fear and the promise that was behind the name of Patrick Carnell.

Gideon had thought he and his mother had fought for their freedom—that they had made a narrow escape—but in hindsight, it had been surprisingly easy. He had not been privy to the conversation that transpired between his parents before she stole them away into the depths of the Smokies, but something about it never sat right.

Carnell had never been one to simply let go. Whether his father’s lack of resistance was truly his own choice or the result of unseen hands pulling unseen strings, Gideon could never be sure. the Goddess had assured them he no longer needed to hidewhen his mother died, yet sometimes, in the quiet of the night, doubt crept in. Had they truly escaped, or had they only been allowed to leave?

Gideon can’t guess why he hadn’t searched for them, given that his father is as possessive as he is cruel. It only makes Gideon more grateful for his mother’s influence—knowing how easy it would have been to fall into the same patterns—driven by a wolf he let controlhim instead of the other way around.

Patrick Carnell has his fingers in too many pies—none of them legal, and all of them morally abhorrent. Gideon has spent his life trying to forget whose son he is, and mostly, he’s done a damn good job of it, with one exception in the past two years.

He’s made it clear—again and again—that he will never be the heir to a hellscape existence built on his father’s ill-gotten gains.

However, while Gideon loathes his cruel, sadistic father and his way of life, he understands him—understands the willingness to do the unspeakable to protect what’s yours, no matter the cost.

It’s what drives him to leave the compound on foot in the middle of the afternoon—while his sweet-smelling beta and omega lie curled together like the kittens they are, and his ever-honorable pack alpha has locked himself in their home studio, the others working to ease their rutting mate’s suffering.

He hates the very idea of leaving them vulnerable, but thiscan’twait.

Once he’s cleared the gate and reset the alarm, Gideon pulls out his phone and dials the number he wishes he’d never have to dial again. “Allistair,” comes the greeting, the speaker long past the usual social niceties. The name from his childhood makes his eye twitch, although he’ll never let his father know about it.

“I’m coming in.” He hangs up without waiting for a response and zips his jacket higher against the cool afternoon breeze.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he warms them—because cold, stiff fingers are useless in a fight. Just one more lesson learned, and hopefully, not one he’ll have to use today.

A single bus carries him across town in the opposite direction of his destination. He doesn’t need anyone following him from his home or knowing where he’s going to end up. Shortly afterward, he hires a taxi, getting out halfway to his destination at a stoplight with a slam of the door, bills passed over the seat.

Lost in the crowd, he takes just under two hours to traverse a journey that would normally take twenty minutes in traffic. Entering a steel and glass building from a rear entrance, he uses the service elevator and the security code to the penthouse floor, which now reflects his birthday—such an oddly sentimental old fool.

Outwardly, Gideon is as calm as he can manage. Inwardly, he hates this. Hates having to tap into that icy rage—the one that kept him alive in those early years.

But here, where his father’s olive scent lingers in the air, it’s too easy to slip back into that old armor.

A guard stands inside the penthouse foyer, not even sparing him a glance. No firearms in sight—as none were needed in such a tight space. Gideon won’t write him off completely, but there’s a cockiness in the man’s posture that tells Gideon he’s poorly trained and new to the position.

His father sits at the table, finishing the last of an English-style tea. Incredibly lean, with a full head of graying hair and the oiliest smile, some might call him handsome. Gideon is just relieved he takes after his mother—and not just for his looks.

His father never looks like anything but the villain he is, especially in this penthouse, surrounded by power and pretense. He is unquestionably the most dangerous person here.

Except, maybe, for Gideon.

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