Page 72 of Fated
“Speaking of which,” Holden continued, “Lena, when are you getting back in the ring? I hope all that time at the summit and ceremony planning hasn’t dulled your edge.”
Lena squared her shoulders, competitive fire sparking. “Trust me, I didn’t go soft.”
“She wiped the floor with most of the heirs and betas at the summit,” Kai said, pride clear in his voice. “You should have seen her.”
Lena turned to stare at him. “You heard about that?”
“I saw it.” His voice dropped in register. “I spent my afternoon breaks on the balcony watching you train. You’re a marvel in the ring, Lena.”
The praise, the intimacy of his tone, sent heat flooding through her core. She knew he scented the spike in her arousal when he sucked in a breath. Embarrassment started to creep in until she felt his arm drape over her shoulders, pulling her closer. She leaned back, settling into the crook of his arm like she belonged there.
“I’d love to see you two square up,” Holden remarked, earning a chorus of agreement from the other warriors.
Kai leaned down, his lips grazing her ear. “How about it, Lena? Want a shot at trying to put me on my back?”
She knew he was talking about sparring, but the timber in his voice conjured a completely different image: her straddling his naked body, hands braced against his chest as she rode his cock until he yielded beneath her.
He stared at her intently, waiting for her response, and it took every bit of willpower not to pounce on him right there.
“You’re on,” she managed.
“Show him our strength,”Elara purred with satisfaction.“Let him see what he gets to claim.”
“Can’t wait.” He pulled her back against him, tucking her head under his chin.
Conversation flowed around them, but Lena was lost in the sensation of being held by him. The way his thumb traced lazy circles on her shoulder. How every so often she’d feel his lips brush the top of her head as he nuzzled her.
Kiss me,she found herself thinking, almost like a prayer whispered through their bond.Spend the night with me. I don’t want this to end.
She didn’t know when she fell asleep, but she was vaguely aware of strong arms lifting her, of being settled gently on her bed. She felt him removing her boots, tucking the covers around her, pushing her hair back from her face with gentle fingers that carried his signature orange and nutmeg scent, now richened by the smoky essence of the bonfire.
“Goodnight, mate,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
Just as sleep pulled her back under, she heard him lean close to her ear.
“Dream of me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CALEB
Caleb’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel as he pulled into the gravel parking lot of The Chrome Counter, the modest building sitting like a time capsule against the backdrop of Yakima’s rolling hills. Over a week had passed since the summit, and Alaric Voss hadn’t wasted time following up about Crescent Fang’s reintegration plans. The elder had been delighted when Caleb confirmed their commitment, wasting no time emailing articles of incorporation and calculating their first quarter dues before extending an invitation to this breakfast.
“An orientation of sorts,”he’d called it.
Now, staring at the weathered building with its neon sign flickering intermittently, Caleb wished he’d brought Asheralong. His beta’s calming presence would have been welcome, but someone needed to oversee the projects back home.
Taking a deep breath, Caleb grabbed his laptop bag from the passenger seat and stepped out of his Silverado. The morning air carried the faint scent of sage from the surrounding hills, mixing with the rich aroma of bacon and coffee drifting from the diner’s kitchen vents.
With each step toward the entrance, he straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, and let the confidence he’d gained at the summit settle into place. Yes, Crescent Fang was new to the Collective again. Yes, there was still morbid curiosity surrounding their return. But he’d earned the respect of influential alphas at the summit. The rest would come with time and trust.
The diner’s interior hit him with a wave of nostalgic Americana—red and black vinyl booths lined the windows, their surfaces cracked but clean, while a long stainless-steel counter stretched along one wall, punctuated by barstools facing the open kitchen. The air was thick with the symphony of a well-seasoned griddle: butter, salt, and that indefinable richness that only came from years of perfectly executed breakfasts.
Caleb spotted Alaric, tucked into a corner booth at the back, silver head bent over a laptop screen while steam curled from the coffee mug at his elbow. The elder’s weathered hands moved across the keyboard with surprising agility for someone his age.
“Elder Voss,” Caleb said, approaching the table.
Alaric looked up, removing wire-rimmed glasses from his nose, and his face broke into a genuine smile. “Ah, Caleb! Great to see you again.” He gestured to the seat across from him. “Have a seat. And please, call me Alaric.”
