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He prefers to practice in a room bathed in sunlight. The moonlight has long unsettled him, so he reserves his exercises for the brightness of day. Contrary to his yogi’s suggestion, he also eschews lighting incense, as it bears the unmistakable scent of the Goddess’s influence. If Patrick were given to superstition, he might speculate that such an act could draw her attention. He believes that avoiding the interference of that meddlesome deity is the most effective way to ensure his plan’s success and his survival.

Breathing deeply, he imagines calm flowing through him and breathes out, moving from one asana to the next. First through Mountain Pose and then into Chair Pose, sinking low as he strives to direct his thoughts toward the challenges best addressed in this realm, where his subconscious thrives. It is within this space that Patrick discovers the origins of many of his, admittedly, ingenious ideas.

Ingenious ideas that have brought him to the brink of greatness. Despite the Goddess’s apparent interference, he has never placed his faith in the Were deity since the day he uncovered the human ability to harness souls and transform them into magic. If such a deity truly existed, would not this very phenomenon contradict their existence? That humans can access this power while he cannot remains a constant thorn in the side of his perceived magnificence.

Historians have claimed that once, magic was accessible to every soul, including Weres. If such a reality were ever possible, then there would be no limits to the lengths Patrick would go to gain this power for himself.

He exhales into Chaturanga Dandasana, his body hovering just above the mat as he reflects on the three oracles who have served him over the past twenty-five years. Each had affirmed that Patrick Carnell was destined for greatness, with the key to this destiny lying in his eldest and only legitimate child. None of his other offspring had amounted to anything beyond mere pawns in his strategic game. Indeed, they were weapons in Patrick’s relentless campaign against the forces striving to thwart his path to infamy.

Dawson Hayes, however, had been the final and most potent of these instruments. Inherently malevolent and eager to please from a young age, Hayes had been easy to manipulate with just enough inducements, barely sufficient funds, and modest success, coupled with overwhelming temptation and a pathological craving for more. His mother, a heroin-addicted whore, had been all too willing to exchange her child for a fix, facilitating Dawson’s transition into Patrick’s control.

It had been remarkably effortless to maneuver Hayes, the blunt instrument in Patrick’s arsenal for half a decade, wielded against their common adversary, James Rhodes Jr. The mere thought of Rhodes causes Patrick to lose his balance and fall out of Warrior III. He has always found the difficulty the Warrior poses challenging when his mind is consumed by the enigma who continues to keep his son from him. It’s an obsession that disrupts his focus every single time.

Instead of resuming the vexing Warrior pose, he also moves past the Half-Moon, instead taking up his flow with the One-Legged Pigeon Pose. He’s proud of his mastery of this pose—body opening to the side, his lifted leg high and strong, his gaze toward the fingertips of his raised hand. The world tilts momentarily as balance becomes a dance, a test of focus and fluidity. For a moment, he feels in tune with the universe; he lets himself ride the high of the physical exertion and imagines how he will triumph.

How he will bring Allistair to heel with the deaths of his mates; the euphoria of his vision is palpable, and for the first time since his retreat from Tennessee, he feels an arousal in his yoga pants. Surely, this is an omen, fueling his determination to attempt a headstand.

The world turns upside down as his body lifts into the air, supported byhis arms and core strength. The blood rushes to his head, clarity in the inversion, the breath a steady hum in his ears as he holds the pose.

He falters when the door bursts open and one of his Floridian Were covert employees falls into the room, Connall hot on his heels. Patrick falls out of the headstand but lands on his feet, as he so often does when met with setbacks.

The room smells like rancid olive oil more often than not, but now it’s past the smoke point, verging on inferno.

“Speak!” he commands sharply.

“Sir, I apologize.” Connall bows so low, he could kiss the floor.

“Not you, idiot. Him.”

“I am sorry to interrupt, sir. But I bring news of the Rhodes Pack,” he says with a heavy Southern accent. Carnell will not feel bad about hating its loathsome banality—a reminder of Rhodes’s origins and his insipid progenitors.

Just hearing the name makes Patrick angry, but being interrupted in the middle of his flow and ruining his erection leaves him incensed.

The man is cocky now that he has his employer’s attention. Foolish idiot. “The Rhodes Pack is on their way to Jacksonville, sir. I thought you’d want to know they’ve left Clearwater.”

The Floridian contingent he had been compelled to enlist following his expulsion from Nashville had failed to apprehend the omega and Jay Rhodes the previous day. However, Patrick had recently been informed by a civilian at the police station that they would be lodging at a modest hotel nearby. He had intended to deploy a team for retrieval and termination that afternoon. The clerk, whom he had adeptly persuaded, divulged that the pack had reserved accommodations for two nights. This provided ample time to ensure that his plans would proceed flawlessly.

Patience had long been his strong suit, but even he had his limits. Now his son’s pack is traveling north to Jacksonville, of all places, and he is going to have to deploy his men over a distance. It is exasperating.

“You’re sure?” Patrick asks, holding out his hand for the tracking receiver.

“Of course, I wouldn’t interrupt unless we were sure,” the man scoffs,and his dismissive tone, coupled with the lack of respectful address, only provokes Patrick further.

He moves to his desk and places the device with the simple Google map on it; and yes, it shows the pack’s new vehicle driving north. Well, at least the tracking device was still in play. How fortuitous.

“What’s your name?” he hisses.

The employee smiles and puffs out his chest. “James, sir. But my friends call me Jay.”

“Of course they do.” It’s the name that does it, because surely that infernal Goddess is mocking him.

Taking the gun out of his desk drawer, he points it between the man’s eyes, finding pleasure in his sheer terror before Patrick pulls the trigger. “Don’t interrupt my practice again,Jay.”

Placing the gun on the desk, Patrick lowers himself gracefully to the floor, lying on his back to complete his flow with Corpse Pose. He lies perfectly still, letting his anger flow away, and the energy of his practice settles into every cell of his being. The door closes quietly, and Patrick doesn’t spare a thought for the departing Connall.

The room is quiet now, his world momentarily at peace, as he surrenders to the moment, the flow of his practice a memory in his muscles, mind, and heart. And he’s content that Allistair and his encumbrances are precisely where he wants them.

Are Bound (Rowan)