Page 29

That’s the plan.

ChapterThirteen

MALACHI

The card still reeks.

It lies on my desk like a corpse, all perfume and intent, blue cardstock trying to play innocent under the amber glow of my desk lamp. I’d taken it from the garbage the moment Blake threw it away after leaving. But there’s no mistaking the scent clinging to the fibers.

Wolf.

Faint, but unmistakable—like musk pressed into velvet, paw prints through a garden after midnight. Predatory. Posing as harmless.

It’s there beneath the faint powder and ink and the fragrance of flowers no wolf would fucking wear unless they were trying to send a message.

Orange blossom. Dahlia.

And then, smoke—low and curling, the edges of burned paper and ash sealed into the fibers.

I lean in, breathing through my nose in slow, deliberate pulls. The scent stirs memory like blood in a still pond. Sulfur and sweat. A cheap cologne that couldn’t hide the scent of fur slicked by rain. The clinging throb of testosterone disguised behind cologne and suicide charm.

A shape forms.

The edges sharpen.

And then I have it.

Kit.

The shit-stained wolf from The Gentlemen’s Study. The one who thought breathing near Blake’s temple meant something. The one who watched her work behind the bar with his chin in his palm and eyes that wandered too goddamn freely. The one who asked if she was my mate, as if he already knew she wasn’t.

My spine straightens with the horror of realization, breath whistling too hot past my teeth.

He sent her this.

That bracelet—nearly an exact match for the one she’d held onto for years, the one only people in her inner circle could possibly know about—wasn’t just a gift.

It was a message of intent.

One meant to worm its way past her walls, right into the part of her that would endear her to him. Did the fucker think that she was the mate the universe means for him?

Flashes burn in my vision, tinged red with memory.

The Gentlemen’s Study.

Smoke clung to the rafters and sex hummed through the speakers like a purr. Dancers moved like shadows, drunk on rhythm and velvet. I’d ignored them all from the back booth, untouched by the strobe lights. Disincarnate. Silent.

Except for her.

Blake behind the bar with her hair teased and teased again into that soft lilac halo. Shorts riding high enough to expose the curve of her ass every time she leaned forward. She stood like she wasn’t afraid to swing first, even when every man watching her imagined she’d fold.

I’d watched her pretend—smile at the drinks she didn’t pour for herself, laugh at jokes that probably didn’t land.

And Kit’s fucking eyes had been following her every movement.

His hand on the bar, knuckles brushing hers. His mouth too close as he tried to keep her attention. Talk of how “she was leaving him” like she owed him a part of her.

She didn’t owe him fucking shit.