Page 6 of Captivated By Alphas 1, Fated (The Blood Moon Chronicle #4)

CARMICHAEL COUSINS

Jace flipped his sunglasses onto his head as he surveyed the organized chaos of his Los Angeles driveway at five thirty in the morning.

Three luxury vehicles stood packed and ready—the Range Rover to take him to the airport, the Bentley for his assistant to return to the garage, and the Ferrari that would remain in his climate-controlled garage until his return.

Like well-trained dancers, his staff moved with practiced precision, arranging his departure with the same meticulous attention that went into orchestrating his red-carpet appearances.

“Martin, make sure the scripts get loaded in the front seat,” he instructed his harried assistant, who was juggling a tablet, phone, and what appeared to be Jace’s protein shake with the desperate competence of someone whose salary depended on not dropping any of them.

“Already packed, along with your notes from yesterday’s meeting,” Martin replied, checking items off an invisible list. “The jet is fueled and waiting. You’ll land in Seattle by eight fifteen, and Diane will be waiting with the Aston Martin as requested.”

Jace suppressed a smile. Martin had survived three years as his assistant—a Hollywood record that deserved its own trophy.

The man had developed an almost supernatural ability to anticipate Jace’s needs, though he remained blissfully unaware that his employer’s supernatural nature was far from metaphorical.

While outwardly focused on departure logistics, Jace’s mind was elsewhere, connected through the invisible threads of pack bonds that stretched across state lines.

The mental connection between alpha panthers was one of their most closely guarded secrets—instant communication without electronic footprints was invaluable in their world of constant surveillance.

You’re actually leaving the kingdom? Alert the media—wait, they probably already know, Adrian’s amused voice filtered through their connection, carrying his cousin’s characteristic artistic flair even in thought form.

Jace smirked as he signed the last of the paperwork Martin thrust at him. Unlike some of us, I’ve fucking earned a break. Three blockbusters in eighteen months deserves at least a month of peace. Not all of us can lounge around “finding our artistic vision” between indie films.

Peace? Cole’s more measured tone joined in. With the family reunion starting next week? Your definition of peace needs recalibration.

At least I’ll be there to handle Mom before you two arrive, Jace countered, mentally projecting an image of himself valiantly shielding them from Madi’s organizational frenzy. Someone has to smooth the way for your dramatic entrances.

My entrances are never dramatic, Cole replied with characteristic dryness. I simply arrive. Adrian handles enough drama for all of us.

Excuse me. Adrian’s indignation flowed through their bond, accompanied by an image of him clutching invisible pearls. I’m an artist. We call it passion, not drama. And speaking of passion, Cole, how’s that robot girlfriend of yours? Has she passed the Turing test yet?

My “robot girlfriend,” as you so eloquently put it, is the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, Cole countered. Some of us appreciate intellect over the theatrical temperaments you seem to collect like trading cards.

Jace chuckled aloud, causing Martin to look up in confusion. The assistant was accustomed to his employer’s occasional unexplained amusement—just another quirk of the Hollywood elite.

Ladies, you’re both pretty, Jace interjected. I’ll see you in a few days. Try not to break the internet while I’m on the road, Adrian. And Cole, try not to buy it.

With final goodbyes exchanged, Jace dismissed his staff with practiced charm.

Hollywood’s golden boy knew exactly how to make even his departure feel like a privilege to witness—a skill honed through years of managing both human and supernatural politics.

Once alone in the Range Rover with his driver, he allowed himself to relax slightly, the constant performance of public life easing from his shoulders.

The private airfield was mercifully empty of paparazzi, one advantage of leaving at an ungodly hour when even the most determined photographers were still drooling on their pillows.

The sleek Gulfstream waited, its engines already humming with readiness.

Jace boarded with the efficient movements of someone accustomed to luxury travel, settling into a butter-soft leather seat as the cabin door sealed behind him.

“Good morning, Mr. Carmichael,” the flight attendant greeted him with the perfect blend of professional courtesy and personal warmth. “We’re cleared for immediate takeoff. Breakfast will be served once we reach cruising altitude.”

“Thanks, Rebecca,” he replied, already reaching for his phone to switch it to airplane mode. “The usual will be fine.”

As the jet climbed into the predawn sky, Jace gazed out at the sprawling lights of Los Angeles below.

Five years. It had been five years since he’d visited the family estate in Ravenswood.

Christmas gatherings in New York, summer vacations in the Hamptons, business meetings in Seattle, the Carmichaels had properties scattered across the country, making it easy to avoid returning to their ancestral territory.

Too easy.

His panther stirred restlessly beneath his skin, anticipating the return to their true home.

The creature had been growing increasingly agitated lately, as if sensing something important on the horizon.

Jace had attributed it to exhaustion from his punishing filming schedule, but now he wasn’t so sure.

There was an expectancy to the beast’s movements, a sense of anticipation he couldn’t quite define.

Settle down, he growled at his panther. We’ll be home soon enough.

The flight passed quickly, the privacy of the jet allowing him to review scripts without interruption.

By the time they began their descent into Seattle, he’d annotated two potential projects and rejected a third outright.

His manager would be thrilled—Jace was notoriously selective about his roles, a luxury afforded by his consistent box office success.

The rejected script had featured yet another supernatural thriller where the werewolves were depicted as mindless beasts.

The irony wasn’t lost on him—Hollywood’s obsession with monsters while real ones walked red carpets and accepted golden statues.

Seattle greeted him with typical overcast skies and a light drizzle that seemed more like the city clearing its throat than actual precipitation.

The jet taxied to a private hangar where, as promised, Diane waited beside a gleaming Aston Martin that looked like it had been carved from a single block of midnight.

“Welcome back to Washington, Mr. Carmichael,” she said, handing him the keys. “The car’s been detailed and fueled. Your luggage is already loaded, and I’ve taken the liberty of programming the estate address into the GPS.”

“As efficient as ever, Diane,” Jace replied with a genuine smile.

Unlike the artificial warmth he offered the Hollywood crowd, his appreciation for his Seattle staff was real.

They were part of the extended pack network—not shifters themselves, but aware of the supernatural world and loyal to the Carmichaels. “How are things at the house?”

“Quiet, as usual. The staff has maintained everything to your family’s standards.” She hesitated slightly. “Your father called yesterday to confirm your arrival. He and your mother are hosting a business dinner tonight.”

Of course they did. George and Madi Carmichael were masters at balancing family obligations with business necessities. The pack came first, but the empire that protected it required constant attention.

“Thanks, Diane. That’ll be all.”

As he settled into the driver’s seat, Jace considered the three-hour drive ahead.

The family could have easily built a private airstrip near Ravenswood—they certainly had the land and resources—but his father had always insisted on maintaining distance between their public presence and pack territory.

“The more convenient the access, the less secure the sanctuary,” George had repeated throughout Jace’s childhood.

Their wealth allowed them private jets and helicopters, but the deliberate choice to keep those facilities in Seattle rather than on their territory had protected the pack for generations.

The Aston Martin purred to life beneath his touch, its engine a sophisticated growl that pleased his panther.

Seattle traffic parted before him like a reluctant sea, the sleek vehicle commanding respect even in a city accustomed to luxury.

As concrete jungle gave way to coastal highway, Jace rolled down the windows, letting the salt-tinged air cleanse his senses of the city’s artificial perfumes and pollutants.

His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, his panther rising closer to the surface as it recognized the scents of home territory.

The beast had been restless for weeks, prowling beneath his skin during meetings, growling during interviews when reporters got too personal.

Now it seemed almost eager, as if it knew something Jace didn’t.

What’s got you so worked up? he silently questioned his other half. The panther merely rumbled in response, offering no explanation for its heightened alertness.

The drive north transformed gradually from urban sprawl to Washington’s lush greenery.

Jace drove with one hand on the wheel, his supernatural reflexes making the winding coastal roads feel like straight highways.

His panther senses detected the subtle markers of territories—the Huntington panthers’ boundary, the Silvercrest wolves’ territory, and the neutral zones carefully maintained between supernatural enclaves.