Page 2 of Heroes & Hitmen (Windy City Wolfpack #1)

Miley

“Stop that,” I hiss, swatting at Blake’s chest with the back of a hand in an effort to get her to quit biting her fingernails.

We’ve been loitering in the hallway outside Alpha’s office for twenty minutes now, and at this rate, she’ll have them all chewed down to stumps by the time we’re summoned inside.

“Why?” Jordan snorts derisively from my opposite side, slumping back against the wall and folding her arms. “Doubt he’ll be looking at her nails.”

“Because it’s gross,” I mutter as I glance down at my own pristinely manicured fingernails.

They’re painted baby pink– a perfect match to the shade of lipstick I meticulously applied before coming here.

The top half of my dark blonde hair is pulled back neatly, a satin bow keeping it in place.

I may be an unwilling participant in this perusal, but I’ll be damned if I show up to it looking anything less than polished.

That’s what Alpha calls these meetings: perusals . He’s a master at labeling offensive things with seemingly innocuous terms, but putting lipstick on a pig doesn’t change what it really is. Perusals are precursors to pairings, and both are mere business transactions to him.

Blake heeds my warning for all of two minutes before she’s right back to chewing her nails again, but I can’t bring myself to admonish her a second time.

I’m just as anxious as she is for what lies ahead.

This is the third perusal I’ve had to endure in as many years, and I know my odds of being passed over grow slimmer with each one.

If I didn’t possess the kind of self-control I do, my own nails would be bitten down to the quick.

“Know anything about this one?” Jordan asks, peeking over at me through her eyelashes.

She may act unaffected, but she’s nervous about what awaits us in that office, too.

I can see it in the way she keeps twisting her little star ring around her index finger, dark eyes constantly flickering toward the door when she thinks nobody’s looking.

“Not much,” I admit quietly. This particular perusal was sprung on us– no warning, no time to prepare.

I’d typically flex my budding journalism skills to dig for details and uncover some shred of information that might give me an edge, but this time I’m going in blind.

And that fact only makes the whole thing even more unnerving.

The door across the hall abruptly swings open, all three of us flinching in response.

The already thick tension in the air spikes when Ross steps out, his broad frame blocking the doorway.

He’s one of Alpha’s many pack enforcers, and while there’s nothing particularly threatening about his presence alone, it’s the look of expectation on his face that raises goosebumps on my arms.

“Alpha’s ready for you,” he states, sidestepping and holding the door wide in silent invitation.

Jordan pushes off from the wall, stomping defiantly into the lead as I fall into stride behind her. Blake trails miserably after me like a ghost, her footsteps barely audible as the three of us move past Ross to file inside the office.

The floor-to-ceiling windows lining the back wall let in a flood of light, temporarily blinding me as I enter.

The skyscraper owned by our pack rises high above the city of Chicago, a vertical world where Alpha’s reign stretches across all sixty-four floors.

Most of them are luxury living, while a few floors, like this one, are designated as office space.

The Tower is all shiny and polished on the outside, but there’s a rot lurking beneath the surface– just like the pack itself.

As my eyes slowly adjust, I take stock of who’s in the room.

Alpha stands behind his massive desk, an imposing figure in a sharp black suit that’s impeccably tailored to fit his muscular form.

At his side is a man I don’t recognize, though he looks to be in his mid-twenties with sharp, dark features.

I immediately try to get a read on him, again wishing that I’d had the opportunity to pull together my usual research, but I can’t pick up much other than the fact that he’s definitely an Alpha.

I can feel the dominant energy rolling off him in waves as he watches the three of us shuffle into our usual positions across the office, forming a neat line with our hands folded and chins up, just as we’ve been trained to do.

It’s a carefully choreographed routine; a song and dance that we’ve all done before.

“My daughters,” Alpha drawls, the deep timbre of his voice dripping with casual indifference, gaze flickering over each of us like we’re nothing more than prized cattle.

I suppress a shudder, hiding my internal grimace behind a polite, neutral expression.

Technically, he fathered each of us, but we wouldn’t ever dream of calling him Dad .

We call him Alpha, just like the rest of the pack, both because that’s what he prefers and because he’s never treated us as his children.

He doesn’t give a shit about any of us. We were conceived for one reason: to continue his bloodline.

He’s been trying for decades to father a son to succeed him as Alpha, but all he’s managed to produce thus far is an army of daughters.

Doesn’t mean he hasn’t found a way to use us, though. His blood runs through our veins, and that makes us valuable. Alpha barters his daughters away in business deals to benefit himself, turning us into strategic pieces in a game none of us ever asked to play.

The truth stings, but we all know it. Everyone does.

Whispers run rampant in the pack about how Alpha has fathered more daughters than anyone can count, but still no sons; no suitable heir to lead the largest shifter pack in the region once he’s gone.

Some speculate that it’s because he never found his fated mate– that he’ll only ever father a son with the woman fate chooses for him– but fated mates are so rare here that they’re practically a myth.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s fate’s way of punishing our pack for becoming so corrupt.

“Go on, take a closer look,” Alpha urges the mystery man at his side, gesturing toward us in invitation.

The man steps forward, his heavy footfalls echoing as he moves across the room. He’s undeniably attractive– tall, well built, and classically handsome– but there’s something unsettling about his tight-set jaw and deadpan expression as he approaches.

“Jordan,” Alpha provides as the stranger comes to a stop in front of her, his sharp gaze slicing over her form.

He catalogs every detail, from her long raven hair to her bronze skin, eyes raking over her tall, slender physique.

Her own dark eyes refuse to meet his as he completes his perusal, her full lips pressed together in a tight line of defiance.

Then he moves on, and I feel the full weight of his assessing stare as he steps in front of me.

“Miles,” Alpha says, using my given name instead of the one I prefer to go by. Every one of his daughters has a traditionally male name, assigned upon conception in the hopes we’d be boys.

The man’s gaze brushes over me like an icy wind, lingering on each curve of my body before slowly working up to my face.

I keep my blank stare focused on the wall opposite me, pretending as if I’m not being scoped out by this creep like a piece of meat.

Thankfully, he doesn’t linger too long, looking his fill and moving down the line.

“Blake,” Alpha states in the same detached tone he used for me and Jordan as the man steps in front of our sister, swiping a hand over his chin while taking stock of her trembling form.

Her pale skin stands out against the dark wood of the floor, her cheeks reddening to a similar hue as her hair as she twists her hands together to hide her bitten nails.

Though we were all fathered by the same man, the three of us couldn’t look more different.

Alpha never breeds the same woman twice– producing a daughter is considered a failure in his eyes, and second chances aren’t given to those who fail him.

Still, our mothers were granted a comfortable life in exchange for their service.

They raised us in cushy apartments in the Tower, funding our upbringings with the sizable monthly stipends they received.

Once each of us turned eighteen, we were given our own apartments on the twentieth floor, and our mothers were released from service with a final payout. Mine left and never looked back.

I suppose I can’t blame her. I’d jump at the opportunity for freedom, too.

The man starts pacing back and forth down the line to give each of us a second look, eyes flickering from one to the next with predatory focus.

I’m still struggling to get an accurate read on him, but everything inside me is now screaming that this guy is bad news.

My heart beats harder every moment he hesitates, each thud of the organ against my ribcage serving as a reminder that none of us has a choice in this.

My sisters and I are simply here to be decided upon in swift, archaic fashion.

As much as I don’t want to be chosen, I don’t want them to be assigned to this fate, either.

I’m so tempted to reach out and brush my fingers against Jordan’s to borrow some of that fierce confidence she possesses, then pass it along to Blake on my other side.

To link hands with both of them and put on a united front.

Instead, I keep my hands clasped firmly together in front of me, playing the role I’ve been ascribed to.

A docile daughter, being offered up like a lamb to the slaughter.