Page 1 of Jace’s Mate (East Coast Territory #1)

“S ay that again.”

Jace Ulfer’s voice dropped into a low, guttural snarl that vibrated through the room like a warning. His blazing eyes locked onto Ragnor—the leader of his betas and second-in-command—pinning him with a fury that made the air itself shiver.

The tension crackled like static as the three betas stood motionless, unwavering in their loyalty, but acutely aware of their Alpha’s barely contained rage.

“Three ships, Alpha,” Ragnor repeated, head bowed in submission.

The gesture wasn’t just respect—it was survival.

In shifter packs, the strongest led, but an Alpha was more than strength.

There was something inherent , something bred into their bones.

A power that couldn't be taught. A presence that commanded not just obedience—but devotion.

Still, strength mattered. Especially now.

Jace’s muscles coiled tight, barely leashing the storm inside him. Another threat. Another insult to the safety of his pack.

The air grew heavy.

In a wolf-shifter pack, words were secondary. Body language ruled. A flare of the nostrils. A clenched fist. The collective stillness as the room held its breath. The betas didn’t speak, but their postures conveyed everything: tension, readiness, deference.

The connection between Alpha and beta wasn’t polite. It was primal. A living force—dominance and loyalty in constant, silent conversation.

The stakes were rising. The storm, gathering. And it would only be unleashed at the command of their Alpha.

“Status,” Jace barked.

He turned abruptly, stalking toward his office. Then, pausing at the threshold, he raised one hand—a wordless command for silence. With a sharp pivot, he stepped into the security room. Whatever came next would be handled privately.

Fury radiated off him.

This wasn’t just an attack. It was a betrayal—cowardly and calculated. Whoever struck hadn’t done it face-to-face, as was proper, but had gone after his shipping lines. His territory. His pride.

Jace’s jaw flexed as he stepped to the conference table. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. Every inch of him screamed control barely held in check. Battle-ready. Dangerous.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“All three ships are fine,” Ragnor reported swiftly. “Two are en route back to Baltimore. The third is continuing to Mumbai to pick up cargo. After that, the captain will rejoin us here.”

The words hovered like a fragile thread of calm in the midst of gathering fury.

Jace’s eyes narrowed as he delved into the details.

“Any casualties?”

The question hung in the air like a storm cloud, casting a heavy shadow over the room. The unspoken fear of loss rippled through the pack, threading itself into the collective pulse of every wolf present.

The silence that followed was thick, weighted with dread over what might be revealed next.

Ragnor’s head jerked up, as if he’d been struck. “Of course not, Alpha,” he snapped, his tone edged with indignation.

Jace masked his pride with a sharp nod. He was taller than his betas by a couple of inches—not enough to matter in a fight, but symbolic all the same. His authority didn’t rest on height alone. Strength, strategy, and an unshakeable will had earned him his title.

Any member of the pack could apply to become a beta. But first, they had to face Jace in combat. If he judged them worthy—if their strength, instincts, and loyalty held up under pressure—he’d accept them. So far, no one had dared to challenge the three who stood before him now.

Ragnor, Megin, and Ciaran were warriors. Loyal. Lethal.

Jace’s gaze shifted to Megin, his second beta. The look he gave was a silent command, and Megin straightened instinctively, shoulders tightening beneath the weight of it. Words weren’t necessary. Not between wolves.

Ragnor, Megin, and Ciaran—his core betas—formed the backbone of the East Coast pack. Their unity was unwavering, their readiness unmistakable.

Jace’s pride stirred again, deep and feral. They weren’t just subordinates. They were his.

“Four of our offices at the Baltimore port were broken into last night,” Megin reported. His voice was steady, but the fury beneath it rippled like heat off asphalt. “Nothing was stolen. No casualties. No injuries. But the old paper files in the back storage room were dumped out.”

His jaw flexed, lips tightening with restraint. Jace knew he was holding back a flood of profanity. But Megin kept his temper leashed. For now.

“It didn’t feel like a robbery,” he continued. “Whoever did it wasn’t after anything specific. It was a message. They wanted us to know they could get in. That they were watching.”

The air seemed to thicken with the shared realization. This wasn’t just about intimidation. It was about dominance. Territory. Challenge.

Jace’s gaze moved to Ciaran, his third. No words. Just expectation.

Ciaran snapped to attention, spine straight, eyes flashing.

“I’ve scented invaders in our territory, Alpha,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

Rage simmered beneath the words, restrained but deadly.

“Two unknown wolves crossed the border a few days ago. Three more showed up yesterday. They’re trying to slip in unnoticed—slow, staggered. Like a quiet infiltration.”

Jace’s jaw clenched. A growl vibrated deep in his chest.

“I agree,” he said, his gaze sweeping across his betas. “But why?” His voice dropped an octave, a growl threaded through the question. “Why would another Alpha send wolves into my territory instead of confronting me face to face?”

Megin answered what they were all thinking.

“No one would dare confront you directly, Alpha. Every pack Alpha and shifter in North America knows you’d rip any challenger apart.”

Grunts of agreement rumbled from Ciaran and Ragnor.

“I’d relish the opportunity,” Jace muttered, the hunger for a fight flashing in his eyes. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, his wolf barely contained beneath the surface. But this wasn’t the time for rage.

Not yet.

He needed answers. Not blood.

Yet.

“Let’s lay out what we know,” Jace said, stepping forward and gesturing toward the digital map inset into the center of the conference table.

Jace Ulfer was not a traditional Alpha.

As leader of the East Coast pack—the largest and most powerful in North America—he didn’t cling to old ways for the sake of legacy. He followed his instincts, trusted his wolf’s senses. But he also embraced strategy, efficiency, and modern tools.

Technology wasn’t the enemy. Stagnation was.

By merging ancient instincts with modern power, he ensured his pack didn’t just survive.

They thrived.

And anyone who tried to threaten that?

Would learn, too late, what it meant to challenge him .

Jace’s pack headquarters wasn’t hidden in the shadows or buried deep in the woods like the packs of old. His territory boasted a state-of-the-art office complex—sleek, secure, and laced with cutting-edge technology.

He had no interest in sniffing the wind to sense danger when satellites, drones, and biometric surveillance offered faster results.

The old ways had their place. But this? This was evolution.

His pack—unmatched in strength and discipline—controlled the Mid-Atlantic shipping lanes, both on land and at sea.

They didn’t own every ship that docked at the Baltimore port, but every operation ran through his people.

Port authority, customs, inspections—all carried out by shifters under his command.

And while not every eighteen-wheeler on the road belonged to them, most of the drivers did.

His pack dictated logistics across the eastern seaboard. They decided what moved, when it moved, and where it landed. Every supply chain, every route, every manifest was under their silent control.

That kind of power didn’t go unnoticed. And occasionally, he was challenged.

Jace tapped the conference table, and the polished wood shimmered, transforming into a global map lit with data streams and glowing pulses.

Ship movements. Truck routes. Every asset driven by one of his pack members was tracked in real time.

He scanned the display, taking in the details with one glance while his wolf thrummed with restless energy beneath his skin.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

Ragnor stepped forward without hesitation and pointed to three blinking red dots.

“The initial attack happened here,” he said, tapping a point in the Indian Ocean. “The second was in the Bay of Bengal, and the third occurred in the Andaman Sea.” He pulled his hand back and planted his fists on the table’s edge, frustration tightening his shoulders.

“Same tactics. Same timing. Whoever did this? It was coordinated.”

Jace’s eyes cut to Ciaran. “Have you scented any other invaders in the city besides shifters?”

Ciaran shook his head. “Not at the moment, Alpha. I've been focusing on tracking unfamiliar wolves.” He hesitated, his brow furrowed, before continuing. “I’ll expand my senses—open myself to other presences within our territory.”

Jace glanced at the others. “We have... unconventional alliances. With witches. With vampires. Maybe that’s why someone’s testing us. Maybe they see our partnerships as weakness—or worse, betrayal.”

Megin’s shoulders jerked upright, the room catching the ripple of his fury.

“Refusing to work with other groups is idiocy,” Ragnor snapped. “Security is security. You use every tool available. Our alliance with the vamps and witches has made us stronger.”

Ciaran immediately nodded, voice deepening as part of his wolf trembled near the surface.

“We’ve never known peace like this. Or prosperity.

Our pack is thriving—while the others across North America are barely holding on.

” His claws threatened to break through his skin as he growled, “We’re stronger. Healthier. Our wolves are happy. ”

A low huff from Jace cut through the room. Controlled. Precise.

Instantly, the betas stilled.

They didn’t need orders. They didn’t need words.

When Jace made a sound— any sound—it triggered something deeper than obedience.

It awakened instinct.

The air shifted, charged with his dominance. The unspoken bond between Alpha and beta roared to life in the space between breath and silence.

Jace’s voice dropped to a quiet, dangerous calm.

“We are stronger,” he agreed. “And that strength has drawn attention. We’ve heard the complaints from the old-guard packs.

They say we’re abandoning tradition. That shifters shouldn’t live so close to humans—shouldn’t cooperate with witches or vamps. ”

He scanned each of his betas. “But our numbers are growing. And not from breeding alone. Rogue wolves are coming to us. Asking for protection. They’re integrating— thriving. They’re becoming equals.”

Then his eyes fixed on Ciaran.

“There are foreign wolves close by. I sense them, but haven’t scented them yet.” He paused as his betas reacted. “Find the invaders. Figure out which pack they’re from. If they’re rogues looking for safety, we welcome them. If they’re something else—something darker—we need to know now. ”

His voice dropped to a growl.

“And if another Alpha is behind this, I’ll handle it. Personally.”

Three heads bowed.

Three warriors ready to follow their Alpha into hell.

And Jace was ready to lead them.

“I want details,” Jace said, straightening from the digital view of his pack’s realm. “I’ll inform the alliance that we have a situation.” He looked at each of his betas in turn. “You have three hours.”

Jace walked out of the conference room, deliberately sidestepping the sports jacket that Lisel, his assistant, all but shoved in his face.

“It’ll make you look civilized,” she insisted, as though draping a piece of fabric over his shoulders would somehow hide the wolf-shifter side of his personality that always seeped out when he interacted with the human world.

Jace had already surrendered—grudgingly—to tailored slacks and dress shirts in place of his beloved jeans and flannel. But a jacket and tie? That was where he drew the line.

Being Alpha meant setting an example, sure. But there was no way in hell he’d subject himself to the torture of formal wear.

Striking a balance between appearing human-friendly and not sparking mass panic over a pack of wolf-shifters walking around Baltimore was about all Jace was willing to endure. Commanding respect was one thing. Wrestling with a tie was a battle he refused to fight.

“Not going to happen, Lisel,” he called back, glancing over his shoulder at the petite woman. That’s when he noticed she was clutching the jacket to her chest, her eyes following Ragnor as he strode past her desk. Longing softened her features.

Lisel—cute, short, and curvy—was a wolf-shifter with an undeniable crush on Ragnor. Jace had noticed. Hell, anyone with eyes could see the way she looked at him.

But he also knew the unspoken truth: they weren’t mates.

The delicate exchange of scent—so crucial among wolf-shifters—never shifted between them into that fated spark.

Lisel knew it, too. For all her sighs and stolen glances, she understood. If fate had paired them, the pull would be magnetic. Irresistible.

Mates bonded for life. It was instinctual—a supernatural gravity that could never be faked or forced. Wolf-shifters might be attracted to others, might even try relationships, but nothing lasted until they found their mate.

Pushing aside his assistant’s heartache, Jace paused and pulled out his phone. “The bailey needs some repairs. Do you have a good contact for that kind of work?” The coded message was clear.

Sliding the phone back into his pocket, he turned to Lisel. “I’m going out. Cancel my afternoon meetings.”

Lisel opened her mouth to respond, but caught the look on Jace’s face. Without arguing, she snapped her lips shut and nodded.

She didn’t bother hiding her irritation, though. She turned and pointedly rehung the jacket in the closet.

Ever hopeful, Jace thought, a flicker of amusement curling through his brooding mood.