Page 39 of Storm

I study him, trying to read past the mask he always wears. "Why should I trust you? Why would you want to help me?"

"I don't," he says bluntly. "But I need to protect my pack. And right now, like it or not, you're part of it."

The words shouldn't sting, but they do. I'm just a problem to be managed. A complication to be handled.

"Fine," I say, the word tasting like surrender. "I'll play along. For now. But I want something in return."

Jonathan's eyebrows rise slightly. "You're not exactly in a position to negotiate, Storm."

"Neither are you," I counter. "You need me to cooperate in front of your fathers, in front of the press. I need assurances."

A flicker of respect passes through his eyes before it's quickly masked. "What assurances?"

"Rook's safety," I say immediately. "I want your word that no harm will come to him. And I want to talk to him."

Jonathan is silent for a long moment, his green eyes assessing me.

"I can't guarantee it if he tries something stupid. But I won't order any action against him unless he forces my hand."

It's not the iron-clad promise I want, but it's something. A starting point.

"One phone call," I say. "I'll play along for one week."

Jonathan's mouth quirks up at one corner. Not quite a smile, but almost. "One week, then if you behave, one phone call."

As he turns to leave, a question burns on my tongue, one I've been wondering since I first heard his father’s speaking. "Jonathan," I call after him, the use of his actual name feeling strange on my lips after years of calling him 'asshole.' "Who’s Alexander?"

Jonathan freezes, his hand on the doorknob. For a heartbeat, I think he might actually answer me. Then his shoulders straighten, his mask sliding back into place.

"Get some more rest, Storm," he says without turning around. "We’ll find a suitable beta to complete the pack. My fathers will expect to see progress."

And then he's gone, leaving me with more questions than answers and the uncomfortable feeling that I've just made a deal with the devil.

I sink back onto the bed, the full weight of what I've done crashing down on me like a physical blow. I thought I was so clever. So strategic. The perfect plan—use Jonathan's pack as a distraction because they lived closest to the theater, slip away in the chaos, find Rook, disappear.

"I really fucked up," I whisper to the empty room, the words hanging in the air like a confession.

Jonathan's pack wasn't just some random group of alphas I could use and discard in my escape plan. They're the sons of the three most powerful men in Crescent City. Men who control the government, the military, the economy. Men who could crush Rook without a second thought.

I chose the most dangerous distraction possible. Not just dangerous for me—dangerous for everyone I care about.

The irony isn't lost on me. For four years I've been plotting my escape, watching, waiting, planning for every contingency. And in the end, I walked right into a nest of vipers because I didn't look beyond the simple geography of their residence.

A hollow laugh escapes me. All that time watching Jonathan, hating him, fighting him... and I never bothered to really learn who his family was. I saw the surface, the cold, controlling alpha running the Omega House, and missed the deeper threat he represented.

What a cosmic joke. The Kingsley’s. I chose the fucking Kingsley’s.

I curl up on the bed, mind racing with new fears. The fathers' threat about "intervention" echoes in my head. Whatever Jonathan has planned for me, it's nothing compared to what they would do if theytook controlof the situation.

One week. I have one week to figure out a plan and fix the biggest mistake of my life.

Chapter13

Jonathan

The weight of my fathers' visit lingers in the penthouse like a toxic cloud. I stand at the window, watching the city spread out below.

My shoulders ache with tension, a dull throb at the base of my skull signaling the onset of a migraine. I press my fingers against my temples, trying to ease the pressure. The command to find a beta, to control Storm, to present a ‘united front’ echoes in my mind, each word a hammer strike against my carefully constructed plans.