Page 26 of The Reluctant Mate (Shifters of the Three Rivers #5)
Chapter twenty-six
Sofia
I didn’t remember falling asleep in the car with Lucian, but the tension in my muscles told me I must have been unconscious. I didn’t know for how long, but my body Shifted back while I was asleep. I ached all over, but the sharp stabbing pains in my ribs and shoulder had gone. It was one of the advantages of being a were; accelerated healing when we Shifted meant most damage could be fixed.
Blinking awake, I found a blanket draped over me.
Right. Because of the whole naked thing.
My limbs had locked up from the cold and the fight, every joint stiff and sore as I sat up, careful to keep the blanket around me. Streetlights streamed through the tinted windows of Lucian’s truck. Their harsh electrical glow lit up buildings that stretched toward the sky, endless rows of brick and glass boxed together like they were fighting for air. It smelled strange—no, wrong. My senses, always heightened for a time after I Shifted back to human, flinched against the assault of so many unnatural scents: gas fumes, rotting food seeping from distant dumpsters, the iron tang of steel in every direction. My wolf paced inside of me, restless and mistrustful. She wasn’t used to this, and neither was I.
“Where are we?” My voice cracked, hoarse like I hadn’t used it in hours.
Lucian glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his piercing gaze scanning me as if to assess my state. The look didn’t last longer than a moment before his attention went back to the road.
“Someplace safe.”
Hmmm. “I see you haven’t gotten any more talkative in the last few months.”
He didn’t answer, just kept his eyes ahead. Derek’s shirt was on the seat next to me. It was still damp but it smelled of Derek, of Pack, and I needed that right now. I slipped it on, then climbed into the front passenger seat.
I watched the city go by in silence, knowing there was no point in pushing Lucian.
After twenty minutes, Lucian pulled up to a structure that stood like a relic from another era—a four-story warehouse wedged defiantly between gleaming high-rises. Red brick and black metal composed its industrial facade, weathered yet imposing, with large windows that caught and fractured the streetlight glow. A row of luxury cars lined the block in front, suggesting this was no ordinary warehouse.
Two figures materialized from a discreet side entrance. They moved with the confidence of people who owned their space. The man stood tall, with razor-sharp cheekbones and meticulously combed dark hair, his black suit fitting him like armor. Beside him, a woman with hair the color of polished sterling pulled into a severe bun surveyed the perimeter, her tailored blazer and trousers projecting authority without effort. Both wore earpieces that occasionally caught the light and though their postures appeared casual, their eyes never stopped moving—cataloging, assessing, memorizing every detail of the street around us.
Lucian slid out of the car, and I scrambled after him, tugging Derek’s shirt down over my bare thighs. The guards’ eyes flicked over me—a half-naked woman with just an oversized shirt covering her girly bits—they obviously decided I wasn’t a threat. They smelled human, but I saw their nostrils flaring as they caught my scent. The man’s lips twitched in what might have been amusement. What did he smell? Wolf sweat? Fear? Derek’s pine-and-moss scent clinging to me like some tragic cologne?
I wondered if they were dragon Shifters like Lucian. He had once told me that due to a witch’s spell, he smelled human when he was in human form, but I wasn’t sure if it was just him or all dragon Shifters who had that ability.
“Sir.” The man straightened. “We weren’t expecting you this evening.”
Lucian strode toward the doors. “Change of plans, Artie. Are we clear for tonight?”
“Yes, sir. Cleanup is done. Just fight prep for tomorrow evening left.”
Lucian nodded once. “We’ll be upstairs, then.”
Cleanup? Fight prep?
“What is this place?” I whispered, hurrying to keep pace with Lucian.
“This is Virtue and Vice, or the V&V, as we call it.” Lucian pushed through the heavy doors. “One of my businesses. Well, two, really. One side is the nightclub. Very exclusive. Caters to all the rich, young punks who like to flash their cash. The other, we use as a fight club.”
I nearly tripped, wondering which one was supposed to be Virtue and which one Vice.
“A fight club? Seriously?”
“Keep up, Miller.”
Right.
I hurried after him through steel doors and into a nightclub that defied every small-town expectation I had. The space soared through all four stories, cathedral-like in its emptiness without its usual crowds. Multiple mezzanine levels wrapped around the walls, their sleek railings gleaming even in the minimal lighting. Wooden booths with plush leather seating offered views over what I was guessing would normally be a packed dance floor. The whole place screamed money—from the state-of-the-art sound system speakers mounted strategically throughout to the premium finishes on every surface.
What truly captured my attention was the architectural impossibility hanging against the far wall—a two-story glass box suspended from the ceiling like a jewel in a setting. Tinted windows wrapped it, concealing whatever lay inside. Reynolds, the fancy restaurant back in Three Rivers, had impressed me, but this? This existed in another dimension of wealth entirely.
Lucian crossed the cavernous room in purposeful strides, his shoes clacking against the pristine floor as I jogged to keep up. Halfway along the east wall, he pressed something invisible, and a section of wall slid open without a sound.
“This way.”
A red-carpeted staircase spiraled upward, plush fibers caressing my bare feet. At the top waited another door, and beyond it—the suspended box.
It was an office, commanding views from three sides through floor-to-ceiling windows. To my left sprawled the empty dance floor we’d just crossed. To my right opened what had to be the fight club—a sunken arena reminiscent of ancient Rome, with tiered seating circling a central pit and private viewing boxes perched above like opera boxes. In the sand-covered floor gleamed an intricate design—two Vs intertwined that, from this height, resembled a dragon’s tail coiling upon itself.
The north-facing window stole what little breath I had left. The city unfurled before me—a tapestry of light against darkness, steel and glass towers piercing the night sky like man-made constellations. Beautiful, yet utterly foreign to my wolf senses. Where Three Rivers offered pine-scent and birdsong, this landscape presented only the mechanical pulse of traffic lights, rumbling trains, and the constant drone of air conditioning. My wolf pressed against my skin, unsettled by this concrete maze where everything natural had been conquered and contained.
The office itself matched the opulence below. Dark hardwood floors disappeared beneath oriental rugs in deep crimsons and blacks. The furniture was all clean lines and rich materials. A massive mahogany desk dominated one end of the room, its surface gleaming and spotless except for a pile of papers placed exactly parallel to one edge, a sleek laptop, and a single crystal tumbler. Behind it, a high-backed leather chair looked more like a throne than office furniture.
Shelves held a collection of books and artifacts—ancient-looking weapons mounted on stands, delicate pottery pieces that looked centuries old, and leather-bound volumes whose spines gave titles in languages I didn’t recognize. A discrete bar to my left was stocked with bottles whose labels, at first glance, cost more than my yearly rent. A seating area took up the nearby corner, with deep leather armchairs and a low table made of what looked like a single slice of dark wood.
Sitting in one of the armchairs was Darla Ash. Lucian’s pretend wife when he was away from his family business and bodyguard when he was not. Tonight, though, she looked like neither—more like an exasperated older sister about to deliver a lecture. At 5’10”, she uncoiled from the chair with effortless grace, platinum blonde hair cropped short and spiky. Her pale blue eyes performed a clinical assessment as she approached in simple black jeans and a pink shirt.
“Well,” she said flatly, “you look like shit.”