Page 44

PROLOGUE

Wolfe

T here was not a single part of Wolfe’s being that wanted to be in Hyde Park.

He was most certainly not the kind of person to be charmed by its small size or surrounding natural features.

He wasn’t a small-town craftsman, or baker, or whatever else kind of hawker of wares that would be looking for a cozy, touristy town in which to sell their goods to self-satisfied locals and bright-eyed visitors from afar.

And he certainly wasn’t a godforsaken ski bunny, to be drawn in by the lure of snow-covered mountaintops.

All in all, he mused—as he swirled the mediocre cabernet in his glass, watching his guests arrive at the bar they’d oh so carefully chosen—it wasn’t the type of place he belonged.

There were somehow too many humans and too few at the same time.

The town had too small a permanent population to hold anything of value—no museums of note, no opera to attend, not a decent bottle of wine at any restaurant he could find—and yet it wasn’t isolated enough to hold any true protection from inquisitive minds or prying eyes.

Who would want to stay here? Why would Johann want to stay here?

The answer, of course, lay within the very people seating themselves with Johann at this tawdry table, in this tawdry bar, ordering their tawdry beverages: Soren, the blond waif glaring daggers at Wolfe; Gabe, Soren’s muscular mate also glaring daggers at Wolfe; then Alexei, the freshly turned mate of Johann’s, an infatuated dolt of a man if Wolfe had ever seen one.

Wolfe had thought hastening Alexei’s transformation would ease Johann’s concerns over returning where he belonged, but he’d clearly been mistaken in that regard. He could already tell they weren’t meeting with him here to discuss travel plans.

He’d underestimated the pull of friendship, apparently.

And really, of all the things to be bested by. It was almost too much to bear, for him to be at the mercy of Johann’s sentimentality.

What must it be like, to be compelled by such whims as affection, devotion, love?

Lucky for Wolfe, he’d never have to know; it simply wasn’t in his nature. He could be relatively fond of certain companions, sure. Possessive, even, as he was of any of his belongings. But he didn’t lose all sense of reason. Not like this.

Johann needed to return to the den, if he didn’t want a fight he couldn’t handle coming his way.

The little vampire had never liked violence of any sort.

And the den, however odious, offered a certain protection, one that would only grow as their ranks did.

With Johann and Wolfe at the helm, they’d put an end to the senseless culling of new members, allow their numbers to swell naturally.

Because if—when, really—humans wised up to what lurked among them, vampires would need those numbers. They would need the ability to declare themselves a community, a society, and not individual monsters to be put down or captured and studied.

Which was why Wolfe felt a true, sharp stab of irritation as Johann—or Jay, as he was insisting on being called (not that Wolfe would give him the satisfaction)—folded his hands on the table and stated, “I want to discuss what it would take for you to let me stay.”

Wolfe kept his features even; that was easy enough, as he’d never had a very reactive face. But the answer was simple: nothing. There was nothing this motley little crew could do to change Wolfe’s mind on this, and he’d just begun to say as much when—

There.

Wolfe tensed in his seat, his nostrils flaring. There was a scent on the air, wafting in from the entrance of the bar. Subtle, sure—it was almost completely obscured by some hideous sandalwood aftershave—but it was there. It was…floral, with a powdery note to it.

Wisteria.

Wolfe’s beast—that inner part of him he always imagined slithering inside him like a snake—coiled tight in anticipation. Something’s here , it crooned. Something delicious .

Wolfe’s words of protest for Johann’s whimsy froze on his tongue.

He sat, stiff and tight-lipped, as a big blond human—the source of the scent, Wolfe would bet his unending life on it—greeted Soren’s mate from afar with enthusiasm.

He watched, tense and oddly bereft, as the handsome man walked off to a distant table with his companions.

“Who was that man?” Did Wolfe’s voice sound hoarse to everyone else, or only to himself? Impossible to say. Either way, Soren answered his question.

A doctor, apparently. Dr. Monroe.

Wolfe wanted him. His beast wanted him. Badly enough that Wolfe found himself simply asking for him, as one of his terms, like the human was a weekly special at the delicatessen.

He was refused, of course. But no matter.

Wolfe paid only half his attention to the rest of the conversation, this peace treaty they were all forming.

He was barely aware of his own capitulations.

Yes, Johann could stay in Hyde Park. Yes, Wolfe would serve as liaison to the den.

Yes, Wolfe would most certainly still expect his monetary due.

In an instant, he mentally rearranged all his carefully laid plans. He would replace the protection of the old den with this new group. He would switch his loyalty with the ease of changing out a pair of socks.

It didn’t matter. None of it did.

Because Wolfe had been preparing himself for this moment since the day he’d turned. Here it was, the person meant for him and him alone. Fate’s gift. The assurance he would live forever, stable and sane, and not fall into a mindless, feral rage.

His mate.

His mate was here.

And Wolfe didn’t need anyone’s permission to claim him.