Page 32 of Wild Games

Because of me. The thought makes my chest ache.

But then, despite her sadness, her annoyance at my behaviour... she’d called me closer. My wolf purrs at the memory, letting me see her tie the scarf around my neck, but that’s it. He won’t show me the rest, and I growl in frustration. Goddess only knows what he did next.

Checking the time and realising I might be able to get at least a couple of hours’ sleep, I reach for the chains out of habit. I wrap the cold metal around my wrists, securing myself to the wall with a hiss as the silver burns my skin.

Later, I’ll talk to Dean. There can be no more midnight visits. Someone needs to watch over her while she investigates, my wolf will accept nothing less, but it can’t be me. Not when I know exactly what my wolf wants, and he continues to hide what he’s doing from me.

It has to be someone capable of tackling me if I do something reckless. Callum maybe? If Kain weren’t still involved in thecompetition, he’d be the perfect candidate. Unless, of course, by revealing how little control I have, I hand him the proof he needs to condemn me to the council.

His offer of help is tempting. I’ve never considered it before, but now, with a mate? Maybe once the competition is over, if he thought I could be helped…

My wolf huffs at the thought, clearly unimpressed, adamant that we are fine, and worryingly confident that we are the only ones who can protect her. And that deep down, she doesn’t want us to befixed, that she likes our wild side.

But thankfully for now, exhausted after a long night standing sentry, he’s content with his scarf, and he doesn’t fight the chains.

Tomorrow though? When the reinforcements that Dean has called in arrive? That could be a different story altogether.

15

CAMILLE

The packhouse is silent as I enter through the back door at five-thirty in the morning. Only the catering staff, in early to start preparing breakfast, are up and about.

Ishouldbe using my early start to prepare for my dawn meeting with Dean, but my mind keeps circling back to last night. To the wolf sitting guard outside my cabin with my scarf around his neck.

I need to see him.

His scent trail is easy to follow, even with the myriad of other wolves traipsing through here every day. It calls to me, already under my skin in a way that’s addictive and exciting. My nose leads me through hallways and into a boot room at the rear of the house that I hadn’t noticed before.

The door it brings me to is small and concealed, looking more like a panic room with a keypad lock than someone’s living quarters.

This can’t be right. Yet somehow, I know that it is.

Jax doesn’t sleep upstairs with the others.

I stare at the worn buttons and skim over them with my fingertips, then my nose, noting which numbers show the most use and carry the strongest scent. My wolf stirs, pushing combinations at me with strange certainty, until on the third try, the lock clicks open.

I push the door open and hesitate briefly, wondering whether it’s safe to enter his den unannounced, until the overwhelming scent of him and the steady beating of his heart draws me inside.

The stairs descend into darkness. No windows down here, just bare concrete and the lingering scent of pain and burnt flesh. A single lamp on a solitary bedside locker provides soft light, but it’s still not enough to make the space feel more like a bedroom than a prison, which is what it really is.

The large bed hasn’t been slept in. Instead of being nestled under the soft navy covers, Jax is slumped against the far wall. Silver-lined chains bind his wrists, the metal leaving angry red marks on his skin. And my scarf is still tied around his neck, a splash of cheerful colour juxtaposing the bleak room and horrifying scene.

“Jax…” I cover my mouth with my hands, my heart breaking at the sight of him. This is what he does when he feels like he can’t trust himself? Is this what he thinks he deserves?

Forcing back the sob that’s threatening to burst from me, I move closer, careful not to wake him.

In sleep, his face has lost some of its usual tension, though pain lines still mark his handsome features. He’s beautiful, even here. Even like this.

His strong shoulders, bare chest, and ripped torso are criss-crossed with pale scars that stand out against his tanned skin. His chest rises and falls steadily, messy dark hair falling across his forehead, where another nasty scar disappears into his hairline.

I sink down beside him, onto my knees, unable to stay away.

This is no way for anyone to live. You wouldn’t leave an animal chained like this, let alone a man.

A good man.

My mate.