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Maximilian moved so fast that Max had barely gotten the last syllable out before his father was inches away from him. He grabbed Max’s chin—this time painfully—as his eyes faded to black. “You would listen to a woman who hates me over your own father? You are a—”
“How did you know I was talking about a woman?”
Eyes narrowing, Maximilian replied, “Evelyn? Because she’s the only one to tell you something so ridiculous.”
Max’s shackles rattled, and he tried to twist his face from his father’s grasp. “How long have you lied to me, Father? How long have you lied to your covenant?” When Maximilian remained silent, Max snarled, “Kill me and get it over with. I’m not telling you anything.”
His father smiled and released him. “Oh you will, my son.” The wall to his left unhinged and swung inward.
Max watched in apprehension as two trackers, one male, the other female, entered and came to stand behind his father. Each held a wide, black briefcase. A hand touched his chin, almost gently, pulling his gaze back to the man standing before him. Maximilian’s fingers traced the blood at the corner of Max’s lips before he sighed and shook his head.
“You will tell me everything.” His father disappeared.
***
To say that Conall was on edge would have been an understatement. A big understatement. The fact that Max had been taken by trackers, coupled with the increased agitation he was feeling concerning his mating, or lack of mating, with Vivienne, and that he was driving toward the third council meeting of the year, were just three of the things tightening his short leash. The meeting was being held at an abandoned warehouse near the pier, just after dusk. All council members were to be in attendance. Sloan accompanied him while Raoul and three of his best fighters stayed with Vivienne and Evelyn. He was taking no chances.
From the expensive cars and bikes lined up before the warehouse, he wasn’t the first to arrive. Conall parked, and exited the vehicle. Sloan stepped out after, surveying the gathering in quick detail. Witches, vampires, and other werewolves, all waiting for their leaders, stood beside their respective vehicles. Some engaged in conversation with others. Others were silent, watchful. Each council member was allowed to have one member of their pack, covenant, or clan, accompany them into the building. Even then, they were all asked to wait outside the room. Protocol.
Conall was heading for the entrance of the warehouse when the sounds of tires screeching caught his attention. He quickly leapt back as a fire-engine-red Lamborghini sailed into the space he’d just vacated. Smoke rose as the car stopped and the loud bass beats of a rap song came, muffled, from the car before the driver cut engine. Conall felt his fangs descend. Now was not the time for some flyboy to be showing off his ride, especially since flyboy had come close to hitting an already pissed off alpha.
The door slid up and a tanned flip-flop-covered foot touched asphalt right before the other joined it. Santiago, a really angry Santiago, pushed himself from the car and did a quick intake of his surroundings. In an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and khaki bottoms, the werewolf looked ready for a vacation in a warm place with palm trees and beaches, but the scowl on his face, and the fact that his eyes glowed bold amber, contradicted his getup. He looked like a cross between happy tourist and coldblooded killer. Santiago de Luca controlled the second largest were pack in New York, right behind Conall in terms of heads, and assets.
“Athelwulf.” He extended a large, darkly tanned hand, which Conall grudgingly shook. He’d known Santiago for centuries, and was one of the wolves Conall respected. Respected enough to refrain from redecorating his face for that close encounter.
“I see you still can’t drive worth a damn,” he snarled.
Smirking, Santiago released his hand, and replied without rancor, “If I couldn’t, that wall would have a fresh new coat of red.”
He offered his hand to Sloan, who despite his rigid expression looked friendly enough to Santiago.
“Still licking boots, McTavish?”
“Still being an asshole, Santiago?”
“Only when I have to leave sunny Jamaica for some bullshit Council meeting. Whose son got his ass kicked for being a punk bitch now?”
“That’s what I want to know.” Drako approached from the shadows, as if he’d been there for a long time. “Conall. Santiago. Sloan.” Knowing the wolf, he probably had.
“You know, one of these days I’m going to kick your ass for pulling that sneaky shit,” Santiago said lowly, his eyes trained on Drako.
