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My face heats, but the second I try to pull away, he grabs my shoulder. I jump as something tickles my collar. When I look down, my eyes go wide.
“So consider me a fool, then,” he grumbles while manipulating a slender, golden chain in one hand.
I gape as he fastens it around my neck. It’s longer than the other one, sporting a delicate charm that takes my breath away: a rose in full bloom.
“It’s lovely,” I whisper, brushing my fingers along the charm. “I don’t know what to—”
“Enough.”
I sense him lean into me, his mouth in my hair, his breathing slow and heavy.
With my free hand, I reach back and find one of his, clenching tight. My body relaxes into him, fitting neatly within the rugged contours that make up his bulk. When I feel a telltale hardness against my hip, I press against him, drawing a groan from his lips.
“No.” He pulls back, sliding his hands down my thighs until the last possible second. “If you tempt me now, we’ll be late…”
I turn and find him eyeing me from head to toe, his eyelids lowered.
“Verylate.” When he bites his lip, I know he’s mulling over that very possibility, weighing the pros and cons. Then he sighs. Apparently, politics trumps all else.
Even sex.
“But. First, my wolf needs to bare her teeth.” He positions me with my back to him and runs his fingers through my hair. Within seconds, it’s arranged into an elegant coil.
“And now what?” I ask as he observes his handiwork, finally satisfied.
“Now, we enter the den.” He extends his hand and captures one of mine. “But, this time, we remain as allies.”
* * *
If I am a wolf, then Sergei resembles a bear. Approaching him head-on would be suicide, and the man relishes in his obvious strength. Once again, we’re gathered in the grand hall. The marble floors magnify every sound, making those of us here—fifty at most—sound like hundreds.
Sergei holds court near the back of the room, surrounded by those of the council I recognize as having supported him at the last gathering. A black suit helps him cast an imposing aura damn near everyone succumbs to—Mischa included.
His grip tightens over my forearm, keeping me close to his side. Then he seems to realize his reaction and gradually loosens his grasp until we’re standing apart entirely.
“This is an arena you’ll have to navigate on your own, Rose,” he murmurs as if reading my mind.
Childish panic goads my heart into beating faster. “What happened to us still being allies this time?” I demand, eyeing his clenched jaw. “Changed your mind already?”
“No. But every wolf needs to learn to hunt.” His hand brushes my lower back, providing subtle reassurance while nudging me forward. “So hunt.”
Before I can turn around, he’s gone, slipping to the back of the room to strike up a conversation with a figure not mentioned in his “history lesson.”
Alone, I spot Sergei already mingling with two of my three targets. The only remaining figure to approach happens to be the most intimidating enigma on my list, per Mischa: Alexi Somodorov.
He stands, eyeing a portrait hanging near the center of the room, his back to all other inhabitants.
Supposedly this man is second only to Sergei in terms of sheer ruthlessness. He murdered plenty of Winthorp associates, adding to the victim tally of this twisted war.
I approach him slowly as fear gnaws away at what little resolve I have. Hunt, Mischa told me.
But in what instance?
My role is nothing more than a formality. What power could a battered wife and illegitimate bastard truly command among such men?
“Look who deigns to grace me with her presence?”
Startled, I realize I’ve drawn even with Somodorov already.
