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The club’s patrons parted for her, instantly recognizing, not who, butwhatshe was. The vicious ruler of this dark, glittering kingdom. A supernatural mafia queen.
She snaked her way to the bar where Allyson, her Fae head bartender, was busting her ass to get out a round of flaming, neon drinks.
Frankie leaned over the bar and whispered into the other woman’s ear, the pulse of the club’s thumping music drowning her speech. “Hate to interrupt, but...”
The Fae bartender immediately paused what she’d been doing, turning a pointed ear toward her.
“Two hunters will be here tonight. Maybe more.”
Allyson stiffened, though Frankie wasn’t certain why. The Fae weren’t often targets for the Execution Underground, their glamour allowing them to blend in easily among humanity. Save for their beauty.
“They’re welcome here,” she continued. “Make sure the staff knows.”
Allyson nodded, silently returning to her task while whispering to another member of the wait staff. The whole of K9s servers would be aware of the situation in a matter of minutes. The knowledge of the pack’s leadership would soon follow.
Thatwould be a tougher conversation, but one she was prepared for.
Satisfied, she made her way toward the stairs. She moved about the club with uninterrupted ease. To any patron, she was just another beautiful woman, but to the monsters in the dark who waited...
They knew better than to disturb their queen.
Not until she was ready for them.
Climbing the stairs, which led to her office, she escaped the stifling noise. As she approached, she passed her secretary, Jeanine’s, open door. At the sight of her, Jeanine’s eyes widened and she scrambled from behind her desk, scurrying into the hall.
“Packmaster,” she breathed.
Frankie reached her office and scowled at the crack in the door which indicated it’d been left open. She pushed through it as she said over her shoulder, “Jeanine, what have I told you about leaving my door...” Frankie’s words trailed off, her directive cut short at the sight of the wolf who sat across from her executive chair.
Amarok “Rock” Saila. Newfound packmaster of the Toronto white wolves.
And for all intents and purposes...
Her fiancé.
“Packmaster,” Jeanine squeaked from behind her. “I tried to tell him to wait in the meeting room, but—”
“Not now, Jeanine,” Frankie said curtly.
She cast the other she-wolf a cursory glance, a look that clearly said she’d address the oversight later. Once Jeanine was dismissed, Frankie promptly closed the door.
The moment the latch clicked into place the available space in the room shrunk considerably, until breathing became a chore, but Frankie didn’t dare show it.
“I hear you’ve been quite the absent ruler as of late.” Rock swirled the whiskey in his tumbler glass, dark eyes watching her, considering. The first several buttons of his shirt were open, to where she could see the white wolf paw tattoo, which marked his pack affiliation, against handsome russet skin. His heritage was Inuit, or so he’d told her at one of their last meetings. Many of the white wolves were.
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” She shrugged dismissively. “And I don’t think you came here to criticize how I run my pack.”
“Criticism was never my intent.” Rock smiled at her. A flash of white canine teeth. “Consider it observation. Nothing more.”
Frankie crossed the room and stood behind her desk. “You could have warned me you were coming.”
“I had Henrik send word to Alejandro two nights ago.”
Two nights ago...
Frankie nearly winced. When she’d conveniently ignored her second’s calls and smashed her phone to bits. It felt as if a lifetime had passed since then.
She placed a hand on the cool leather of her executive chair. “What brings you here, Rock?”
