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Chapter One
“Don’t get pissed at me. This is a fucking courtesy call because you helped me save Kincaid’s life.”
Quinten Amato ground his teeth to keep from snapping at the infuriating man. Gabriel Morde’s deep Southern drawl was giving him the urge to smash his fist through the wall or take a crowbar to the phone sitting on his office desk, but Morde wasn’t wrong. And that made everything worse.
Regardless, no one spoke to him like that and lived. Too bad the Kincaid Pack seemed to do whatever the fuck they wanted, consequences be damned.
Quinten was really beginning to wonder if having a man as powerful as Kincaid owe him a favor was worth keeping him from dying. If he hadn’t sent his helicopter and the alpha had died, his life would be a hell of a lot less complicated these days.
When he didn’t respond, he heard a deep sigh, and then Gabriel said, “Listen, Q, the world is changing—”
“Because you and your damn pack changed it,” he snarled, blood heating. Gabriel’s alpha, Rick Kincaid, had started a war with the shifter Council, the governing body of all parahumans in North America. Which would have been none of Quinten’s business or concern, except Kincaid had basically nuked the Council off the map and was rebuilding from scratch a new, democratic government and sending the parahuman world into a damn tailspin. “You didn’t like how things were, so you decided to fuck over the rest of us.”
Gabriel scoffed. “Do you seriously expect me to apologize for what we did? The Council was corrupt as hell, and you and I know that better than most. I’m not sorry for making the world safer for parahumans, even if it’s bad for your business.”
He sneered at his desk phone and leaned back in his well-padded executive chair located in his enormous corner office on the top floor of the high-rise housing his multimillion-dollar business, Amato Imports. The company was a well-oiled machine run by some of the brightest execs money could buy so Quinten could keep the majority of his focus on… his other pursuits.
And that’s where he kept butting up against Gabriel’s pack.
The dissolution—or demolition, depending on who you asked—of the Council had been amazing for Quinten’s less-than-ethical transactions. Kincaid’s new, self-righteous group of do-gooders getting all up in his business was what was pissing him the fuck off. Running his tongue against his teeth, he said, “Damn, Morde. You’ve gotten soft now that you’re getting your dick wet in a couple—”
“Watch it.”
Finding the soft spot to press with shifters—or those mated to them in Gabriel’s case since the man was as human as Quinten—was incredibly easy. But riling up Gabriel wasn’t the point of the phone call, so he didn’t continue, deciding against bringing the hunter’s mates into the conversation again.
“I’m not giving up any aspect of any of my businesses because you and your alpha are suddenly squeamish.” Not after everything he’d sacrificed while building his empire. Rick Kincaid and his lackeys would have to tear it out of his hands and then kill him because that would be the only way he’d give up the power he’d spent a decade and a half accumulating.
“The Guardians won’t look the other way like the Council did.”
Quinten rolled his eyes and pushed to his feet, buttoning his suit jacket. He had better things to do than listen to idle threats. “Your Guardians will take years to get up and running with any sort of real efficiency or authority. It’s already been over ten months, and it’s still pure chaos in the parahuman world. You may think you’ve done everyone a favor by dismantling the old system, but that doesn’t change the fact that a lot of packs and covens still require the products and services I provide.”
“They need protection and stability, not a glorified mobster.”
The words hung in the air as he closed his hands into fists. If Gabriel had been standing in front of him, he doubted he would have been able to stop himself from laying the man out. Considering Gabe used to kill people for money, he had some fucking nerve.
Then again, Gabe had always been good at finding weak spots too.
He leaned forward and planted his knuckles on his mahogany desk, hovering over his phone. “Fuck you.”
“Quinten—”
“Next time someone in your pack is dying, don’t even think about coming to me for help.”
“Q, come on—”
He picked up the phone receiver and then slammed it back down.
Glorified mobster.
Jaw tight, he stormed out of his office. The sigils etched around the doorway glowed as he passed through before fading back to nothing, hidden from sight unless you knew what to look for. His witches had insisted on them after the last death threat he’d received, and he’d caved when Ginger—their ringleader and pain in his ass—had said she’d call his brother and tell Liam about the threats if he didn’t let her make some changes to his security.
Damn witch didn’t fight fair. She knew he’d do just about anything to protect his baby brother, even from worrying about Quinten.
The sigils wouldn’t stop a particularly powerful shifter or witch from coming through, but they’d notify Ginger and the others of the danger. He wasn’t sure what use that would be since he’d probably still be dead if they were strong enough to break through the warding, but it made her feel better and got her off his back.
He’d always known the risks of his life and was under no illusions he’d die of old age. The fact that he was pushing forty and still alive, even though he tangled with unruly shifters every day?
Goddamn miracle.
