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“M.I.T. I was hoping for an analyst position, but the only ones that open up are in administration, and my parents told me it was better to get my foot in the door. I don’t really know.”
“No, it totally is. You should talk to Ms. Uptight in HR and mention that you’re interested in an analyst position if one opens.”
“I told her in my interview, but she ignored me. The trouble with this particular admin position is that the chances of me getting fired in the next six weeks are ninety percent, and then I’ve blown my one shot at working on Wall Street.”
She’s probably right, which makes me preemptively sorry for her.
I toss my takeout container in the trash. “I will do my best to make sure neither of us gets fired. You deserve an analyst position. No more babysitting execs.”
If I put in a good word for her, maybe she can get the job she really wants. Would that get me promoted to be Blackthroat’s direct assistant?
Imagining it gives me a thrill of excitement–for the challenge of the job, only. Not because I want to work more closely with Blackthroat. I’m definitely not imagining helping him change clothes again.
No, working for the boss-holes is torture. There’s no way I should be enjoying it, and if I am? I’m more of a masochist than I thought.
* * *
Brick
After a long day in the office, I have John Acker, my helicopter pilot, take me to the family property out of state. The Berkshires residence is a place where I can let myself off-leash to run. Where I can get the concrete and asphalt out of my cells and smell the bark of trees and the rich smell of earth beneath my feet.
I go every weekend, often accompanied by one or more members of my executive team. At least once a month Ruby, Eagle and the kids will meet me there for some family time. I don’t usually have to go in the middle of the week, but today, I’m on edge. I know the reason why–she’s short, freckled and entirely too sexy in her modest dresses–but I’m not going to think about that.
The Berkshires property has been in my family for a hundred years and has extensive wooded grounds plus every bit of old-world opulence you can think of, including separate servants' quarters, the helicopter pad, and enough bedrooms to sleep thirty.
“Six-thirty a.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late,” I tell John.
“I’ll be here.” He salutes.
I get out of the helicopter and am met by the yips of pleasure from three blue heelers who race out to the landing pad to greet me. The caretakers of the property, Dane and Liz, are shifters. Old-timers who served my father and have known me and my sisters since we were in diapers. They’re servants, but they’re also family. Pack members I would protect to the death, who would do anything for me.
The dogs belong to Dane, but they’re as much mine as his. They recognize me as their alpha.
Keeping dogs isn’t as common for us as it is for humans. Many shifters object to it, I suspect because they don’t like to see parts of themselves reflected in a pet. Those shifters who do keep canines, though, have a tight bond with their pets as they can communicate, lead and guide them in ways humans never could.
I’m not the sort who would keep pets of my own. I don’t need more creatures around me to be responsible for or to care about, but it’s hard not to fully receive the unchecked affection of dogs.
“Hey Bella, hey Fritz. Oh, Bobo, who’s a good boy?” I pet and thump the sides of the ecstatic dogs. “That’s right. Your alpha’s back early this week. Come on. Let’s go in.”
I don’t have a bag, since this trip was unplanned, but I have casual clothes here, and I can change tomorrow morning before I go into Wall Street.
I needed to get out of the city. My wolf behaves himself in the boardroom, but it’s cruel to lock up a wild animal for long. So I come home to run.
But first: business. I fire off a few more emails and check in with Vance’s team, walking the long halls of my ancestral home. My pacing takes me to the library. I stalk the book-lined rows until I reach the heavy oak door that leads to my father’s study.
His books and papers still lie in neat rows, as he left them the night he died. The night he was poisoned. There’s not a speck of dust–Liz won’t allow it–but the air is close and stuffy as an antique shop’s, preserved over the years. Under the scent of furniture polish, there’s a trace of his scent.
Above his desk, my father glares out of his portrait. It’s larger than life, covering most of the wall, but still doesn’t capture the intense presence of Bruce Blackthroat. The artist painted him standing in this room, with one large, weather-worn hand gripping the leather chair. There’s a surly slant to his dark brows, a tension to his jaw that his close clipped beard cannot soften. He looks like he’s going to bark an order in his Alpha voice and send humans scurrying and shifters angling their necks or bending their knees.
Ruby says I’m the spitting image of him. I didn’t think so, but as I stare into his dark eyes, I see it. The weight of power painted into the lines of his face. The knowledge that every decision you make takes your pack, your family, closer to the pinnacle, and the higher you go, the farther you can fall.
My father taught me the most important lesson an alpha can learn. In the shifter world, dominance is everything. It’s more than dog eat dog. We’re wolves. Defeat is death.
When he died, we almost lost everything. I fought tooth and claw for every scrap of success. Fought to keep every investor who said I was too young, and fled into the arms of our enemy. Odin Adalwulf–the Alpha–and his son, Aiden, almost took everything from us. They assaulted our castle and tore down the outer walls, leaving ruin in their wake. They overran Blackthroat Investments and burned it to the ground.
But from those ashes we rose. And now, on the eve of a massive acquisition, we’ve proven ourselves. We’re the biggest and baddest around, and nothing–not the Adalwulfs, not anyone–can take us down.
“We’re almost there,” I tell him. My own voice is so low and guttural, it startles me. My wolf is in my throat, his savagery ringing out of me.
