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But the lock screen pulls me up short.
Twenty-three missed calls and one voice message from an unknown number.
When I hit play, a stone-cold voicemail floods my ear canal, chilling like liquid nitrogen. “We’ve been searching for Marisol.”
My fingers freeze.
Now that we’re signing away our souls, Jett Wyvern is technically our ally.
But the cold-blooded motherfucker who manages Wyvern House’s wet work makes hardened mobsters brown their tracksuits.
I don’t want my queen’s name in his mouth.
He shouldn’t be on the same continent as my mate.
“JJ. Let me,” a female asks sweetly. There’s a rustle, the phone changing hands, then her tone heats to a hiss. “Hunter just told me you’re Sol’s mates. If you’re the reason my friend got hurt…” She snarls. “I don’t care who’s responsible. You’ll pay. Tell her Lilah’s on the way.”
The line click leaves me whiplashed.
We may have graduated Wyvern House Academy with the owners’ kids, but we haven’t kept in touch, let alone exchanged holiday cards.
There’s no such thing as a halfway Wyvern. You’re in or out, and we were always tapped to work for the Triad.
Now my information is wildly out of date. Last I knew, the Wyverns’ only mate was a male omega.
And now this Lilah wants to come at us?
I snort.
Let’s make this clearer than my skin.
Marisol is mine.
I haven’t begun to show her how deeply.
Until my queen can smile freely, until she can trust me with her secrets and trade me her throat for whichever piece of my soul she thinks glitters the prettiest—don’t even fucking think about coming between us.
Growling, I ring the unknown number.
It never connects.
I try headquarters, but instead of the operator, I receive an endless ring that deepens the stubborn rumble of my chest.
I need to speak with Jin before I pass a word of the Wyverns’ dubious message to Sol.
The guttural caveman band using my ribs for percussion won’t be quashed until I have her in sight. Preferably in my arms, surrounded by silk sheets, feather down, and my pack’s equally possessive pig-grunt purrs.
How far we fall for love.
I hurry to the nest.
Dutch and Reese wait shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the door.
“Any movement?” I park beside Dutch, whose tension tugs threads from my shirt.
“He’s soothing her,” Dutch mumbles. “I could soothe her.”
“Soon.” Reese pats his shoulder.
