First Chapter: Wolf, Let Down Your Guard
Thane fe Osric of the South stood in the elevator, hands clasped behind his back and legs spread. On the surface, he looked ready to handle anything. Inside, he just hoped he maintained a stony expression—days of board meetings were his least favorite of all schedules. Long hours filled with self-important men making noises for the sake of their own voice, all stuck in rooms where he couldn’t enjoy the relative safety of his mirrored sunglasses.
But a room packed to the brim with entitled fucks wasn’t the challenge. No. That honor belonged to her…
The elevator doors slid open.
A raven-haired woman, clad in a curve-hugging suit, stood in the center of the hall.
Blue eyes bright against the brushed steel and white of the building, she acknowledged him with an arched brow.
“Right on time,” she said, lips curving. “Aren’t you consistent, Mr. Osric. I could set my watch by you.”
As always, he fought the urge to step back. To suck in his breath at the sight of her.
Mine, his wolf shouted, rattling the cage of his ribs. Mine, mine, mine.
He clenched his jaw.
That wolf was a liar and a murderer and couldn’t be trusted. It had no right to even look at Paris Bates. But it had its claws at his throat, its growl in his chest, demanding he claim this woman—his client.
Impossible.
His job was to keep her safe—and that included safe from him.
Throat working, he inclined his head and managed to say, “Ms. Bates.”
She glanced at the two men flanking her, both wearing the same black suit and white shirt as Thane, both with carefully neutral expressions that spoke volumes for their professionalism and boredom. “Smith. Jones. You’re relieved.”
Dammit.
Thane should have told them that.
He was supposed to be in charge of her personal security, not her freaking fan club. But here he was, a year into that detail, tongue-tied and likely to trip over his own feet if he stared at her too long. Still unable to speak—a persistent problem around Paris Bates—he tipped his head toward the exit.
The other two men, part of Paris’ regular entourage, nodded at him as they left.
“Shall we get going, Mr. Osric?” she asked.
He grunted in confirmation.
Her lips twitched.
Damned if I don’t need those sunglasses.
“Let’s get to it.” She motioned to the far end of the hall. “The board waits for no one.”
Thane fell into step behind her.
Meeting days were the hardest—no sunglasses to dull the glow of Paris’ fiery intelligence, and little-to-no risk to keep his attention elsewhere. The newly completed Bates Tower was as secure as it got. A spire of tempered glass and steel, the building had been meticulously designed by her father, with the intention of providing maximum protection.
No enemy scents, no strange movements.
Nothing but the sway of her hips—
Stop it.
Jerking his attention off her delectable ass, he followed her into the big meeting room at the top of the building. Walking into the space was like entering a luxurious guard tower—where the only threat was running out of ice or someone snagging their designer suit. It sat in a curved jut-out just below the very peak of the building. Three of the four walls were tinted glass, filtering the midmorning light from blazing to a pleasant glow, while the interior wall was mostly made of an enormous screen and the door leading to Mr Bates’ private office.
Paris’ father had spared no expense on the room’s design.
A polished, black stone table filled the length of the room. Twenty sleek leather chairs surrounded the slab—all empty save for a handful, which were occupied by those currently at the top of the Bates food chain. None of these men were strangers to Thane, yet their expressions seemed unusually closed.
He moved closer to Paris.
True to form, she slipped into the seat at the other end of the table. The head position.
Directly opposite her father.
It was a move worthy of an Alpha, and Thane couldn’t help but approve.
“Shall we call the meeting to order?” she asked, smooth voice slicing through the male chatter.
“Right you are,” her father said. “There’s much to discuss.”
“Let’s start with area reports,” Paris said. “Phil?”
With the drone of marketing reports filling the room, Thane left Paris’ side and did a lap of the room—reconfirming that, yes, there still wasn't a single building tall enough to get a lock on her at this height. Bates had chosen this location on the northern edge of Seattle with care: beautiful views, no rival towers.
At this height, with no equivalent buildings in reach, Paris was as safe as it got.
Though these days, assassins were just as likely to use advanced techniques; drones or other bullshit that didn't require direct visibility. He searched the sky beyond for the glint of a drone, stopped by the refreshments and checked for the smell of poison.
Overkill? Maybe. But he wasn’t interested in kicking these old habits from his time in the military.
Any threat was possible when your father was Greggory Bates.
Especially if he’d named you CFO of Sparta INC, one of the biggest companies in the world, and marked you as the heir apparent to that company. People hated Sparta INC as much as they needed it, and they were more than ready to judge Paris on the basis of her father’s actions.
Thane had been brought into her protection detail following that announcement.
Six months ago, when the tower had been partly built and construction was at a standstill due to a series of questionable accidents. It had been the biggest break of Thane’s career since putting his wolf aside and leaving his special Lykos military unit. He should have been too small, too new to register on the Bates radar, yet somehow his name had made it to the top of the pile.
Finally, a real chance to prove he could be a success without his wolf—without the military.
Then his fucking wolf had decided it wanted to claim his client.
He fought back a growl.
During construction, he’d had enough distractions—enough areas of risk—to keep his full attention on the job. With the tower almost complete and fully operational, he felt more and more like a glorified lapdog. One who couldn’t help but notice the sweet scent of his client from across the boardroom. He flexed his neck, trying to shake off the awareness—why did Paris have to smell like sugar and cinnamon?
It was fucking unfair that she’d be both his favorite smells, mixed together.
Though… he frowned.
Her scent wasn’t the only smell of note in the room. His nostrils flared, picking up the bitter tang of sweat. Not the kind you'd get from climbing up too many flights of stairs, either.
Someone in the room was uncomfortable.
Very uncomfortable.
It wasn’t uncommon for Greggory Bates to make his directors sweat just for the fun of it, but so far the meeting had been calm. No public displays or set downs. So why was someone already sweating?
He shifted his gaze from the view outside to those in the room and searched for the source of stress.
Suit or goon?
For each of the sour-faced, starch suited high-ups seated around the massive table, there was at least one muscled guard lurking in the background. But none of those men were like Thane. He might hate his wolf. Yet he couldn’t deny that being Lykos—otherwise known as a werewolf, or a member of the Third House of Magic—had benefits. It didn't matter if a handful of the guards in this room were bigger physically than him, there was no way any of them would be able to take Thane down.
When it came to protecting Paris, he’d find a way to appreciate his werewolf edge.
Even if it came with a hefty price.
Sure, he had to spend his days surrounded by steel and glass, and deny his wolf’s desires, but the pay was good. And instincts aside, Paris was a decent human being. In the short time he’d led her security detail, he’d seen her quietly improve working conditions for everyone in her area. Not that she’d let it be known. Paris played the corporate game with the ease of a true master, and she knew how to cover her tracks—yet he could tell that she didn't enjoy lying.
She was smarter than her father, but she made sure not to let on.
They were both good at keeping things close to their chests.
She’d hide her true ability until her father handed over the reins to the company, and Thane would ensure she never learned his real nature.
The thought of Paris learning about his wolf twisted his guts.
Forcing his attention back to his actual job, he took another circuit around the room and determined none of the guards were the source of the uncomfortable odor.
Which left the suits.
Huh. Interesting. Was Paris making a move today?
He glanced over at her, gaze skimming her body. Clad in a simple charcoal skirt-suit, white shirt buttoned all the way to the base of her neck, hair twisted back and no jewelry in sight, she should have been another unremarkable MBA. Instead, she shone brighter than a full moon. The deep charcoal only enhanced the black of her hair and the bright blue of her eyes, hugging generous curves and framing perfect red lips...
He dragged his eyes back to the job.
Mine, his wolf hummed. Mine…
Paris caught his gaze and those lips flickered into an almost smile.
He stared back. Hungry for more, his whole body wanting to sit up and beg like a damned hound dog.
“Thank you, Phil,” she said smoothly, voice betraying nothing as her attention shifted back to the huge display screen, “let’s move on to Jerry. Take us through the latest in Development, please.”
Shit.
He had to pull himself together, crush his wolf back inside its cage.
On the off chance Paris returned his interest, she’d cultivated her ice princess persona for good reason—neither of them could risk anything more than a professional arrangement. It would undermine her work with the company. And worse, it would tank his future in security—not to mention putting his entire identity in jeopardy. As a werewolf operating outside a pack’s protection, he could not be discovered.
And if anyone could work out what he was, it was Paris.
Aside from the iron-clad rule that banned any member of the Four Houses of Magic from revealing their identity to mortals, Thane couldn't—no, wouldn't—involve anyone he cared about in the shit show that was his life outside of work. He’d left the military and his wolf behind for good reason—not that his pack had seen it that way.
It had been too long since he'd spoken so much as a single word to his brothers, but they were all stubborn bastards; Thane included.
The world would have to be ending before he’d make the first move.
With a grunt, he propped a shoulder against the glass wall and studied the room.
Bates Senior was talking, hands raised in time with his voice. Apparently some rival company had made a move and gotten everyone riled up. Honestly, the corporate jargon meant nothing to Thane. So long as he got paid, he didn’t give a flying fuck about the power struggles that played out in the concrete jungle, from marketing thrones set high above the city.
Footsteps sounded in the hall.
His gaze snapped to the double doors.
His eyes widened with surprise as the gleaming black panels, inlaid with softly glowing fiber optics, swung open. Interruptions normally merited pink slips, yet one of Bates’ assistants entered, head ducked low and skin pale.
“What’s the meaning of this!” Bates snapped.
The assistant hurried across the floor to whisper something into Bates’ ear. Even with his werewolf hearing, Thane couldn’t make out all the words—something about news and it being time?
Bates’ expression darkened, yet a strange gleam of satisfaction seemed to light his eyes.
Muscles tensing, Thane moved to stand beside Paris’ chair.
"Gentlemen, Paris,” Bates said, “we need to put this on hold for just a moment. A critical event is unfolding." He turned the wall-sized display from quarterly returns to television. The words “NEWS 444. BREAKING LIVE FROM NEW ORLEANS” scrolled across the screen.
What the fuck was going on?
Bates never welcomed interruptions. And he never turned on the news.
Thane glanced at Paris, caught the confusion in her gaze. She lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug, as if to say I’ve-got-nothing. He flicked his fingers toward the door, silently asking if she needed to leave.
She shook her head.
He inched closer—close enough to grab her and jump for the doors in a single move.
“Something is happening in the cemetery here in New Orleans,” a voice crackled over the speakers. “In the midst of a freak hurricane—dubbed Sophie only an hour ago—there appears to be fighting… in the… streets…”
The sound of wind and rain filled the room.
New Orleans.
Home.
Body tensing, Thane tore his gaze away from Paris and back to the screen.
A shaken reporter stood in the middle of a storm. Wind buffeting him from all sides, the reporter couldn’t even hold the mic steady.
“I’m Sam Lindo for News 444, reporting live from New Orleans. Something happened…” He scrubbed a hand over his face and the camera swung to the right, revealing a row of vaults. Shit. Was the human reporting from inside a cemetery? "I... I don't know how to describe it. Just cut to the footage, Jerry."
The signal crackled and the picture flickered.
For reasons Thane couldn’t explain, his heart started pounding.
His pack—er, former pack—lived in New Orleans. But they were hidden in the Business District, and that cemetery looked like one of the larger ones in the Garden District. There was no cause for his instincts to kick into overdrive. Noone hid better than the Southpaws…
The camera feed switched to another view.
A giant hole in the middle of the cemetery filled the screen.
Broken crypts and vaults, wrought iron fencing and headstones had fallen inward, protruding from the dirt like jagged teeth.
“Shit,” one of the suits in the room muttered.
The camera shook a little as it zoomed in.
"This hole began forming approximately half an hour ago, at the peak of the storm’s winds. We've been here, on location, for the last ten minutes." The reporter seemed to have summoned a little courage, as his voice was evening out. "Every news crew in the city is on site, waiting to see what happens next. Some say it's the beginning of the end, the apocalypse comes to suck all the evil doers to hell."
There was a loud rumbling and the earth cracked further.
The winds suddenly stopped.
The people watching in the meeting room gasped as the hole widened, gaping up from the ground like the earth itself was yawning—or readying to bite the city in half. A scream cut through the air, followed by others, and they could hear someone near the video camera gasp in horror.
"Did you see that?” Someone off camera yelled.
“There's something moving in there!” Another voice cried.
“Someone get a flashlight!” Sam the reporter gestured for the camera person to follow him as he approached the hole’s edge. The camera jostled in time with footsteps, then steadied and zoomed in on the hole, where shadowy movements could be seen at the base of the gap.
Large shapes, with massive hands and what looked like… claws?
No. No way.
Instinctively, Thane moved towards the screen, desperate to be wrong. His eyes were keener than most, but he couldn't see what wasn't shown, and the camera wasn't good enough to capture more detail.
In the next moment, there was another scream. No, not a scream.
A howl.
“Skies above,” he hissed.
The camera zoomed in and a light sprang to life—as did his worst fears, when a large Lykos-shaped werewolf came clearly into view. Standing upright on its hind legs, teeth barred at a shadowy figure and fur standing up in a line down its back, the full-sized Lykos wolf was the stuff of Hollywood fantasy.
“Is that a werewolf?" Sam the reporter shouted the question.
"Oh my God! Monsters!" Someone else screamed.
A Lykos wolf. On camera.
His heart hammered so hard he couldn’t understand how it hadn’t broken through his ribs.
“This can’t be real!” Paris gasped.
“Impossible,” one of the suits declared.
Thane couldn’t look away from the screen, from the most sacred of his peoples rules crumbling, live on camera.
A hulking shadow loomed behind the Lykos wolf—a creature Thane had never seen before. Thin and stretched, with odd stumps protruding from its back, it swiped at the wolf with shadowy claws. The Lykos bellowed—holy shit, was that an Urum’taca battle cry?—and heaved the creature into a black blob floating in the middle of the scene.
What the actual hell was happening in New Orleans?
More movement flickered, and the blob resolved into a swirling mass of black magic that suddenly shot upward.
Chaos erupted.
Glimmering slices of night showered the area. The camera thudded to the ground, still zoomed so far out that not even the blades of grass or paving of the cemetery made any sense. The image stayed like that for a few seconds, before the feed cut abruptly back to the studio.
"Is this a goddamn joke?" the news anchor was asking.
"You're on, Cam,” a voice whispered.
"Shit," the anchor muttered. He drew in a breath, obviously trying to compose himself before facing the camera. "Welcome back to the studio. We're not sure what has happened down at the cemetery, so stay with us as we await from word from Sam Lindow."
The display went dark.
Greggory Bates, owner of Sparta INC, slowly placed the screen controller on the table. While every other person in the room appeared shocked, Bates was calm—almost pleased.
Thane’s instincts screamed.
Does he know about me?
“What we just saw is all too real,” Bates said, voice thick with satisfaction. He locked eyes with each of the other men in the room before finally glancing down the table at Paris; almost as an afterthought. “Well, daughter. It appears the worst has happened. But then, we knew it would." His lips quirked into a self-satisfied grin. “The time is upon us, and we are ready."
Paris leaned forward, her elbows pale against the dark surface of the table. "What do you mean, we're ready?"
Despite her calm tone, Thane could feel the waves of emotion radiating off her.
“Nothing for you to worry about Princess." Bates' voice dripped with condescension.
“I’m the CFO,” she said softly. “It’s my job to worry.”
Despite his world falling apart around him, Thane's skin still prickled in irritation for her—her position often resembled a fancy, gilded cage. He forced himself to calmly resume his position beside her chair. To stay on guard at her back.
Though, clearly, the bigger threat was right in front of her.
“Father.” She placed her palms on the table. "I need to—"
"Not now, Princess." Bates raised a hand and gestured behind Thane, where two of the building’s regular guards were positioned. "Take my daughter and her guard to the safe room on level three."
"Three? Why there?" Paris asked, her irritation bleeding through this time. Crossing her arms, she sat firmly in her chair.
Thane shook his head at the guards as they approached, holding up a hand to tell them to back off. Instead of heeding him, they glanced at Bates.
Oh. Hell. No. Thane stepped between them and Paris.
These goons had no right to touch her, and he’d be damned if he'd let them force her out the door. The prospect of a fight was welcome—almost a relief. It was good to have something to do, something to focus on that wasn't the fact that now the whole world knew that werewolves and magic existed.
“Your orders, Ms. Bates?” he asked, voice low and edged in a growl.
“Is your single guard forcing the issue?” Her father sounded almost entertained, though anger threaded the words as well. “We don’t have time for this nonsense. You must be secured before we move into Stage Two.”
“Tell me what this Stage Two is, and I’ll move,” she said.
“Move,” her father replied, “or I end your guard and then move you.”
You can try, Thane thought with a snarl.
His fingertips ached, claws that had long been denied demanding to come out. His jaw flexed, bones trying to extend, fangs trying to push through his gums. Fuck. No. His blood ran cold.
What was he thinking? He couldn’t lose control in this office.
A small room, with Paris in it?
Earth beneath his paws. Who knew how much damage his wolf would cause if it broke free in this space—if the beast would leave anyone alive. Even Paris, regardless of its claims, might not be safe.
Thane had to stop this. Now. Before anything worse happened
“Ms. Bates.” He bent low and spoke quietly to her. “We should go.”
Her eyes flashed with shock—or possibly disappointment?—and her lips tightened a fraction.
“You too, Mr. Osric?” she asked quietly.
Her reaction cut. Shame twisted his insides.
“Yes.” He curled his fingers into a fist and forced himself to hold steady. Better she be mad at him than dead at his wolf’s paws. “My pa always said to save your energy for the fight that counts, Ma’am."
She turned away. "What would you know about fighting?"
Tension rolled off her in waves. He felt her need to stand and fight—shared it—but a battle in this glass box was too much of a risk. He tried to be relieved when she stood up from her chair and straightened her skirt.
Pushing back his shame and his wolf’s desire for a fight, Thane led her out the door.
It wasn’t the first time he’d run from a fight. All he could do was hope that, this time, it kept the people he cared about safe. As long as he kept Paris away from the chaos, he could protect her—and keep her from knowing about his wolf.