Chapter 1 The Price For A Life

The pack house stood at the end of the old logging road, a sprawling fortress of black timber and black glass against a bruised, weeping sky. Sera Voss hated every inch of it before the carriage had even rolled to a stop.

The driver came to the carriage window, his gaze fixed somewhere past her shoulder. Nobody in the Blackthorn Pack had looked at her directly since she crossed the border. "Ma'am. They're waiting."

"I can see that," Sera said, her voice a low rasp.

She could. Twenty or thirty figures lined the gravel drive in the freezing sleet, standing too still. They didn't shiver. They didn't shift their weight. They just stood there, the way predators stand when they are pretending to be polite. Their eyes caught the carriage lamps and threw them back in flat, glowing gold and green.

Sera's pulse hammered against her throat, a frantic bird beating against a cage. She knew they could hear it. Wolves always could.

She reached up and pressed her thumb hard into the old silver ring on her right hand, twisting the cool metal. The sharp edge bit into her skin, grounding her. *Steady.* Her father had given her this ring the year she learned to load a crossbow. He had also taught her that you never, ever show a wolf your fear.

Her father was three weeks dead, killed by the very monsters she was about to marry into.

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, grabbed the handle, and stepped down into the cold.

The wind cut through her thin coat immediately, bringing with it the scent of pine, wet earth, and an overwhelming, musky animal heat. The moment her boots hit the gravel, the entire line of wolves seemed to inhale in unison, their chests rising and falling as they tasted her scent on the air.

The heavy oak door of the house swung open. A man stepped out.

He wasn't the largest of the wolves—one of the men behind him was built like a brick wall—but the others moved without being told. They melted away from him, a quiet widening of space, like water parting around a dark stone.

Dorian Kane.

Sera had seen his photograph on the hunters' wanted list. It had been grainy, taken from a distance. It had not prepared her for the reality of him. He was tall and unhurried, wearing a dark wool coat dusted with sleet. His face was all hard, brutal angles, a thin white scar splitting his left eyebrow. But it was his eyes that made her breath catch. They were a sharp, unnatural amber, ringed with black.

They locked onto her for exactly two seconds.

In that brief span, Sera felt a sickening, foreign tug deep in her chest, a pull that felt almost like gravity shifting. But then Dorian's jaw clenched so tight she saw the muscle jump in his cheek. He looked away, his gaze dropping to the icy ground, as though even looking at her had physically cost him something.

"Miss Voss." His voice was low and even, carrying easily over the wind. "You're late."

"You sent a carriage that took the scenic route through the mountains," Sera shot back. She lifted her chin, refusing to cross her arms, refusing to hide her shiver. "I'm Mrs. Kane in a week, I'm told. You can call me Sera, or you can call me nothing. I really don't care."

A ripple went through the line of wolves.

Somebody coughed to cover a laugh—a tall, sandy-haired man near the front. A woman at the far end, with pale, sculpted features and dark hair, stared at Sera with naked, unfiltered loathing.

Dorian's mouth didn't move. His expression remained carved from ice. But his right hand, hanging at his side, closed slowly into a fist. Sera watched his knuckles turn white.

"Inside," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "The contract is waiting."

Sera followed him up the steps, acutely aware of the pack's eyes burning into her back. She was prey walking into the den, and they all knew it.

The study smelled of cedar smoke, old paper, and that same dangerous, musky scent. A fire popped in the grate, but the room felt as cold as a tomb. On the mahogany desk lay a document of thick cream paper, a heavy gold fountain pen set neatly beside it.

A woman rose from the leather chair by the fire. She was in her fifties, with silver-streaked hair pinned elegantly up and a plush wool shawl draped over her shoulders. She had warm, maternal eyes. Sera noted them, and instantly distrusted them.

"I'm Mara," the woman said, her voice a soothing balm. "Dorian's aunt. Come, child, you're freezing. Sit by the fire."

"I'll stand, thank you," Sera said, her boots planted firmly on the Persian rug.

"Of course." Mara smiled as though she had expected nothing less. "Then let me summarize, so that everything is plain between us. For one year, you will be Dorian's wife in name. You will live in this house, attend pack functions, and wear his mark. In exchange, the Blackthorn Pack will release your brother, return your father's body, and the debt your family owes us will be cleared."

"The debt my father owed." Sera's voice cracked on the word *father*, and she hated herself for it. The raw grief clawed at her chest. "He didn't owe you anything. You killed him."

"Your father broke the treaty," Dorian said from behind her. He had moved to the window, his broad back to her, watching the sleet. "He crossed the line with silver. We took a pup."

"That pup was eleven!" Sera spun on him, the heat of her anger finally burning away the chill. "He's my brother. And Callum is not a pup, he's a sick human child, and your people took him from our house in the middle of the night."

Dorian turned from the window. He didn't flinch. His amber eyes met hers, and for a moment, Sera thought she saw a flash of something dark and tortured in their depths. *Guilt? Regret?* It was gone before she could name it.

"Callum is in the east wing," Dorian said, his voice flat. "He has been fed, and he has not been touched. You can see him once you have signed."

"I want to see him before," Sera demanded. She took a step toward the desk, her hands trembling. "He's eleven, he's scared, and he's alone in a house full of monsters. I need to see him breathing."

"No."

The single word was absolute.

She stared at him. He stared back, expressionless. For a moment, the study was so silent she could hear the sleet ticking on the glass, the pop of the fire, the heavy, rhythmic thud of her own heart. She was trapped. She had no pack, no weapons, and no way out.

Her thumb found the silver ring again, turning it, turning it. Her father's voice echoed in her mind: *They want your fear, Sera. Don't give it to them.*

She looked at the contract. Seven pages of clauses. Residence. Appearances. Conduct. Duration.

She walked to the desk and picked up the heavy gold pen. Her hand shook so badly the ink nearly splattered as she flipped to the final page. She read the last line, her eyes catching on a single, chilling sentence printed in smaller text:

*The signatory consents to the Binding Rite, to be performed at the Blood Moon of the first year.*

Sera looked up, her hazel eyes sharp. "What's the Binding Rite?"

The room went deathly still. Mara's warm smile faltered, her eyes darting nervously to Dorian. Dorian didn't look at her. He was staring at the pen in Sera's hand, his chest rising and falling with a suddenly erratic rhythm.

"A formality," Mara said smoothly, though her voice was an octave too high. "All alpha marriages end with one. A blessing, a few words by moonlight. It means nothing."

Sera's thumb pressed hard into the silver ring. Her father's ring. *Lying.* She was almost sure of it.

But Callum was in the east wing. Eleven years old. Alone.

Sera looked at Dorian, a silent challenge in her gaze. *You want to cage me? Fine. But I won't make it easy for you.*

She pressed the pen to the paper and began to sign her name.