Chapter 3

Florinda Cooley POV:

The Rolls-Royce glided through the bustling high-end district, passing gleaming glass towers before turning into a private, cobblestone driveway.

When the vehicle stopped, two towering guards in tailored black suits pulled my door open, bowing low. "This way, Luna. The Alpha is waiting on the private terrace."

I smoothed down my cheap, wrinkled trench coat, feeling painfully out of place as they ushered me into a private elevator lined with polished brass and mirrors.

The glass doors slid open on the top floor, revealing a sprawling dining hall with vaulted ceilings. It was completely devoid of other patrons. The entire floor had been bought out for the night.

Soft classical music drifted from hidden speakers, mingling with the faint, crisp scent of cold pine that instantly set my nerves on edge.

Sitting at the far end of an elongated mahogany table was Justen.

He wore a bespoke charcoal-gray suit that accentuated the broad, lethal breadth of his shoulders. But my eyes were immediately drawn to his face under the bright crystal chandelier.

It was horrific.

Covering the left side of his face was a grotesque, warped mass of twisted ridges and purple, ruined tissue. It looked as if molten silver had been poured directly over his skull, melting the flesh down to the bone before it was crudely stitched back together. His right eye, a storm-gray iris sharp as a predator's, locked onto me, contrasting terrifyingly with the nightmare on his left.

"Sit," he commanded, his deep voice carrying easily across the empty expanse.

I walked over on trembling legs, pulling out the heavy chair directly to his right and sitting on the very edge of the cushion. His proximity radiated intense heat, an overwhelming physical force that made it hard to draw a full breath.

Waiters appeared silently, placing porcelain plates of seared wagyu beef and delicate truffles in front of us, but I couldn't even bring myself to touch the heavy silver-plated cutlery.

Justen picked up his knife, slicing into the rare meat with calculated precision. "You put on quite a show at the gates tonight," he said without looking up from his plate.

My fork slipped from my fingers, clattering against the rim of the china.

"I... I was only defending the honor of the Romero Pack," I stammered, my cheeks burning with mortification as I remembered my bluff about his 'stamina'. "They had no right to insult your family."

He set his cutlery down, turning his towering frame toward me. He leaned in, stopping just inches from my face, his storm-gray eye piercing straight through my pathetic defenses.

"Only for the pack's honor?" he whispered, his tone dropping an octave. "Not for me?"

The space between us shrank until I could feel the heat radiating from his chest. I swallowed hard, looking down at his crisp collar, my voice barely audible above the violins. "For you, too. You are my mate. I won't let strangers drag your name through the mud."

A heavy silence settled over the table.

Before he could respond, an encrypted satellite phone resting beside his glass buzzed loudly. Justen glanced at the caller ID and tapped the speakerphone button without bothering to dismiss me.

"Justen," a voice boomed from the speaker, ancient, commanding, and saturated with the terrifying weight of the Alpha King. It was Casimer Romero, the supreme patriarch of the pack.

"Father," Justen replied evenly.

"I heard about the little stray defending you against the press," Casimer said, his tone evaluating and cold. "She may be a useless wolfless reject, but she has enough backbone to stand beside our bloodline. Settle the paperwork immediately. I won't have the territory gossiping about an unsealed alliance with a breeder."

My fingers tightened around my napkin. The sheer humiliation of being discussed like a stray dog—a mere breeding tool—burned in my chest.

"Understood," Justen said.

The line clicked dead. The silence that followed was suffocating.

I looked at Justen, bracing myself for him to spit out a venomous mockery. Instead, he reached across the small distance between us, his large, warm hand closing over my cold, trembling fingers resting on the white linen tablecloth.

"Looks like the old man has spoken," Justen murmured, his rough thumb brushing slowly across my knuckles. "You're officially tied to a ruined monster for the rest of your life."