Chapter 2

Daphne POV:

Morning sunlight sliced through the black velvet curtains. The heavy arm banded across my waist tightened, and a rough chin rubbed against the back of my neck with a low, contented groan.

Then the man behind me went dead still.

In a blink, Darrell wrenched his arm back, clamped a hand around my nape, and slammed me face-first against the padded headboard.

"Who gave you permission to climb into my bed?" Darrell snarled, looming over me like a coiled predator, his eyes cold as gunmetal.

My forehead stung where it hit the leather, and my spine scraped against his heavy belt buckle. I didn't flinch. I pushed myself up and smoothed my crumpled collar.

"Check your own locks before throwing accusations, Mr. Sexton," I said, meeting his glare without blinking. "You were the one clinging to me like a rabid dog begging for a sedative last night. Thanks, but no thanks."

Darrell's gaze dropped to the red pressure marks on my collarbone where his stubbled jaw had rested all night. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a flicker of shock crossing his face. For ten years, the days before a full moon brought him blinding migraines and insomnia, yet his head was crystal clear this morning.

He grabbed his leather vest—the Cut, stitched with the three-piece patches that proved a biker's rank and brotherhood—and shrugged it over his scarred back.

"Whatever game you're playing, drop it." he tugged his collar loose. "Three months. Once the clock runs out, you pack your bag and get out of California."

"Keep your word, and we'll get along fine." I slung my canvas bag over my shoulder and walked out the door.

Downstairs, the smell of fried bacon and cigars drifted from the dining room. Debbie and Eunice sat at the long redwood table, slicing into rare steaks with heavy steel knives.

"Rhonda, fetch a black body bag for the upstairs hall and call the clean-up crew—" Eunice's laugh died in her throat as my worn canvas shoes clicked down the spiral staircase.

Her jaw dropped, the fork clattering from her fingers. "You... how are you still breathing?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Craig. The Prez's mattress is very comfortable." I walked to the head of the table and pulled out the empty leather chair to the right of the master seat—the spot reserved for the Luna, the President's woman, the only position at the table that outranked bloodline.

Debbie slammed her steel knife onto her porcelain plate. "Insolent trash! A wolfless nobody doesn't sit at the main table! You belong in the yard with the help!"

Heavy boots echoed on the stairs. Darrell strode in, buckling his gun belt, and dropped into the head chair. In a Pack, nobody touches their food until the Alpha lifts his fork, and Debbie immediately pasted on a aggrieved frown.

"Darrell, this country girl broke into your suite on her first night." Debbie pulled an unlabelled black-and-gold debit card from her purse and tossed it across the wood toward my plate. "There's five thousand dollars on that card. Sign the waiver giving up the trial patch and take the next bus back to the wasteland."

Eunice sneered, crossing her arms. "Five grand is a fortune for a desert rat. Thank Mother and get out."

Darrell lifted his black espresso, watching me over the rim to see how fast I would grab the money.

I looked at the plastic card. Five thousand dollars wouldn't cover a single second of interest on my offshore Winters trust. I picked the card up between two fingers and flicked my wrist.

Splash!

The card landed dead center in Debbie's steaming teacup, spraying scalding brown tea across her face and velvet shawl.

"Argh!" Debbie shrieked, jumping back as she clawed at her blistered cheek.

"Your math is terrible, Mrs. Mcfarland. Five grand won't even buy exhaust gaskets for the front bikes." I wiped my fingertips with a napkin. "Use it to buy yourself some cooling herbs before you stroke out."

"You little bitch!" Eunice lunged up, her fingernails lengthening into half-shifted claws.

"Enough!" Darrell slammed his ceramic cup down, unleashing a guttural roar that rattled the crystal chandelier.

It was the Alpha's Command, a biological pressure that forced lower bloodlines to submit before their brains could even object. Both Debbie and Eunice froze, their spines bowing as they instinctively dropped their eyes and tilted their necks to expose their throats—the wolf posture of submission.

Darrell turned his dark eyes on me, his knuckles tapping the wood. "Sharp tongue. Since you want to earn your keep by Boone's rules, report to Iron Claw Freight at nine. If you don't last three days in the shop, I'll rip that trial vest off you myself."