JAREK
I stood in front of the incubator, listening to the soft hiss-click of the ventilator. Inside the plastic dome, a tiny, translucent hand, no bigger than the tip of my thumb, clenched in its sleep.
"Status," I grunted, not taking my eyes off the glass.
Dr. Arlo, a human who was currently living on a diet of pure terror and my payroll, adjusted his glasses so fast they nearly flew off his face. He scrambled to the monitor, his fingers trembling as he pulled up the vitals.
"The... the infant is stable, King Jarek," Arlo stammered, his eyes darting to my boots as if he was expecting me to crush him at any moment. "Considering the trauma of the extraction... the premature nature of the birth was a massive hurdle. We had to take it out—him—prematurely to save any chance of life after the crash. The lungs were the primary concern, but the steroids are working. He's a fighter."
The kid didn't even have a name. Just a series of numbers on a plastic wristband that looked like it could fit around my thumb.
"Will he survive?" I asked. I wasn't looking for a medical probability. I was looking for a guarantee.
"Yes," Arlo squeaked, nodding frantically. "Barring any sudden infection, he will survive. His heart rate is strengthening. He's... he's getting better every day."
I leaned down, my face inches from the glass. Then, I let my gloved hand hover over the warmth of the incubator. I didn't touch it. My hands were for breaking things, for crushing skulls and signing death warrants. I had no business near something this fragile.
"He'd better survive. This boy isn't just a patient, Arlo. He is the centerpiece of a much larger board. If he dies, your career—and your remarkably comfortable lifestyle—dies with him. Do you understand how discreet this needs to remain?"
Arlo promised with a straight face: "Total radio silence. No records in the central database. My nurses are hand-picked. They think he's the child of a high-ranking diplomat who wants a private birth."
"Good." I straightened up. "Keep him breathing. I'll be back."
I stepped out of the ward, pulling a black face mask over my nose and jaw. The hospital was one of the few places in the city I actually owned through a series of untraceable shell companies.
As I turned the corner into the main hallway, a scent hit me.
It assaulted me like a bouquet of wild lilies, rain, and a stubborn note that spoke of old money and even older blood.
Elowen Goldbane.
My wolf, a scarred, foul-tempered beast that usually spent its time snarling at the moon, suddenly stood on its hind legs and let out a whimper. Ever since the night I'd pulled her from that crumpled piece of German engineering—ever since her blood had stained her temple and I'd tasted the copper-sweet tang of it on my tongue—the beast had been obsessed.
I hadn't planned on getting involved. I'd been keeping tabs on her, wanting to be sure if Aurelius wasn't bluffing about the authenticity of his daughter's blood. But then the car had spun, the brakes had screamed, and I'd moved before I could think.
Now, here she was, wandering far from her pack at three in the morning.
I moved into the shadows of a recessed doorway, watching as she hurried toward the exit. She looked like a ghost in a hoodie. She was far from her guarded estate, far from the "protection" of her silly omega husband—who was at the top of my suspect list.
I watched her exit the building and head toward the taxi stand. She didn't look back. She didn't know that the man the world called a monster was ten feet behind her, memorizing the way the rain-slicked pavement reflected in her eyes.
Or maybe she did because then, she pulled that funny move and tried to kick me.
Then we had our brief, charged encounter—after I'd planted the seeds of doubt about her precious Gideon and watched her run. I stepped out of the alley's side exit. The rain was starting again, a fine mist that turned the neon lights into blurred smudges of pink and blue.
"Did she just try to slap me again?" I asked myself, rubbing my bearded chin in amusement.
What a bold woman, that one.
The only woman in twenty-six years to have the suicidal gall to slap me across the face—and the only one I'd let keep the hand that did it.
"Jarek?" Came a stern voice from behind.
I didn't turn around. "Not now, Hera."
Hera stepped up beside me. She was dressed in a sharp, charcoal-gray power suit, her obsidian hair pulled back into a bun so tight it looked painful. We had grown up in the same gutter, survived the same purges. She was my advisor, my strategist, and the only person who knew where the real bodies were buried.
"The car has been idling for twenty minutes, Jarek. You were supposed to check the 'inventory' and meet me at the curb. Why are you standing in an alleyway staring at the rain?"
Her gaze followed mine. Out through the glass doors, she saw the yellow light of a taxi pulling away from the curb. She was quick; her eyes narrowed as she caught the silhouette of the woman in the backseat.
"Was that… the Goldbane girl?" Hera's voice was cold.
It wasn't just professional curiosity, I knew that. There was a jagged edge of jealousy there, hidden behind a decade of "secret" devotion she thought I hadn't noticed.
"It was and I've decided to choose her." I affirmed, finally turning to face her.