Chapter 1

Chapter

One

EINAR

D raithmere was quiet. Just the way I liked it.

I sat at my desk, my shoulders relaxed and my gaze on the roaring fire across the room. The flames in the hearth snapped and danced, throwing shadows on the walls. Through the window, a crescent moon cast a silvery glow over the October night. Already, the air held winter's bite. But the chill was no match for Draithmere's chimneys.

The sprawling estate perched on a bluff overlooking 25,000 acres at the base of the Olympic Mountains—and every acre, tree, and blade of grass belonged to me. As far as empires went, Draithmere was modest. But I didn't need space. Unlike some people, I didn't need to feel important. No, my needs were simple. Food, forest, and fucking quiet .

The last commodity had been difficult to come by lately. Between running Draithmere and preventing the Puget Sound werewolf pack from terrorizing the supernatural community, my days were…noisy.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the Puget Sound alpha was dead, Draithmere was quiet, and I was going to celebrate the shit out of my solitude. The human newscasters could announce a meteor was on course to annihilate the planet, and it wouldn't disturb my peace. I'd fought Rex Addington and the rest of the Puget Sound wolves for nearly a decade. Like so many other werewolf alphas, Rex was determined to see werewolves raised above humans.

Well, had been determined. Past tense. The arrogant fucker was dead now, courtesy of my claws and one well-timed swipe across his throat. Hopefully, seeing their alpha's head spin across the Sound like a Frisbee was enough to deter the remaining pack members from stirring up trouble for a while. Although, knowing werewolves, Rex's death wouldn't keep them down for long.

The fire popped. Embers eddied into the air. A few spilled onto the hardwood and flared briefly before winking out.

I let a sigh fill my chest as I leaned back in my chair and stretched. As I released my breath, my worries fled with the oxygen. Addington was dead, the Puget Sound Pack was neutered, and I had an entire evening of peace and quiet on tap. No duties. No demands. Nothing was going to disturb my?—

"Sir?"

I jerked my attention from the fire to the study's doorway. My steward, Arlo, stood there, a hesitant expression on his face and a manila folder held close to his chest. As he waited for me to acknowledge him, a ghostly pair of black horns flickered around his head—there and gone so quickly most people wouldn't have noticed them.

But I knew Arlo. He'd served me for fifty years. And his horns didn't come out unless he was nervous or angry.

"What is it?" I asked.

His gaze landed on the book at my elbow. "Light reading?"

In my peripheral vision, the book's cover shifted, the black leather changing to a deep, alluring red. Gold letters rearranged themselves and began to glow.

"Always," I told Arlo, ignoring the book.

Disapproval touched Arlo's eyes, but he kept his reprovals to himself as he drew a deep breath. "We have a bit of a problem, sir."

I pointed to his chest. "Is it in that folder?"

Arlo crossed to the desk and sat in one of the chairs angled in front of it. Regret swam in his dark eyes as he placed the folder on the desk's surface and slid it toward me. "Apologies, Prince Einar. I know you hoped to pass a quiet evening alone, but this is a somewhat urgent development."

I grunted as I slapped a hand on the folder and clawed it toward me. No matter how many times I told Arlo to drop my title, he insisted on maintaining a layer of formality between us. I shot him what I knew was an exasperated look as I opened the folder.

"Let's see this urgent develop—" The rest of my sentence caught in my throat as photos spilled onto my desk. Glossy and grayscale, they'd obviously been taken at night. Nevertheless, they showed their subject in startling detail. My throat went dry as I lifted the first image.

It was me, my face in profile as I unbuttoned my shirt.

The next image showed me bending to remove my jeans.

In the third photo, my body contorted as I began to shift.

The next few images showed me in various stages of transformation. The camera was ruthless and invasive, capturing my disjointed limbs and the grotesque in-between stage where pulpy organs and naked bone protruded from half-formed flesh. One frame appeared to zoom in on my face, catching my lipless grimace as my jaw lengthened into a canine snout.

In the final photo, I stood on four legs, my body fully shifted into my lycan form.

"I found the images in our post office box when I ran into town today," Arlo said. "They were sent by way of a private courier service. I already checked out the courier. It's a legitimate company. I couldn't find any ties between them and the sender." A hint of anger laced Arlo's voice. "The sender didn't attempt to hide his identity. He wanted us to know who he is."

"Who?" I demanded, outrage building as I met Arlo's gaze. "Who's the dead man who sent these photos?"

"Orson Ward," Arlo said. He hesitated. "Does that name mean anything to you?"

"No. Should it?"

"He's an investigative journalist. I'd never heard of him, either, but the internet says he's well-known in journalistic circles. His late wife was a respected food critic, and his family founded the oldest newspaper in Seattle. Generations of Ward family members have worked in journalism. They're like a"—Arlo groped for a word—"reporting dynasty or something."

"I don't give a fuck if they're the British royal family," I said, my voice dropping an octave. I stabbed a finger at the topmost photo. "These are threats. What does Ward want? Money?"

Arlo stared at my finger on the photo. "Sir," he said quietly.

I looked down. My finger had shifted into a claw, which now pinned the photo to the desk. With a muttered curse, I wrenched my claw from the wood and shoved the photo away. A tiny divot scarred the desk's surface. Dozens more scattered across the wood. Reminders of the other times I'd lost control and shifted unexpectedly.

"Ward wants an interview," Arlo said. With a flick of his wrist, he produced a second manila envelope—which most definitely hadn't been visible before. Arlo withdrew a single sheet of paper and placed it before me. "Forgive me, sir. I kept the letter from you so you'd have a chance to absorb the photos." Arlo avoided looking at the claw marks on the desk.

I opened my top drawer and withdrew a flask. "Probably a good idea."

Arlo's expression was neutral as he nodded toward the letter. "Ward claims he has a video of your shift, as well as footage of you killing Rex Addington. He demands that you meet him in person at his home in Seattle. If you refuse, he says he'll release the video to the media. He gives you twenty-four hours to decide."

Rage pumped hot in my veins. I uncorked the flask and took a healthy swig of its contents. The liquid burned hotter than my anger, which was exactly the point. When the fire—and the urges it brought—subsided, I set the flask aside and ran my gaze down Ward's neat, black handwriting. "He seeks to blackmail me."

"Yes, sir," Arlo murmured. "That appears to be the gist of it."

I kept reading. "He's going to release the video regardless. He claims he's being generous by allowing me to control the narrative before the rest of the world discovers werewolves are real." I huffed a humorless laugh as I met Arlo's dark stare. "Not a very good investigative journalist, is he? Cocky fucker doesn't even know the difference between werewolves and lycans."

"That's another thing," Arlo said. "Orson Ward used to be an acclaimed journalist. He won two Pulitzers for his reporting work. Now, he's a pariah."

"Why?" Hope fluttered at the edges of my anger. If Ward had skeletons, he was probably desperate. And desperate people were often sloppy. I could work with that.

"Three years ago," Arlo said, "someone discovered major discrepancies in a story Ward reported. Once people started digging into his work, they realized he'd faked facts in two separate reports. When he couldn't get a scoop, Ward invented one. Then he did it again."

So I was right. Ward was desperate. On the other hand, he had photos and a video of me shifting, and he was prepared to go public. Photos were damaging enough, but a video was the sort of bite-sized content the internet loved. It would quickly go viral, racking up millions of views and, eventually, leading humans to my doorstep. Under no circumstances could I allow that to happen. The consequences were unthinkable—and deadly.

My anger stirred anew, urging me to my feet and propelling me around the desk. I stalked to the hearth and braced a hand on the stone mantel carved with snarling lycans. The fire licked higher, its heat searing my face. Orson Ward thought to blackmail me? Two could play that game.

I turned from the hearth to find Arlo standing next to his chair. His gaze was steady, his posture relaxed. Anyone meeting him for the first time would see a slight, timid-looking young man with dark hair and eyes. If they were like most people, they'd assume he was harmless. And they would be wrong.

"Tell Ward I'll meet him three days from now. He can have his interview. In the meantime, get me all the information you can find on him. I want to know everything. His family. His favorite food. Affairs. Girlfriends from high school. Assets and debts. The names of his pets. If he cares about something, I want to know about it. And then I want to talk to him face-to-face."

Arlo's gaze went to the flask on the corner of my desk. "Are you certain that's wise, sir?"

"It would be unwise to try to stop me."

He inclined his head. "I wouldn't dream of it, Your Highness."

"Glad to hear it. And you'll see to Ward?"

"I'll make sure you have all the information you require." The slightest smile touched Arlo's lips. "This won't go well for Ward, will it, sir?"

Grim anticipation spread through me. "No, old friend. It will not."