1. Jasmine

Six months later

"Room service, Ms. Crenshaw."

"I'll be right there."

I cast a last glance at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, not that I expect to see anything out of place. Green eyes the color of a vintage wine bottle stare back, taking in my perfect makeup and the golden curls that frame my delicate features. Look up a biology textbook and you'll see it's the fa?ade of a typical omega. In fact, I once saw a doll in a toy store that bore my exact face. Dozens of little replicas, sitting in a display labeled ‘My Perfect Omega'. I caught sight of them through the window, but if I'd been inside, I'm not certain I wouldn't have hurled them all to the floor.

I banish the memory from my mind, watching my mouth relax from its ugly grimace. As I apply a final swipe of mascara to my lashes, I remind myself that I've planned too long and schemed too hard for this to go wrong now. All I need to do is keep my cool, play my part, and pretend I don't mind cramming myself into freakishly small spaces.

When the knock sounds again, I cover the bodysuit with a white hotel robe and hurry to the door.

"Good morning, Ms. Crenshaw. I have your breakfast for you."

The beta with the room service cart has the kind of appealing face you'd expect from a five-star employee, but his eyes are sharp as he looks me over. Bingo. I guessed the Sawyer Pack would pay someone to spy on me, despite the agreement we have around my last night of freedom. I get the luxury hotel suite all to myself, but true privacy clearly isn't part of the deal. "Where would you like me to set it up?"

I could tell him I'd prefer to bleach my throat than eat the breakfast Kayden ordered for me, but that might kill the celebratory vibe. Not to mention putting this Sawyer spy on high alert. I lower my gaze and study the room service cart with a trembling lip. "There's no rose?"

"Ah, I'm so sorry, Ms. Crenshaw." He actually looks quite stricken as he stares at the flowerless tray. "We'd normally put one on, of course, but I was told you have allergies…"

Lie upon lie upon lie…

"I was promised a red rose." My trembling lip is now accompanied by a tear streaking down my cheek. Given the amount of mascara I've plastered on, it no doubt looks quite gruesome as it drips off my chin. "I need a rose."

Or a Rose Pack, but I was never going to put Grace's new mates in harm's way.

"I specifically asked Kayden to tell the hotel that red roses are my lucky charm." I squeeze out another few crocodile tears, the pitch of my voice climbing to disturbing levels. "I simply cannot get bonded unless I start the morning with one!"

I almost feel sorry for the waiter as he stares in horror at my messy face. "I completely understand, Ms. Crenshaw. I'll just dash back to the kitchen and grab one for you."

"Hurry!" I'm already nudging him to the door, more black tears tracking down my cheeks. "I can feel the bad luck sinking into my bones!"

Okay, so a drama major I am not. But it gets Kayden's little spy out into the corridor and hustling for the elevator, which was one of the trickiest parts of my plan.

As soon as he's gone, I untie the bathrobe and toss it on the floor, leaving me in the black bodysuit I stole from one of the racier girls at college. It covers me from neck to ankle, as tight as a second skin as it hugs every curve. Definitely not on Kayden's list of prescribed fashion choices, but this isn't just a ‘fuck you' to him. As much as I'd like to turn up to the bonding ceremony dressed like this, fleeing before it starts is the better plan.

Grabbing the breakfast plates off the cart, I set them down on the dining table. While I nibble on a corner of toast, I knock over the glass of juice, watching it soak into the thick cream carpet. I stab the runny egg yolk, flicking it across the tablecloth, and then drop the fork on the floor beside the puddle. The ring on my finger catches the light and I pause, so tempted to tear it off and add it to the mess. God, what would I give for Kayden to find it floating in the congealed remains of my breakfast? But unfortunately, that's not part of my plan. Instead, I twist the gaudy diamond around and clench my hand into a fist.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Or, at least, it will remain that way until I can find a pawn shop that's never heard of the Sawyer Pack.

With renewed determination, I grab the burner phone from the slit in my purse's lining and message the only number in the contacts list. As soon as I get the confirmation text, I pry the chip from the back, snap it in half, and put all the parts back in my purse. I don't know if it's overkill, but better safe than sorry is basically my life motto.

There's no going back now.

Taking a steadying breath, I prop the hotel room door open with the corner of my discarded robe and turn to study my getaway vehicle.

My heart sinks at how much smaller it looks up close. There's a picture on the hotel website of a waitress delivering a bottle of champagne to a suite. There's a service cart in the background, and maybe it's photoshopped, but it definitely looks roomier than the one in front of me.

That's just your claustrophobia talking, Crenshaw. Get your ass moving!

With a gurgle of nerves, I pull open the cart's metal doors and peer inside. Oh, fuck. I know for a fact I will never eat another can of sardines after this.

Getting in is as uncomfortable as I expect, but the tight bodysuit helps, and I move as quickly and quietly as I can. The only upside is that there's no camera in the room – I checked, obsessively, then checked again. I just have to deal until I get to the van and then I can safely make my exit. No eyes, no cameras, and the first sweet taste of freedom… But I still have to hug my knees to my chest and recite Taylor Swift lyrics to stop from passing out.

There's no sound as my contact enters the room. I'm expecting the creak of the door or the shuffle of shoes dragging over the carpet, but the cart simply starts to move. As we jolt into action, I bite my tongue, muffling a gasp against my knees. Which is ridiculous. I set this whole thing up, so I don't know why I'm jumping at shadows now. This is my goddamn plan, and so far, it's going off without a hitch.

Doesn't stop me from straining my ears as the cart trundles down the corridor towards the service elevator. It stops, starts, turns around, and then we're descending. The fact that I'm in a metal box inside another metal box is kind of terrifying, and I realize I'm on the edge of losing it. I wish I could belt out a few lines of Getaway Car, but I have to maintain total silence until I'm safely out of the hotel.

The elevator finally jerks to a halt and we roll out. My heart lifts at the faint whiff of engine grease. Part of me expected to end up being delivered to the kitchens and straight into the hands of Kayden's little spy. But this has to be the staff parking garage under the hotel. There's minimal surveillance back here, and the bays are full of work trucks and delivery vans. The vehicle my contact hired shouldn't look out of place, and hope bubbles in my chest as the cart comes to a final stop.

I take a careful breath.

This is it.

One more short ride to freedom.

I hear the faint beep of a door opening and I brace myself for the cart to roll into the van. But instead, something jolts hard against the side and I hear a pained groan. There's the sound of flesh on flesh – a punch or slap – and then something grinds against the cart door. I freeze, my ears straining, and can't resist a tiny squeak as the cart rolls forward again. It goes upward at an alarming angle, and then I hear the van door slam shut.

I'm inside the real getaway car, but something definitely feels off.

I give the door a tentative push, but nothing happens. This is a room service cart, not a tank. It should open easily, but even when I give it a hefty shove, the door doesn't budge.

Hello, panic.

"Jace, are you there?" I'm breaking our agreement by using his name, but it's probably a fake one, anyway. And I'm about to freak the fuck out! "Can you open the door, please?"

There's no answer, and then the van reverses suddenly, jolting my head against the door. It's not too bad a hit, but I can feel tears burn at the shock. Unfortunately,they're the real kind this time. Tires squeal on asphalt, and then we're moving fast. It gives me a weird sense of inertia, and I curl up tight, trying to breathe through the panic. I swear, if I get out of this alive, I will sleep in a goddamn field tonight.

I don't know how long we drive for, but it doesn't seem far. I'm pretty sure we're still in the heart of the city, which has to be good news. People don't dump bodies in the central business district. They take you out to a backwoods grave, and I'm certain we haven't started down a dirt road yet. Although, the thought that I might get my wish and end up in a field makes me break out in a cold sweat.

The buzzing in the back of my brain has me tugging at the neckline of my bodysuit. Along with claustrophobia and paranoia, I also have an intimate relationship with catastrophic thinking. Lay out your worst-case scenario and I will double it. Triple it, with a side of conspiracy theory. Our nanny used to say I was the girl who didn't look for the monster under the bed because I knew it was hiding in the closet. I'm very hard to frighten, simply because I live with fear on a daily basis. But right now, I'm terrified, and I literally can't see a way out.

Kayden knows.

It's the only explanation.

And rather than be publicly humiliated, he's going to deal with me in private. Most likely it will be a bullet to the head, although he might like to play a little before he puts me down. I've denied his packmates sex for so long, he might just hand me over to them. Otherwise, there's trafficking, snuff films, forced breeding pens…

A scream is building in the back of my throat when the van finally stops. There's not enough room to kick, but I manage to pound the door with my elbow. It dents the metal a fraction, and a sliver of light shows along the damaged seal. I lean forward, trying to see, but all I get is a face full of meaty sweat.

Alpha.

Fuck, this is bad. My contact assured me he was a beta. Maybe he's just a shitty liar, but in every one of those nightmare scenarios swirling through my head, an alpha is front and center.

It's over. I'm done.

I scramble for the burner phone before I remember snapping the chip. Goddamn it. Why do I have to be so freaking efficient? I contemplate trying to fit the broken parts back together before I remind myself I'm not a magician. And this is real fucking life.

Wouldn't it be ironic if my paranoia was the factor that got me killed?

I fumble in my pocket for the butter knife I took off the service cart. If only it was the kind you use to hack through a bloody steak, but my blunt little blade will have to do. Because I'm not letting Kayden and his jackals get their hands on me. If I have to turn the knife on myself, I'll do it.

While my brain has been going into meltdown, the cart has traveled from the van to another elevator. I can tell that much, and I wonder if we're at one of Kayden's gambling halls. They're on nearly every city block, usually in the basement of some innocuous building. Pick up your dry cleaning and then go lose your life savings. But we're going up instead of down, and then the elevator gives a discreet ding, and we're rolling out again.

We stop so suddenly, my stomach nearly comes out of my mouth. I shiver, panting for air now, and grip the butter knife in both hands. I can smell my own sweat, but it's faint compared to the reek of alpha. It's so concentrated, it has to be from a whole bunch of them. And while I can't pick Kayden's scent out, that doesn't mean he isn't here.

God. What if public humiliation is exactly what he wants? As in my humiliation, broken down and abused in front of his slimy friends.

And then reality hits me.

The club.

God help me.

We're at Ferro, the alpha club he blackmailed his way into a few months ago. And the place, in another twist of irony, where he planned to hold our bonding ceremony.

It's not only a shrine to all things alpha, it's a goddamn fortress. And it's run by the strongest alphas in the city, who also possess the flimsiest of morals. If Kayden's stories are true, all sorts of terrifying shit goes down in this club, and he's not even part of the inner circle. While he's a career criminal, the guys who rule the club are something much worse.

Established. Powerful. Connected. And completely above the law. They're shady-as-fuck wolves who the rest of the world treats like kings.

And then I catch a voice I haven't heard before. "What's in the cart, and why did you bring it into my club?"

Hisclub. Which must mean he's part of the Abbott Pack.

The realization makes my entire body shake, and I bite my lip to stop a whimper coming out. In every story Kayden shared about Ferro, the Abbotts were always in the thick of it. Not only are they legacies, their fathers and grandfathers having once roamed the halls, but they're also the current managers. Overseers of cruelty, debauchery, and carte blanche to do whatever the fuck they want.

If one of them is in the room, my chances of survival just plummeted.

"It's a gift," a voice says from close by. It has the timbre of an alpha, but there's a slight whine, like the guy isn't one hundred percent confident about his reception. "Everyone knows you've got a beef with the Sawyers. This will give you all the ammunition you want."

"Clear the room." The command rolls over the cart like a wrecking ball. "Not you. You stay."

When a dominant alpha tells you to fuck off, there's no way to resist. And these guys are no exception. I can hear the members' hurried footsteps, followed by the bang of at least three doors. Possibly even a window, although I'm pretty sure we're at least a couple of floors up.

"Open it, then give me the key and take a step back."

There's a rattling sound next to my elbow, and I realize there's a padlock on the cart doors. It clicks open, and unfiltered air swirls into my hiding place. Now that most of the alphas have left, the mingled scents aren't as horrible as I thought they'd be. Woodsmoke, expensive whiskey, new leather, and old books. I can't tell what's coming from the men in the room, but I've smelled a lot worse, and I manage to keep my panic under wraps.

Until I catch a glimpse of a leg right next to the cart. Wool suit pants and expensive shoes. I might not have my best friend's eye for high fashion, but I know a pair of Tom Fords when I see them.

I shove the knife back in my purse a second before the door is pried open. The man with the Tom Fords crouches down, and then I'm staring into the eyes of a wolf. To my surprise, it's not some feral, sneering beast, but a sleek, curated version. He has black hair, dark eyes, and flawless golden skin. "You're not an Abbott," I blurt out.

"I'm Xavier Volk. And you are…?"

Volk? I thought I knew the name of every major pack in the city. The fact he's a newcomer just makes my heart race even more. Because who the hell is strong enough to dethrone the Abbotts? "I'm getting out of this cart and leaving!"

My voice is thready; desperate. I expect sneering laughter or a crushing rebuke, but Volk just tilts his head, those black eyes staring deep into mine. "There might be one small problem with that."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. If I don't get out of here right now, I'm going to do something really stupid, like try to hit this incredibly powerful alpha. "You can't keep me here!"

"No, I can't." He extends a hand, and I get a glimpse of silver cufflinks and a Patek Philippe watch. "But the first step to leaving is getting out of this metal box."

He might say the right things, but I don't trust him. And I don't care how smooth his hand is as it connects with mine, or how he keeps his distance, letting me work my way out slowly and carefully. Blood is rushing back into my cramped muscles, making my head spin. But I'm lucid enough to know that rushing for the door – or hitting this alpha - isn't an option. I'm going to have to talk my way out of here, God help me. But if there's one trick up my sleeve, it's that I've been lying to alphas my whole life.

But the shot of confidence rushes from my limbs as I turn to see the man who brought me here. Darren Morgan. Big, ugly, and as mean as they come. He's Kayden's packmate, or as I like to call him, Third. Not good enough to be Kayden's right-hand man, so Darren's the one who does all the nasty shit in the shadows.

"Hello, Jasmine," he says, his eyes raking over my curves in the tight bodysuit. "Looks like you're not gonna be pack princess after all."