Chapter 3

Fiona's POV

But before he could speak, my body had already reacted on its own.

As a descendant of the Golden Wolves, my scent held a lethal pull over every wolf—and he—

I recognized that silver hair and silently named him in my mind.

Alexander von Volkov.

The prince who carried the purest blood of the Arctic Wolf lineage.

The golden blood that had been tormenting me with its restless heat—the moment it caught his scent, it stilled, miraculously, like boiling lava meeting an age-old glacier. Still scalding, but no longer raging out of control.

"You're hurt," I said quietly.

Alexander frowned and tried to straighten himself, to preserve whatever dignity a prince could muster. The moment he moved, his face drained to a ghastly white, and a muffled groan escaped him as he slid down the shelf and crumpled to the floor.

"Damn…"

He forced the word out through clenched teeth.

I crossed to him quickly and crouched down.

Even in this wretched state, the crushing aura of authority that surrounded him was almost suffocating. But I knew it was only a surface.

Without hesitation, I tore open the side of his shirt.

The wound was appalling. A silver bullet was buried deep in his left ribs, the flesh around it seared and blackened, and dark, poisoned blood was seeping steadily out.

"Don't move."

I caught his hand as he tried to push me away.

The instant my palm touched his burning skin, his whole body gave a violent shudder and those blue eyes filled instantly with cold wariness and the urge to kill.

"Back off, you reckless human…" he growled, his wolf fangs catching a pale glint in the dim light. "If you want to live, stay away from me!"

"Don't you remember me? I'm Fiona Sterling."

I held his gaze and said it slowly, word by word.

Ten years ago, in this very underground forbidden section of this very library, we had met once before.

I let the suppressed golden-wolf aura lift—just a thread of it, a faint vibration carrying the warmth of healing.

Alexander's pupils contracted sharply. Like a cat that has caught the scent of catnip, his body, braced and rigid a moment before, went stiff—and then, oddly, sagged.

"Fiona…" he murmured, a tremor running through his voice. "It really is you…"

"This place isn't safe. Your blood scent is strong. It'll draw whoever came after you."

There was no time for catching up.

I set my jaw, summoned every scrap of strength I had, hooked one of his arms over my shoulders, and half-dragged, half-carried him to his feet.

The bookshelf slid aside, revealing a small hidden door behind it.

This was my secret refuge—an absolute sanctuary that even my uncle knew nothing about.

I lowered him onto the sofa with its thick wool blanket.

He was impossibly heavy. Even weakened as he was, the sheer solid weight of him left me breathless.

"Bear with it."

I turned and retrieved the first-aid kit from the cabinet, along with the jar of special herbal salve my mother had left behind.

When I turned back with the salve-soaked gauze in hand, Alexander had already lost control entirely.

The silver poison was eating into his reason, dragging him into a half-feral state.

He had slumped against the sofa back. His tie was wrenched askew, several shirt buttons had burst open, baring a broad, powerful chest mapped with old scars.

All focus had left those blue eyes. Only the most primal hunger and craving remained.

"Stay back…"

His breath came ragged, his voice scraped raw. "I'll… hurt you…"

"No, you won't."

I knelt in front of the sofa and pressed firmly against his wound, working the salve in.

A sharp hiss of pain—he sucked in a breath—and then the next instant he wrenched himself over and pinned me flat beneath him.

The room spun.

My back hit the soft wool blanket and I hadn't even had time to cry out before his lips came down hard on mine.

This was not a kiss. It was a seizure.

Blood and herbs and overwhelming male need—it swept into my mouth, taking no quarter. His teeth split my lip; his tongue raked across every inch of me, brooking no resistance.

His palm, scorching hot, cupped the back of my head and held it fast, leaving me no opening to pull away.

I struggled, both hands braced against his chest—and pushed against a mountain.

I could feel him shaking. He was fighting down the instinct to close his jaws around my throat, even as he could not resist the healing aura in my blood, which drew him with a pull nothing could counter.

He was drinking in my saliva—or rather, using this to draw the healing force from me and fight the silver poison.

Little by little, I stopped struggling.

Because I had caught the cedar scent on him—the one that made everything inside me go quiet.

My right hand lay limp, but my left rose slowly and came to rest, lightly, against his sweat-damp back.

Alexander seemed to feel the change in me. His movement slowed.

The fierce, devouring pressure softened into something gentler. He traced the shape of my lips as though savoring a delicacy lost to the world for centuries.

For a long time.

A very long time.

Until we were both nearly starved of air, he finally lifted his head.

His forehead rested against mine, and for the first time a thin thread of clarity had returned to those blue eyes.

He looked at my swollen lips, and at the tears that had gathered at the corners of my eyes from the lack of air, and his expression became impossible to read.

"I have to go. They're calling me."

Alexander said.

---

By the time I returned to Sterling Manor, it was deep into the night.

The carved black-walnut doors swung shut behind me with a heavy thud, sealing out the wind and rain—but nothing could seal out the suffocating weight that pressed down on every corner of that house.

The sitting room was dark. Only the fireplace burned, and its light stretched the shadow of the man seated in the head chair long across the floor, like a creature baring its claws.

Arthur Sterling.

My uncle. The current head of the Sterling Consortium. My guardian in name.

He held a cigar between his fingers, and its glowing tip pulsed in and out of the dark.

"Kneel."

He didn't look at me. His voice was as indifferent as if he were commanding a dog.

I didn't move. I simply stood in the entrance hall, the absurd little remote still clutched in my hand.

I had no idea what Caleb had done in the conference hall after I fled. Perhaps he had actually smashed the multi-ton media console to pieces. Perhaps he had bitten every last guest in the room to strip them of their memories of what they'd seen.

"Uncle Arthur," I said evenly, "I imagine you've already seen the news. After tonight, Caleb Thorne and I are finished—completely and irrevocably."

Crack!

Arthur ground his cigar out in the crystal ashtray with a sharp, muffled snap.

He stood, crossed the room in long strides, and stopped in front of me. His clouded eyes were blazing.

He raised his hand to strike.

I didn't flinch.

But at the instant his palm was about to reach my face, he stopped.

Because he had seen my eyes.

In the light of the fire, the eyes that should have been soft and fearful now held a cold gleam he had never seen there before—one that made him pause.

"Uncle," I said, meeting his gaze without blinking, my voice quiet but every word falling with the weight of iron, "if you still insist on holding me to this engagement after everything that has happened tonight, you will only drag the entire Sterling family name through the mud."

"You dare say it's I who drags the name through the mud!"

The muscles in Arthur's face convulsed. His pupils contracted to points.

"For something as tainted as your mixed blood, gaining the Thorne family's acceptance was already more than you deserved. Why would you do something so outrageous!"

In Arthur's eyes, Caleb's affair with a student barely registered as a stain at all.

It was simply the sort of private conduct a werewolf maintained while presenting a face of civilized coexistence to human society—

"Do you have any idea how much influence the Thorne family holds in the Coexistence Council? Do you have any idea how many business interests we share? And all for the sake of your petty, pathetic pride! Fiona—do you know how many enemies you will make for the Sterling family?"

"Enemies?" A cold laugh escaped me. "And what about letting him drain the Sterling family's wealth dry and then kick us to the curb—does that not count as making enemies?"

"Enough."

A sharp female voice cut across us.

My cousin Victoria descended the staircase.

She had changed out of her designer gown and wore a silk dressing robe. The look she turned on me was full of venom.

"Fiona. You have the nerve to come back?"