Chapter 2:
The private jet touched down at LAX just after 11 PM, the cabin lights dimming as we taxied toward the terminal. I loosened my tie with one hand, scrolling through the final acquisition reports from Milan with the other. The Versace deal had gone smoothly—better than expected, actually—but eighteen hours of negotiations had left me with a dull throb behind my eyes that even first-class amenities couldn't soothe.
"We've landed, Mr. Blackwood," my assistant Eliza announced unnecessarily, already gathering her tablet and the leather portfolio containing the signed contracts. "Your car is waiting."
I nodded, sliding my phone into the inner pocket of my tailored jacket. "Send the finalized reports to legal and have them begin processing immediately. I want this integration seamless by next quarter."
"Of course," she replied, efficiency personified in Louboutins and a crisp pantsuit. "Will you be coming into the office tomorrow, or working from home?"
The question hung in the air as I stood, stretching subtly to ease the stiffness in my shoulders. Six feet three inches of frame wasn't meant to be folded into even the most luxurious of airplane seats for transatlantic flights.
"Office," I decided. "8 AM meeting with the board to discuss the acquisition. Make sure Roberts has the presentation ready."
She nodded, already typing the instructions into her tablet. "Your schedule is updated. Car service will collect you at 7:15."
The familiar dance of corporate precision. Everything in its place, everyone fulfilling their role. This was my domain—the world of boardrooms and billion-dollar deals, where emotions were irrelevant and only results mattered. Simple. Controlled. Predictable.
Unlike the other half of my existence.
I felt it even now, stirring restlessly beneath my skin as we deplaned—the constant, primal presence that I had spent a lifetime mastering. My wolf. My beast. Always watchful, always hungry, always searching for weaknesses in my human façade. The price of being born an Alpha to one of the oldest werewolf bloodlines in existence.
The chauffeur was waiting as promised, standing at attention beside the sleek black Bentley that bore the discreet Blackwood emblem on its doors. He opened the door with a respectful nod.
"Welcome home, Mr. Blackwood. Straight to the estate?"
"Yes, thank you, James," I replied, settling into the butter-soft leather seat.
The city lights blurred past the tinted windows as we merged onto the freeway, heading toward the exclusive hills of Bel Air. My phone buzzed with a message from Jordan, my older sister.
*Camille's home safely. Drama ensued. You might want to hurry back.*
I frowned, my beast instantly alert at the suggestion of a threat to family. The Blackwood pack might be small—limited to my immediate family since my father's passing five years ago had left me as Alpha—but the protective instinct ran deep in my blood.
"James, step on it," I instructed, my voice tight.
The driver nodded, understanding the shift in my tone. "Yes, sir."
The car accelerated smoothly, weaving through the late-night traffic with practiced precision. I tapped my fingers against my thigh, fighting the urge to let my eyes flash their natural amber—a tell that my control was slipping. Whatever had happened, I needed a clear head to assess the situation.
Twenty minutes later, we turned onto the private road leading to the estate. As we approached the imposing gates, I noticed something unexpected—a modest sedan parked near the guardhouse, looking distinctly out of place among the luxury vehicles that usually graced our driveway.
"Whose car is that?" I asked, more to myself than to the driver.
James glanced in the rearview mirror. "I'm not sure, sir. Arrived about fifteen minutes ago, according to security."
My brow furrowed. The Blackwoods didn't receive unscheduled visitors, especially not at this hour. My mother's paranoia about gold-diggers and opportunists had grown into an elaborate screening process for anyone who wished to enter our inner circle. A stranger appearing at midnight was unprecedented.
The gates parted silently before us, and we curved around the circular driveway, coming to a stop at the mansion's entrance. Before James could exit to open my door, I was already stepping out, my senses heightened and alert.
The scent hit me first—jasmine and vanilla with an undercurrent of something wilder, like rain-soaked earth. Human, but with a complexity that made my nostrils flare. Then came the sound of raised voices from inside—my mother's cultured tones tinged with shock, another female voice responding with surprising steel.
I took the marble steps two at a time, reaching for the ornate door handle just as it swung open from the inside.
And there she was.
Time seemed to slow as she nearly collided with my chest, stopping short just inches away. She was small—the top of her head barely reaching my shoulders—but the energy radiating from her petite frame was anything but diminutive. Dark hair tumbled in waves past her shoulders, framing a face that struck me with its defiant beauty: almond-shaped eyes the color of honey whiskey, flushed cheeks, and full lips pressed into a tight line of anger.
For a moment, we simply stared at each other. Something electric crackled in the space between us—recognition, challenge, an inexplicable pull. My beast, usually a controlled presence in the back of my mind, surged forward with such force that I had to lock every muscle to prevent a growl from escaping my throat.
Before I could speak, she sidestepped me with surprising grace and continued down the stairs, her shoulders squared and head held high despite the tension evident in every line of her body. I turned, watching as she strode to the modest sedan I'd noticed earlier, her movements fluid and purposeful.
Only when the car's taillights disappeared down the driveway did I realize I'd been holding my breath.
I stepped inside the mansion, the heavy door closing behind me with a soft thud. The grand foyer, with its sweeping staircase and crystal chandelier, opened into the main living area where an unusual tableau greeted me: my younger sister Camille sprawled unconscious on one of the silk sofas, Jordan sitting beside her with concern etched on her features, and my mother standing in the center of the room looking as though someone had slapped her.
"What happened here?" I asked, my voice sharper than intended.
Jordan looked up, a mix of amusement and exasperation on her face. "Oh, you just missed the show, big brother. Mom got a piece of her own medicine from a damsel who wasn't taking any of her usual crap."
I raised an eyebrow, shrugging off my suit jacket and loosening my tie further. "The woman I just passed in the doorway?"
"The very same," Jordan confirmed, a rare note of admiration in her voice. "She works at Malcolm's Bar downtown. Apparently, our little sister here decided to drown whatever sorrows she's harboring in top-shelf liquor tonight. This bartender—Seraphina, she said her name was—not only cut Camille off but drove her home when she realized she was in no condition to get back safely."
I glanced at Camille, noting the flush of alcohol on her cheeks and the way her breath hitched irregularly in sleep. My protective instincts flared, along with a spark of anger at whatever had driven her to such excess in the first place.
"And?" I prompted, already suspecting where this was heading.
Jordan's lips curved into a sardonic smile. "And naturally, instead of thanking her for bringing our wasted sister home safely, Mom went full 'protective she-wolf' mode and practically accused her of being a gold-digger who recognized Camille and saw an opportunity."
My gaze shifted to my mother, who was still standing motionless, an uncharacteristic vulnerability in her posture. "I see."
"Oh, it gets better," Jordan continued, clearly enjoying the retelling. "This Seraphina didn't just take it silently like most people do when faced with the Blackwood intimidation tactics. She fired back with both barrels. Told Mom exactly what she thought of her assumptions, made it clear she had no interest in our money or connections, and basically suggested that throwing cash around isn't a substitute for proper parenting."
I couldn't help the surprised laugh that escaped me. Few people dared to speak to Diana Blackwood that way, let alone a stranger who had wandered into the lion's den, so to speak.
"I hope now you'll stop seeing everyone who tries to make friends with your daughters as gold-diggers," I said to my mother, unable to keep a note of satisfaction from my voice.
My mother's eyes snapped to mine, narrowing at my tone. "You weren't here, Lucian. You didn't see the way she looked at everything, assessing its value—"
"The way she brought your unconscious daughter home safely instead of leaving her vulnerable in a bar?" I interrupted, my voice cooling several degrees. "That kind of gold-digging behavior?"
Jordan snorted, earning a glare from our mother.
"She works at a bar, Lucian," my mother said, as if this explained everything. "What kind of—"
"What kind of person works an honest job and then goes out of their way to help a stranger?" I finished for her. "The kind we should be thanking, not insulting."
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken tension—the latest skirmish in the long-running battle between my mother's paranoia and my efforts to temper it. After my father's death and the betrayals that followed—friends, business partners, and even family members circling like vultures around our grief and wealth—her protective instincts had calcified into something rigid and indiscriminate.
I understood her fear. I even shared it to some extent. But unlike her, I could scent deception and greed on a person—one of the few advantages of my dual nature.
And the woman who had just left our home? She had smelled of many things—anger, pride, exhaustion, and that intriguing base note that had stirred my beast—but not of avarice or calculation.
"I would love to thank the woman who saved my little sister properly," I said, my tone softening slightly. "If only you hadn't gone full beast mode, Mom. I know you care, but sometimes you need to consider how much your protection affects our lives."
My mother's composure cracked, tears welling in her eyes. "If I hadn't protected you all these years, you would have suffered even more betrayals from those women who only wanted the Blackwood name and fortune."
The pain in her voice was real, a mother wolf still nursing wounds inflicted when her cubs were vulnerable. I crossed to her, placing my hands gently on her shoulders.
"It's okay, Mom," I sighed. "I'm incapable of love anyway. You've made sure of that."
The words were harsher than I intended, and I regretted them immediately as hurt flashed across her face. I turned toward the staircase, suddenly desperate for the solitude of my suite.
"Please don't say that, son," my mother called after me, her voice breaking. "You just need to find your mate. She's the only one who could love you without backing out when she discovers what you truly are."
I paused on the stairs, not turning around. My mate. The mythical solution to the curse of being an Alpha—the one person supposedly capable of accepting both man and beast, of stabilizing the increasingly violent mood swings that plagued unmated Alphas as they aged.
If only she knew.
I continued up the stairs without responding, the weight of secrets heavy on my shoulders. The truth was, I had already found my mate. I knew exactly who she was—had known for months now. But I wasn't willing to pursue her, despite my beast growing more wild and insistent with each passing day, demanding I claim what was supposedly mine by ancient right.
I reached my suite and closed the door behind me, leaning against it as I loosened my tie completely and tossed it aside. The room was spacious and minimalist, decorated in shades of gray and blue—a sanctuary designed to soothe both my human aesthetics and my wolf's territorial needs.
Moving to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city lights sprawling below, I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and closed my eyes, trying to quiet the restless energy thrumming through my veins.
I had purchased Malcolm's Bar three months ago through a shell company, telling myself it was just another business acquisition—a profitable downtown establishment with potential for expansion. The fact that my mate worked there was irrelevant, I had insisted to myself. I was simply ensuring her workplace remained stable and secure, nothing more.
The truth was far more complicated.
The moment I got close enough to catch her scent—truly catch it, not just the tantalizing hints I'd detected when passing the bar—other werewolves would know. They would sense that the most powerful Alpha in the western territories had found his mate, and she would instantly become both leverage and target. The rogues who already hated me for my ruthless enforcement of pack laws would see her as a way to strike at me where it would hurt most.
And then there was the matter of my own nature. I was not a gentle man. The beast within me had been shaped by pain and betrayal into something fierce and dominating. The women who shared my bed—briefly, impersonally—knew only a fraction of my true self, and even that was often too much for them to handle more than once.
What would a human woman do when faced with the full reality of what I was?
Better to keep my distance. Better to protect her from afar, without entangling her in my dangerous world.
And yet tonight, fate had thrown her directly into my path. Seraphina. Even her name sent a ripple of recognition through my beast.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed my personal secretary.
"Mr. Blackwood?" she answered promptly despite the late hour. "Is everything alright?"
"I need information," I said without preamble. "A woman named Seraphina who works as a bartender at Malcolm's. She brought my sister home tonight. Check our security footage for a clear image. I want a complete background by morning."
"Of course, sir. Anything specific you're looking for?"
I hesitated, fighting the urge to ask for every detail of her life. "Just the basics. Where she lives, her full name, any immediate concerns."
"I'll have it for you first thing tomorrow."
I ended the call, knowing I was crossing a line I had carefully drawn for myself. Distance. Detachment. These had been my watchwords regarding my mate. And yet here I was, seeking information about her, wanting to know more.
Sleep eluded me that night, my dreams haunted by honey-whiskey eyes and the scent of jasmine mixed with defiance.
Morning arrived with a text message from my secretary, containing an address and the essential information I'd requested. Seraphina Vale. Twenty-three years old. Bartender by night, apparently some sort of online gaming personality by day. No criminal record, excellent credit score, lived alone in a modest but well-maintained condominium in a respectable part of the city.
I canceled my 8 AM meeting.
"Reschedule the board for tomorrow," I instructed Eliza when she called to confirm my car was en route. "Something's come up that requires my immediate attention."
Instead of heading to the office, I found myself driving to the address provided, convincing myself I was simply going to thank her properly for helping Camille and apologize for my mother's behavior. A courtesy call, nothing more. Certainly not a breach of the careful distance I'd maintained.
The condominium complex was pleasant—a modern mid-rise with clean lines and well-tended landscaping. Not the residence of someone seeking to climb social ladders through any means necessary, as my mother had implied. I parked my Aston Martin in a visitor's spot and approached the entrance, my heightened senses already searching for her unique scent among the ordinary smells of a residential building in the morning.
I found her unit and paused outside, my knuckles poised to knock. Was I making a mistake? Should I turn around now, before this tenuous connection strengthened into something neither of us could control?
Before I could decide, my hand seemed to move of its own accord, rapping sharply on the door.
A moment passed. Then another. I heard soft footsteps approaching from within, and then the door swung open.
She stood before me in sleep-rumpled glory—tousled dark hair falling around her shoulders, honey eyes widening in recognition, her petite frame clad in a pair of shorts that revealed long, tanned legs and a tank top that clung to curves my hands suddenly itched to trace.
But it was the scent that hit me like a physical blow—jasmine and vanilla and woman, undiluted by the night air or the clinical environment of the mansion. Pure, intoxicating Seraphina.
My beast roared to life, surging against the mental barriers I'd carefully constructed over years of discipline. Mine, it growled. Mate. Claim.
I gripped the doorframe, my knuckles turning white with the effort of maintaining control. This was why I had kept my distance. This visceral, overwhelming reaction that threatened to shatter my human façade and reveal the predator beneath.
"Mr. Blackwood?" Her voice held a note of confusion tinged with wariness. "How did you...? What are you doing here?"
I forced myself to meet her gaze, fighting to keep my eyes from shifting to their natural amber. "I came to apologize," I managed, my voice rougher than usual. "For my mother's behavior last night. And to thank you for helping my sister."
She crossed her arms, unconsciously pushing her breasts higher beneath the thin cotton of her tank top. My throat went dry.
"How did you find out where I live?" she asked, suspicion narrowing her eyes.
A valid question, one that revealed intelligent caution rather than the mindless awe most people displayed in my presence. Another trait that called to both man and beast.
"I have resources," I answered, deliberately vague. "I wanted to express my gratitude in person."
She leaned against the doorframe, studying me with an intensity that suggested she was trying to solve a particularly complex puzzle. "Most people would send flowers or a thank-you note. They don't show up unannounced at someone's home."
"I'm not most people," I replied simply.
A hint of a smile touched her lips. "No, I don't imagine you are, Mr. Blackwood."
"Lucian," I corrected automatically. "Please."
She hesitated, then gave a small nod. "Lucian, then." My name on her lips sent a shiver down my spine. "Would you like to come in? I was just about to make coffee."
Every instinct I possessed screamed that crossing her threshold would be a point of no return. Once I entered her personal space, saturated with her scent, I wasn't sure I could maintain the detachment I'd cultivated so carefully.
And yet I found myself saying, "Coffee would be great, thank you."
She stepped aside, allowing me into a space that was modestly sized but thoughtfully arranged—an open-plan living area with a small kitchen separated by a breakfast bar, everything neat but lived-in. Gaming equipment dominated one corner: a professional-grade computer setup with multiple monitors, specialized keyboard, high-end microphone, and what appeared to be streaming lights.
"So you're a gamer?" I asked, genuinely curious despite myself.
She glanced over her shoulder as she moved to the kitchen area. "Among other things. I stream live gameplay sessions most afternoons. It's my main source of income, actually.