Chapter 7
Violet's POV:
The driver’s side door flew open, and Daemon Blackwood emerged. He didn't look like a CEO or a civilized pack leader; under the harsh streetlights, with his tie undone and his chest heaving, he looked like a predator whose territory had been breached.
"Get off the bike," he commanded.
I flipped up my visor. "You're disrupting traffic, Daemon. Or is blocking public roads just another perk of being the Alpha of the Frost Pack?"
He ignored my sarcasm, marching forward until he was standing right beside my front wheel. He shoved his phone in my face, the screen glowing brightly in the darkness. It was a Snapchat story—Sienna’s, specifically. The video was shaky, loud, and chaotic, showing me laughing in the booth at The Velvet Den while a shirtless male dancer gyrated uncomfortably close to my face. The caption, emblazoned in bold neon text, read: The Queen still rules the pack.
"Explain this," Daemon snarled, his eyes flashing that ominous crimson.
I pushed his hand away, rolling my eyes. "It’s a nightclub, Daemon. People dance. People drink. Sienna was just having fun."
"You are the Luna of Frost Pack," he hissed, grabbing the handlebars of my bike to prevent me from reversing. "You do not let random Omegas grind on you in public venues where anyone with a camera can broadcast it to the world."
"You agreed to this," I countered, my voice sharp. "I proposed an open arrangement. You didn't say no. You just told me to be discreet. And frankly, compared to the scandals you've dragged us through over the years, my night was practically monastic."
I tried to kicked the kickstand up, intending to gun the engine and leave him in my dust, but he caught my wrist. His grip was viselike, tightening until I gasped in pain.
"You're hurting me," I said, staring pointedly at his hand. "Let go."
"You think this is a game?" he asked, ignoring my protest, his grip unyielding. "You think you can provoke me into releasing you by acting like a rebellious teenager?"
I leaned forward.
"I’ll make you a bet, Daemon. You hold onto this bond so tightly now, claiming it’s about duty and reputation. But there will come a day—very soon—when the true Mate Bond snaps into place for you. And on that day, you won't just agree to the Rejection Ceremony. You will be on your knees, begging me to set you free."
Daemon stared at me, his expression freezing into a mask of incredulous disdain. "You are delusional. I don't beg."
"We'll see," I whispered.
I tried to pull my arm free again, but instead of releasing me, Daemon shoved me backward. I stumbled, nearly losing my balance, but the seat of the bike caught me. Before I could react, he swung a long leg over the motorcycle, mounting it in front of me.
"What are you doing?" I shrieked, hitting his broad back. "Get off my bike!"
"You're drunk," he stated flatly, grabbing the handlebars. "And you're exhausted. I’m not letting you crash into a ditch and create another scandal for me to clean up."
He kicked the bike into gear, the engine revving beneath us.
"Hold on," he ordered.
"Go to hell," I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest.
Daemon hooked an arm around my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto the fuel tank between his thighs. He leaned forward, caging me in with his chest against my back. One hand gripped the throttle while the other wrapped tightly around my midsection, pinning me flush against him.
Fighting him felt pointless. I slumped back, letting his body heat soak into my shivering frame. As we tore down the highway, his arm kept me anchored. My eyes grew heavy, I rested my head on his shoulder, and darkness took me.
The morning sun was a cruel intruder. It sliced through the gaps in the blackout curtains of the guest room, stabbing directly into my retinas.
I sat up, blinking groggily. The room was silent. The digital clock on the nightstand read 10:00 AM. Daemon was probably gone by six, off to the glass tower of Blackwood Dynamics to rule his corporate empire.
Water, I thought. I need water, or I’m going to die.
I kicked off the sheets. I was naked—a habit from my years of sleeping alone in this mausoleum of a house.
I opened the door and shuffled into the hallway. The house was dead quiet. The marble floors were cool under my bare feet as I reached the top of the grand staircase. I started to descend, one hand on the banister, my eyes half-closed.
I was halfway down when laughter erupted from the living room below.
It wasn't just Daemon. It was the deep, boisterous laughter of men comfortable in each other's presence.
My eyes snapped open.
Down in the sunken living room, lounging on the Italian leather sofas, were Lucian Cross and Felix Hunt. Daemon’s inner circle. His Beta and Gamma. They were facing the staircase, coffee mugs in hand, their heads turning toward the movement on the stairs.
Time seemed to slow down. I froze, my hand gripping the rail, realizing with horror that I was fully exposed to the leadership of the Frost Pack.
Lucian’s jaw dropped. Felix choked on his coffee.
But before their eyes could fully focus, a blur of motion cut through the air.
Thwack! Thwack!
Two heavy velvet throw pillows flew across the room with the velocity of cannonballs. One slammed into Lucian’s face, knocking his head back. The other hit Felix square in the chest, causing him to spill hot coffee all over his shirt.
"Hey!" Lucian yelled, flailing.
I spun around, my face burning hotter than the sun, and sprinted back up the stairs, slamming the guest room door behind me.
I leaned against the wood, heart racing, breathing hard.
"Psychopath," I whispered, sliding down to the floor. "And why is he even home?"
Ten minutes later, dressed in a high-necked sweater and jeans, I ventured back out. I peered over the railing. The living room was empty, but through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see them in the backyard training ring.
Daemon had stripped off his shirt. His back was a landscape of shifting muscle as he sparred with Lucian, his strikes brutal and unforgiving. He fought like he was trying to exorcise a demon.
I just walked to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water, and left through the side door.
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and artificial lemon. I adjusted the strap of my bag and headed toward the VIP wing. I needed to check on Zane.
As I turned the corner toward his room, I saw a flash of a white coat entering an office down the hall.
Evan Thorne. The Beta. Daemon's friend too. Unlike Lucian and Felix, who defined their existence through liquor and loose women, Evan was an ascetic. He was the clean, untouchable anomaly in Daemon’s circle. Yet, in my past life, even this saintly healer had eventually fallen under Celeste’s spell.
I stopped outside Room 304. Through the gap in the blinds, I saw them.
Zane was laughing. Celeste sat on the edge of the mattress, peeling an orange. She broke off a segment and fed it to him, her fingers brushing against his lips, the air between them thick with sweetness.
I rapped my knuckles hard against the doorframe and pushed the door open.
The laughter died instantly.
"Luna?" Zane blinked, looking genuinely surprised to see me.
Celeste beamed like she was greeting an old friend. She stood up, wiping citrus juice from her fingers onto a napkin. "Oh! Hi, Luna! It’s so good to see you again. Did you come to check on him too?"
I didn't return the smile. I kept my hand on the doorknob, my stance rigid.
"Celeste, come with me," I said, my voice leaving no room for argument.
"Huh?" Celeste blinked, her smile faltering slightly.
"Now," I said.
I stepped forward, clamped my hand around her wrist, and pulled.
"Luna, wait!" Celeste gasped, stumbling to keep up as I led her out into the corridor.
"Hey! Where are you taking her?" Zane called out, trying to sit up, but I ignored him.
I didn't stop. I walked briskly down the hallway, towing a confused Celeste behind me. She tried to dig her heels in, looking back toward the room. "Luna, you're scaring me! Where are we going?"