The looming hulk of Malcolm Book cast a girthy shadow over Joaquin’s back. The stench of blood, sweat and fury overwhelmed all other smells, even for her inferior human nose. Soraya’s dark mane was twisted in her cousin’s clenched fist, pain radiating at the base of her skull. She averted her eyes, her eyelashes fanning across the flushed apples of her cheeks, and it surprised her to realize her whimper was genuine. True. Real. Her cousin’s attention frightened her. 

Every time Joaquin touched her, she wanted it to be the last time. The disgust she felt that she always masqueraded as desire. Every whimper and moan, undulation and writhe. The only orgasms she did not fake came after fantasies about monumental pleasure at Malcolm’s touch. His fingers. His mouth. His cock. Soraya knew the necessity of crying out her cousin’s name, the serpent’s title on her tongue, when all she wanted was to serenade her true lover.

He frightened her; therefore, she pretended.

Joaquin’s voracity made him extreme in every movement he made against her. From the painful way he grabbed her hair all the way to how he shoved his cock into her as she struggled to deny him during intimacy.

Still—she needed to distract her cousin. Protect the wolf. It was selfish. Unreasonable. The self-reflection of her depravity needed to come another time. Everything happened too quickly, her mind lagging, and Soraya had little chance to catch up. 

The snarling lycan had not shifted, but didn’t need to. He caught Joaquin with a vicious swipe and sent the smaller man flying. She felt the floor shake when the human impacted the wall, the force enough to send clouds of dust floating through the air. 

Malcolm stalked. Shoulders hunched and chest heaving with a rumbling growl, she watched the shift in his posture with a mixture of fascination and horror. It delayed her response; by the time she held the remote in her trembling hand, Malcolm was prying Joaquin off the ground. 

“Malcolm, stop.”

Fingers quivering, she activated the collar. The werewolf’s body stiffened, twitching in irritation from her activation of both immobilization and pain. After what Malcolm had been through for the past several hours, it made sense that the collar’s highest setting might feel like nothing more than a needle’s pinprick.

She could see every hair stand on edge, and Soraya disliked how she enjoyed the tension in his tight musculature, now blood-streaked and the marks slowly fading. The fantasy of massaging the pain away and kissing along the flex of his shoulder appealed to her, genuine arousal wetting her needy sex. No matter how hard Joaquin tried, he would never be able to create the same reaction that Malcolm crafted between her legs.

Each unsteady step closed the distance between her and Joaquin, and she reached out to him. His face twisted with obvious agony, and she could see the irregular angle of his dislocated shoulder. 

“Baby, are you okay? Let me—”

She never finished the sentence. The back of his hand smashed into her cheek, the strike sending flaring heat from her mouth to the corner of her eye. Soraya reeled backward, her shoulder colliding with the wall with force enough to buckle her knee. It grazed the cement, leaving a bloodied scrape along the curve of her kneecap.

“Bonita, why did you do that?” he said, the question a nasty accusation.

Joaquin reached for her, every movement eliciting a grunt of pain. She dug the heel of her hand into his injured shoulder, as she found herself with no sympathy for his discomfort.

“¡No me toques, bastardo!” she screamed. 

Neither noticed the low menace of vibration in the air behind Joaquin’s hunched body. 

Malcolm had somehow shed the bondage of his collar, and the viridescent bronze of his beast stared down at them with murderous intent. Fear sent her pulse toward the heavens, and even through her pain, Soraya knew she needed to protect Joaquin from the monster. He would ruin everything if he killed Joaquin. The plans in motion, meticulously plotted over months, would scatter like a dandelion’s fluff on a windy day; the many pieces might land elsewhere, but they were no longer part of a whole. Useless. Without reason. 

The beast’s shadow overcame the light, and she shoved herself between the Cartel prince and the werewolf. Soraya lifted both hands in a gesture of helpless pleading. Her injured cheek darkened to a palate of bronzed caramel with a rosy hue, and his fury was palpable.

She dared a step forward.

“You won’t harm me. I know this,” she said. The words were tremulous, but she convinced herself it was because of the rushing cortisol and not the gripping terror coiling in her belly. 

Soraya’s fingers reached out and cupped his cheeks, and the wolf’s growl softened. She drew him closer to her until she could brush her nose along the caked blood on his jaw.

“No lo toques, Soraya,” Joaquin warned, but the words lacked conviction. 

The act of ignoring the crumpled man was both vindictive and liberating. Even as Joaquin attempted to grope her ankle, Malcolm gathered her in his arms, one arm under her knees. With her uninjured cheek against his shoulder, he glowered at her cousin.

“She is mine,” he said. 

Malcolm’s heel smashed into Joaquin’s cheek, a mimicry of the injury to Soraya’s face, and the crunch of shattering bone reverberated in the small space. It did not alter his grip on her vulnerable body. She curled closer to his shoulder upon the grotesque sound of violence. Fingers dug into his chest, uncaring about the blood caught beneath each perfectly manicured nail. 

She is mine.

The three words resonated, powerful and precise. 

It was a Proclamation.

Malcolm Book walked down the hallway with his owner cradled in his arms. She lay limp, face turned away from the many eyes following their movement. She felt them. All of them. Judging, chastising, waiting for a moment to snicker in private. She knew without looking that he strode with his head high, bare cock heavy between his thighs. His body streaked with blood, sweat, and spit. His hair disheveled and his growing beard coated in grime, muscles flexing with each prowling step, it was a revelation that she did not care what the gawkers thought. 

She protected him. 

He protected her. 

Nothing else mattered.

After too short a time, Malcolm set her upon a sofa that felt new beneath her fingertips. The softest cotton blend, a deep charcoal with a single pillow on each side and a throw blanket along the arm adding a contrasting shade of white. He vanished into the bathroom without speaking.

The room was new to her. Scented with the faintest musk of cedarwood and amber, the furniture sat unblemished by dust and meticulously clutter-free. The desk, table, wet bar, and sitting area were functional, but not warm. Economical without lavishness. A wooden carving of a beautiful feminine name and four marines in dress uniform hung prominent on the wall, but her attention was drawn to the sprawling notes in slightly-slanted cursive covering the pages of a journal laid open on the desk. 

While he washed, she eased from the couch. She held the back for a count of three before wandering to the desk, determined to ignore the unnerving vertigo floating the world in the wrong direction. The sound of running water in the background faded away and Soraya honed in on the words in the journal. 

A restaurant would not be good enough.

Malcolm cleared his throat behind her before she could read further. Soraya turned to see him standing, still nude and wet but far less bloody, holding a first aid kit between his palms. He kept his gaze averted and lowered himself to one knee to tend to the abrasion on her leg. 

His close proximity sent her pulse racing and her uninjured cheek flooded with new color. Soraya leaned into the desk to avoid toppling over, and only to sink further into the desk chair. 

She had so many questions, but it started with one.

“Why?” 

He couldn’t meet her eyes. 

“You are mine.”