My throat closed. My stomach knotted. With trembling fingers, I snapped the plastic casing in half, wrapped the sharp pieces in toilet paper, and shoved them deep into the bottom pocket of my silk dressing gown.
A sharp rap struck the bathroom door.
"Miss Daphne," Maria, the head maid, called from the hallway, her voice strained. "The Alpha has just returned to the estate. He expects you downstairs in the grand foyer immediately."
"I will be down in one minute," I answered, keeping my voice level.
I reached for the jar hidden behind the porcelain medicine bottles. Inside was a handful of crushed dried roots-blood-moss. I shoved a thick pinch into my mouth and chewed. Sour, metallic juice flooded my tongue. It tasted disgusting. It also masked the sweet, delicate pheromones of a pregnant Omega. Without it, a dominant Alpha would scent the pup on me before nightfall.
I swallowed the foul mash, rinsed my mouth with tap water, and pulled open the door.
A dull cramp pulsed low in my pelvis. My knees wobbled. I gripped the cold mahogany banister to steady myself. The Hardin family mansion stretched wide around me, a monument of heavy crown molding and generational wealth. I was only their adopted daughter and ward, a low-ranking Omega kept around as an obedient fixture.
I took a slow breath, squared my shoulders, and descended the grand staircase.
At the base of the stairs, standing beneath the massive crystal chandelier, was Jameson Small.
He was the unchallenged Alpha of the Oakhaven Pack-a multibillion-dollar empire run like a sovereign corporate nation. To the legal authorities and the human world, he acted as my Pack-appointed guardian and the sole executor of my deceased parents' estate. To everyone who carried the wolf blood, he was an absolute apex predator whose word carried the weight of life and death.
Jameson turned around as my slippers hit the ground floor.
His ice-gray eyes pinned me instantly. His Alpha aura hit the hall like a winter gale, an invisible hand pressing down on my chest until my lungs burned.
On his right index finger, the heavy signet ring forged from ancient black iron caught the light, bearing the snarling wolf crest of his bloodline. He held a silver-tipped walking cane in his left hand, though he had never limped a day in his life. He tapped the ferrule once against the polished marble floor, the sharp click echoing across the high ceilings.
Every maid and footman standing in the perimeter immediately bowed their heads. Not a single servant dared breathe loudly.
I fought the bile rising into my throat, crossed the open distance, and lowered my eyes.
"Welcome home, Guardian," I murmured.
Jameson did not answer. He stepped forward. His broad shoulders, wrapped in a bespoke charcoal-wool suit, cut off the chandelier light and threw me into deep shadow.
He towered over me, his cold gaze stripping away every defense as he studied my pale cheeks. His dark brows pulled together into a sharp, displeased ridge.
"You look like a ghost, Daphne," he said. His voice was low and gravelly, the kind that could command hundreds without ever rising.
I folded my hands over my lower abdomen, pressing my fingertips hard into my palms until the pain kept me grounded. "I only caught a chill from the draft upstairs."
His hand shot out. Rough, calloused fingers clamped beneath my chin, wrenching my face upward to force my eyes into his.
The sharp scent of crushed pine needles, bitter cedar, and pure frost rolled off his skin, enveloping me. My inner Omega whimpered. Rank and power had trained that reflex into me.
Jameson leaned down. His nose brushed the tender curve of my throat, coming within an inch of the faint, shallow puncture marks he had pressed into my gland months ago during a moment of uncontrolled possessiveness. He drew in a slow, deep breath, scenting the pulse point beneath my skin.
My heart plummeted straight into an abyss. I froze, my muscles locking rigid, terrified that the bitter herb had failed to mask the tiny, fragile heartbeat nested inside my body.
Jameson pulled back, his mouth twisting into an expression of raw disgust. He released my chin and pulled a black silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, slowly wiping his fingers.
"You smell of rotten weeds and sour dirt," he said coldly. "Are you dosing yourself with those back-alley remedies again?"
Air rushed back into my lungs. He had only smelled the herb.
"My digestion has been unsettled," I whispered, keeping my eyes fixed on his polished dress shoes. "The herbalist told me it would soothe the lining of my stomach."
Jameson balled the handkerchief, tossing it into the hands of the butler standing nearby.
"Your judgment is as pathetic as your constitution," Jameson commanded, turning toward the interior archway. "Butler, call Arthur Foster. Tell our Pack Doctor to bring his diagnostic kit here within fifteen minutes. I want her drawn and tested before midnight."
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