The rain in the North Side didn’t just fall; it punished. It turned the soot-stained streets of the Valerius Pack’s territory into a slick, black mirror, reflecting the neon ruins of a kingdom past its prime.
Luna Valerius stood at the entrance of "The Iron Den," a warehouse that smelled of wet fur, stale cigarettes, and the metallic tang of impending violence. Her combat boots splashed through a puddle of oily water, but she didn't flinch. Inside her chest, her wolf,a silver-furred creature of pride and temper was clawing at her ribs.
Danger, the beast whispered. The air tastes like a predator.
"Stay back, Luna," her brother, Viktor, hissed, his hand resting on the hilt of a silver-weighted blade at his hip. "You shouldn't be here for this."
"Dad gambled my future in a card game, Viktor," Luna snapped, her voice a low, dangerous velvet. "I’m not sitting in the car while he hands over the keys to our lives."
They pushed through the heavy steel doors.
The warehouse was cavernous, filled with the low-level enforcers of the Moretti Syndicate. These weren’t the ragged, desperate wolves of her father’s pack. These were soldiers. They wore charcoal-grey tactical gear and held submachine guns with the casual indifference of men who were paid very well to kill.
In the center of the room, under a single, buzzing industrial light, sat a table of polished obsidian.
Her father, Silas Valerius, sat on one side. He looked ancient. The once-great Alpha of the North was hunched, his skin sallow, his hands trembling as they hovered over a dwindling stack of chips.
And then there was Dante Moretti.
He sat with the terrifying stillness of a mountain. He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than the warehouse they were standing in. His dark hair was swept back, revealing a face of brutal, masculine perfection,sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and a jawline that looked carved from granite. He wasn't playing with his chips. He was watching the door.
When Luna stepped into the light, his eyes changed.
They didn't just look at her; they consumed her. For a split second, the iris flickered from a deep, soulful brown to a molten, predatory gold.
"You’re late, Silas," Dante said. His voice was a rich, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate in the very floorboards. "I don’t like waiting. It makes my men hungry."
As if on cue, the Syndicate wolves at the perimeter let out a synchronized, low-frequency growl. The sound was a physical weight, a display of Alpha dominance that made the hair on Luna’s arms stand up.
"I have the money, Dante," Silas stammered, pushing a briefcase forward. "Six hundred million. It’s all there. The interest, the penalties,Dante didn't even glance at the case. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the obsidian table. The light caught the signet ring on his finger,a silver wolf’s head with rubies for eyes.
"The debt isn't six hundred million anymore, Silas. You missed the midnight deadline. In the Moretti Syndicate, we don’t charge late fees. We charge... taxes."
"What kind of taxes?" Luna stepped forward, brushing past her brother. She felt the heat radiating off Dante from ten feet away. It was a magnetic pull, a sickening, fated spark that she tried to stomp out with pure hatred.
Dante’s gaze moved to her, slow and deliberate. He tracked the line of her throat, the rise and fall of her chest, before settling on her eyes. "The kind that ensure loyalty. The kind that stop wars."
He pulled a scroll from his inner pocket. It wasn't paper; it was vellum made from the hide of a rogue. He unrolled it, revealing the Blood Contract.
"Your father lost the Northern Woods in the first hand. He lost the shipping docks in the second. In the final hand, he bet his most precious asset." Dante’s lips curled into a smirk that was more of a snarl. "He bet the Luna of his pack. He bet you."
The silence that followed was deafening. Luna felt the world tilt. She looked at her father, expecting a denial, a roar of rage. Instead, he looked at the floor.
"I had to, Luna," Silas whispered. "He was going to kill the pups. He was going to burn the den."
"So you sold me?" Luna’s voice was a ghost of a sound. "To the man who executed our cousins? To a mafia butcher?"
"I’m not a butcher, Luna," Dante said, standing up. He was tall—easily six-foot-four—and he moved with a fluid, lethal grace that screamed Apex. He walked around the table, the enforcers parting like the Red Sea. He stopped inches from her, his scent flooding her system. He smelled of expensive cedarwood, cold rain, and a dark, musky musk that made her wolf whine in shameful recognition.
Mate. The word echoed in her mind.
Enemy, she screamed back.
Dante reached out, his gloved hand gripping her chin. He forced her to look up at him. "The contract is simple. One year. You live in my estate. You work in my office. You sit by my side at every Syndicate meeting. You are the bridge between our species. And in return, the Valerius debt is erased. Your father keeps his head. Your pack keeps its woods."
"And what happens at night?" Luna hissed, her eyes glowing amber as she bared her fangs.
Dante leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. The heat of his breath sent a traitorous shiver down her spine. "At night, you learn why they call me the Vicious Alpha. You belong to me, Luna. Every breath, every heartbeat, every drop of blood."
He pulled a silver blade from his belt and held it out to her, handle first.
"Sign the blood, or watch me slaughter every man in this room. Starting with your brother."
Luna looked at the blade. She looked at the Syndicate wolves closing in. She realized there was no escape. This wasn't a marriage; it was a surrender.
She took the knife.
The edge was unnervingly sharp. She sliced the pad of her thumb, the pain a sharp, hot sting. She pressed her thumb to the bottom of the vellum. The blood didn't just sit there; it seemed to be absorbed by the document, the ink turning a vibrant, glowing red.
The moment the seal was complete, a shockwave of Alpha power rolled through the warehouse. The contract was bound. The debt was moved.
Dante took the knife from her hand and did the same to his own thumb, pressing it over hers. The contact was electric. It felt like a brand being seared into her soul.
"It’s done," Dante whispered, his eyes locked on hers with a possessive intensity that terrified her. "Pack your bags, Little Wolf. You’re moving into the devil’s house tonight."