My senses are completely overwhelmed. The sterile, expensive scent of my brother’s mansion vanishes entirely.
The long corridor suddenly smells exactly like them. It is a potent, dizzying mix that makes my head spin.
I inhale the sharp, ozone scent of cold rain and the harsh, bitter tang of gun oil. It’s a violent, suffocating mix, but it’s the layer beneath that wrecks me—the heavy, localized scent of aggressive male skin and the raw, salt-and-musk tang of their arousal. It’s the smell of a pack closing in on a kill, making my pussy clench with a terrifying, liquid heat.
I cross my arms tightly over my chest. I try to suppress a sudden, violent shiver.
The hard metal edge of the stolen USB drive bites sharply into the sensitive skin between my breasts.
It is tucked deep into the lace of my bra. The jagged corner digs into my sternum with every shallow breath I take.
That tiny piece of metal holds Dominic’s offshore accounts. It holds the illegal shipping manifests. It holds the undeniable proof of everything bloody and broken my brother has done for the last five years.
If they search me, I am dead.
I reach the heavy oak double doors at the end of the corridor. My hands shake slightly as I push down on the ornate brass handles.
I step over the threshold into my private suite.
It is my personal sanctuary inside the compound. It consists of a cozy sitting room, a small kitchenette, my bedroom, and the nursery down the short hall. It is decorated in soft creams, blush pinks, and warm gold accents. It is the only place in the world I feel safe.
Until they follow me inside.
The second the three men enter the room, the walls instantly close in. The vaulted ceiling suddenly feels ten feet lower.
They suck absolutely every ounce of oxygen out of the air.
They are massive. They are impossibly wide across the shoulders, towering over my delicate furniture, and radiating pure, unadulterated violence. They don’t belong in a room with silk throw pillows and scented candles.
They begin mapping the space immediately. They don’t ask for permission.
Rafe breaks off from the group before the heavy doors even click shut. He stalks straight toward the back of the sitting room. His jaw is clenched so tight the muscles leap under his skin.
He grips the heavy silk drapes and shoves them aside with unnecessary force. His golden, predatory eyes scan the dark, sprawling grounds outside.
He checks the brass latches on the bay windows. He tests the reinforced glass, slamming the heel of his massive hand against the pane. He doesn’t trust the locks. He doesn’t trust the shadows. Every line of his body is rigid with restless, coiled aggression.
I walk past him to turn on a porcelain table lamp. The movement stirs the air.
The faint, rose and dark amber scent of my perfume drifts across the room.
Rafe freezes. His broad shoulders go completely rigid.
He inhales sharply. A low, vibrating growl rips directly from the center of his chest. It sounds rough. Animalistic.
He whips his head around. His golden eyes lock onto mine. The absolute hostility in his stare is suffocating. His chest heaves against his tactical rig. He looks like he is in genuine physical pain.
I break his blistering stare and look away.
Jude hasn’t moved toward the windows. He doesn’t aggressively clear the corners of the sitting room.
He glides down the short, dimly lit hallway.
I track his silent progress from the corner of my eye. My pulse spikes dangerously high.
He stops dead outside the nursery.
He stands perfectly still, staring at the closed white door. His gaze drops to the small, hand-painted wooden letters hanging at eye level.