Page 11 of What a Wolf Demands

And Lizette was one of only two wolves in existence who had the Gift.

If Max had his way, she’d never leave the Lodge. It hadn’t taken her long to set him straight on that subject. Their fights had been loud enough to make a painting in one of the Lodge’s common areas crash to the floor.

But the Alpha insisted on assigning her guards, and he didn’t leave the property unless Dom or Remy were there to keep an eye on her.

Considering Remy was Lizette’s cousin, it made sense Max preferred he stay by her side. Her Gift made her a prize for any pack, which meant kidnapping was always a threat.

But it was her status as an Alpha’s wife that put her life in danger.

The mate bond saw to that. When humans married, they moved in together and kept their fingers crossed they wouldn’t end up hating each other in ten years.

It wasn’t like that for werewolves. For one thing, there was no divorce, ever. For their species, the bonds of matrimony were literal. Metaphysical, even. Marriage wasn’t just a ceremony or a pleasant gathering of two families. It was a ritual so old no one quite knew its origins. Even its name, lux catena, was steeped in legend.

When he was a boy, Dom’s mother used to stroke his hair and say, “One day, you’ll find the girl of your dreams, and a chain of light will bind you.” She’d tick each strand off her fingers. “A vow to make your words one. A bite to mingle your life force together. A claiming to join your flesh forever.”

He took a long drag on the cigarette. That forever wasn’t just metaphor. Once the ritual was complete, mates’ lives were joined together. If one died, the other followed.

Usually.

“Dom.” Sophie’s tone was gentle but chiding. “Tell me you’re not smoking.”

He turned his head and blew a stream of smoke toward the half-open window. “I’m not smoking.”

“Even the worst Tracker could tell you’re lying.”

“Let Dom have his cigarettes, chère,” Remy said. A light smacking sound signaled he’d given Sophie a quick kiss. His chair squeaked, which probably meant he’d pulled her onto his lap. Dom recognized the sound from the countless times Max had done the same thing with Lizette while they talked on the phone. “He thinks it makes him look cool,” Remy added.

Irritation sparked. “I do not smoke to look cool.”

“So you admit you’re smoking?”

Dom ground his teeth. “I assume you called for a reason.”

Remy’s voice was cheerful. “Yes, actually. The Louisiana Alpha sent an email.” Dom heard more papers shuffling. “Seems like your instincts were right. Lily Agincourt used a debit card belonging to one Charles Etienne LaFont at a New Orleans convenience store this morning.”

Dom flicked ash out the window. This is where he should feel satisfied. He’d run another target to ground. Job well done. From here, it was just a matter of hanging around the city long enough to reel in his prey and take her to justice. Her Alpha would be pleased. The family of the man she killed would be grateful.

But there was no thrill of victory, no hum of satisfaction. He’d been sent to do a job, and he’d done it. Simple as that. Check the fucking boxes, turn in the report, go home and wait for the next one.

Over and over again. Rinse and repeat. Something inside him reached for the repetition—the numbing, comfortable familiarity of it all.

Remy spoke again, but now the easy, jovial tone was gone, replaced with what might have been wariness. “Um, there’s something else.”

Dom waited. The silence stretched, and he could almost sense Remy deciding what to say next.

The irritation buzzed again. This trip was already a pain in his ass. He’d endured six hours on a packed commercial flight, followed by a thirty-minute wait for a rental car and two hours in New Orleans traffic. In other words, he’d experienced enough human contact to last the next decade.

As the silence lingered, he snapped, “What is it?”

Remy sighed. “Our initial description was wrong. She’s not blond.”

Another bout of silence.

“So?”

“She’s a redhead.”

Across the street, the drunk college student stumbled back from the curb, swiped a hand across his mouth, and let his friends lead him to the next bar. As the group walked away, a city bus pulled next to the sidewalk, its front wheel splashing in the puddle of vomit.

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