Page 29 of Wicked Pursuit

Wolf

Check your front door.

“You motherfucker.” I stalk to the door and fling it open. There’s no one there. Instead there’s a package sitting unassumingly on the floor of the hallway.

I scoop it up, take the time to lock the door again—for all the good it will do—and head back to the coffee table to see what he’s up to now. The box is high-quality. When I lift the lid off, there’s black tissue paper with a ribbon around it. I undo the ribbon and fold back the paper, and... “Damn, Wolf, you have good taste.”

I lift the dress up and whistle under my breath. It’s short and sheer with ropes of pearls sewn into the fabric. I’d like to think the pearls cover the necessary bits, but I’m sure the truth is that they’ll act more as a frame for my breasts and pussy. I check the rest of the box, not finding any undergarments. There are, however, strappy heels. In my favorite brand. In my size. Because what kind of stalker would he be if he didn’t know my shoe size?

Fancy.

Wolf

Change into it tomorrow after you arrive at the address. ONLY it.

I gave my word.

The next morning,I find a flight and hotel confirmation in my inbox. That motherfucker thought of everything and left nothing to chance.

This is probably a trap. Heirs don’t travel much and for good reason. There may be peace in Carver City, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t outside threats who look at our prosperous city and want to take a bite out of it for themselves.

It’s possible that Wolf is associated with one of those entities. Probable, even. This might all be some elaborate plan to get me out from under my parents’ protection and then use me as leverage to get what they want.

I google the address Wolf gave me, not expecting to find anything, but there are a few hits of interest. One is a forum thread that... “Holy shit.”

The poster alleges that the Black Rose Auction is held at that address annually. “No way.” I’ve heard of the auction, of course. Everyone has. Or at least everyone in our line of business, with ties to the shadows. It’s kind of an open secret, an auction where people with money and connections can come to bid on items they don’t necessarily want to be attached to publicly.

Sometimes those items are people.

I am NOT going to be an auction item.

My parents will kill me. If this is what Wolf intends, to auction off the only daughter of Beast, Gaeton, and Isabelle Belmonte, the heir to the Belmonte territory... there’s no way people won’t find out. Thateveryonewon’t find out. My shame will be on full display, and if I do it wearingthisdress?

No. Absolutely not.

I glare at my phone, but other than the notification under my message changing toread, nothing happens. He doesn’t even try to text back.

I’m serious, Wolf. I’m not doing this. It’s too far.

Thirty seconds later, a picture comes in, and my heart drops into my stomach. It’s of Luke. He’s sitting at his favorite coffee shop, bent over his laptop with a look of concentration on his face. When he works, he’s completely oblivious to the world around him. Wolf could slit his throat, and he’d never see the man coming.

Wolf doesn’t reiterate his threat, but he doesn’t have to. He’s close enough to take this picture, so he’s close enough to follow through on his threat.

I swallow hard, feeling sick.

I hate you.

Wolf

See you soon, baby.

I lieand tell my family that I’m not feeling well, ignore their pointed questions about why the fuck I’m not home, and dodge some well-meaning texts from Michelle and Zayne. Then I’m at the airport and boarding a plane. Wolf booked me first class, but I can’t bring myself to appreciate it. Or the driver and car waiting for me when I land. He’s thought of every detail... and I’ve done nothing butthink.

I may feel seen by Wolf in a way I’ve never experienced before, but that doesn’t mean I know him. I don’t know what he looks like. He says he wants me, but it’s easy to lie. It’s not like I’ve challenged him in any meaningful way. I let him fuck me bare, for gods’ sake.

The city shifts around me as we leave its limits and head into the countryside. The longer I go without hearing from him, the worse I feel. Even as I tell myself not to be so weak, I can’t help reaching for my phone. This time, I don’t bother to text. I call him.

He doesn’t make me wait long before he answers. “You’re making good time.”

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