Page 6 of Pack Rivals, Part One

Let's just say, I'm more than happy to be handing out some retribution and screwing Malcolm hard.

The offer isn't good. It's awful, just enough for him to leave the city and never return. The rest of the money that should have been his, Nate will be handing out to Malcolm's soon-to-be ex-wife.

"I could go to one of the other companies interested in–" Malcolm starts.

He's cut off by a sinister growl from the seat next to me. Nate's dying to pound this man into the dirt. It's written all over his angry face. Malcolm gulps and drags the contract towards him.

He flips through the pages. "Where do I sign?"

"Right at the bottom." I roll a pen over towards him. "And you need to initial each page. We'll leave you to it."

I jerk my head and my two packmates, Connor and Nate, follow me out of the boardroom.

As the door shuts behind us, Nate snarls. "Can I beat him up afterwards?"

I shake my head, resting my palm on his shoulder. "We're so close. Let's not fuck things up. He's getting his punishment."

"Just one little punch. I want to give him a shiner so bad. A parting present from Pack York."

"He deserves more than one," Connor says. "You know how many times he put his old lady in the hospital? How many times the authorities turned a blind eye?"

"How many times? I'll give him one hit for every visit. Only seems fair."

"Trust me," I tell them both, "I want to, too. But I also want this deal wrapped up before Pack Boston gets wind of it."

And I know both the mayor and the police chief are waiting for us to put a foot wrong too. Have done ever since we started to make a name for ourselves. No one likes a pack running half the city like we do. Well, the betas don't anyway.

Connor peers through the glass partition. "Looks like he's done. Shall we wrap things up?"

I shake my head. "Let's make him sweat for a while." I wink and walk down the corridor to my office, the others following after. My secretary, Mrs. Finch, is busy pounding keys on her laptop. She's been with us from the start. A tough old bird who keeps us in line.

"Mrs. Finch." She looks up from her typing, peering over her halfmoon glasses perched on her beak-like nose. Her hair is pinned up in a severe bun and a chain runs from the arms of her glasses and loops around her neck. As usual, she's dressed in black. "Could you turn the heat up in the boardroom, please? Right up."

The corner of Mrs. Finch's mouth lifts in a crooked smile. "I'll get right on it, Mr. York."

I beckon the others into my office. We're based in one of the most luxurious office blocks in the city. A block we built five years ago overlooking the city harbor. We have an apartment that occupies the entire penthouse floor, and our offices sit on the floor below. Mine resides in the corner office with views out towards the blue sea and overlooking the rows of fancy boats moored up in the harbor.

I flip open a cabinet and pull out the bottle of bourbon I've been saving for an occasion like this. Pouring the amber liquid into three crystal tumblers, I hand one to each of my packmates, keeping the third for myself.

"We doing this then?" I ask, lifting the liquor to my lips, the smell of strong alcohol burning my nose.

"You fucking bet we are," Nate says, grinning widely like a shark that's cornered its prey.

"It'll start a war," I warn with a smile of my own. "They're going to go fucking livid when they hear we signed this deal."

"Bring it on," Nate says. "This way, we own more than half the property in this city. About time we showed those fuckers they can't mess with Pack York." He takes a swig of his drink. "Those sons of bitches have been nipping at our heels for too long, threatening to take what's ours. Not any longer."

I drop into an armchair opposite my packmates, staring around at each one of them in turn.

Nate looks uncomfortable squeezed into his suit. In fact, he looks uncomfortable squeezed into his chair and this room as well. If he had his way, he'd be living wild in some jungle somewhere, killing prey with his bare hands and grilling it over a fire he'd built himself. He's never liked the corporate world. The politics, the intricate dealings, the careful calculations. The only bit he's ever enjoyed is the moments like this, squeezing some other fucker's balls in a vise. Especially when those balls belong to a fucker like Malcolm, and especially when we'll be screwing over our long-term rivals, Pack Boston.

"Pack Boston can go lick my asshole for all I care," Nate adds.

Connor chuckles. "I didn't think that was your thing, man."

Nate shrugs. "If it's some sweet little omega, then I'm not saying no."

"Talking of sweet little omegas…" I scowl at Nate as he knocks back his bourbon. You don't chug $500 bourbon like it's orange juice. "We have the Skipton Foundation Gala Dinner tonight."

---