Chapter 2
Two
Kaden
The click of Evilin’s heels is a faint, irritating sound in the distance, but the blood roaring in my ears drowns it out. My world has narrowed to a single, searing point of focus: the ghost of a girl in a yellow dress disappearing down the corridor.
Wynter Blanc.
The name is a brand on my consciousness.
Before tonight, she was a rumor, a footnote in the Blanc family file.
Now, she is an obsession. The moment she appeared at the top of that staircase, something dormant and dangerous inside me awoke.
A primal, possessive instinct I had buried years ago clawed its way to the surface.
The debt Evilin owed me ceased to be about money. It was now about her.
I give a subtle nod to Alrik. He sees it instantly, rising from his chair with the fluid efficiency I demand from my men. He meets me by the doors to the terrace, his face a neutral mask.
“We’re leaving,” I say, my voice a low growl that fogs in the frigid air.
“The car is ready, sir.”
“No,” I stop him. “You are leaving. Get back to the compound. I’m going after the girl.”
Alrik’s professional calm cracks for a fraction of a second. His gaze flicks toward the dark expanse of the gardens. “The girl? Sir, if you want her retrieved, I can have the men…”
“I’m getting her,” I cut him off. The words are granite. This is not a task to be delegated. It is a hunt, and I am the only hunter.
He studies my face, and I see the flicker of alarm in his eyes before it's professionally suppressed. He knows this is different. He gives a single, sharp nod. “Understood.” He turns and walks away, a loyal soldier following an order he knows is far from business as usual.
I vault over the stone balustrade of the terrace, landing silently on the snow-dusted lawn below.
The guards Evilin hired are amateurs, their attention focused on the front gates.
I melt into the shadows of a large spruce, my suit jacket a poor defense against the biting cold, but I don't feel it.
A fire has been lit inside me, and it burns with a singular purpose.
I find her tracks easily. The delicate prints of her discarded heels, a path of foolish hope leading away from the mansion. She’s running toward my territory. Toward home. A dark, predatory smile touches my lips. Let her run.
The Alaskan taiga is my kingdom. I move through the dense trees with a familiarity born from a lifetime of navigating this wilderness.
The crunch of my shoes on the snow is the only sound, a steady rhythm in the vast, oppressive silence.
The air is sharp and clean, scented with pine and the faint, maddening perfume of her fear.
It’s that scent that guides me. A mix of wildflowers from her skin and the acrid tang of panicked sweat. It’s the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever smelled. I quicken my pace, my long strides eating up the ground, my eyes scanning the darkness.
Then I see her. A flash of impossible yellow against the black and white of the forest. She’s a beacon, a fallen star. She stumbles, her gown catching on a thorny branch, and a sound halfway between a sob and a curse reaches me. It fuels the fire in my veins.
A part of me, the cold, calculating leader of the Deadly Seven, knows I should end this quickly.
Run her down, subdue her, and take her. But another part, a darker, more ancient instinct, wants to savor this.
The chase. The knowledge that she is mine to catch, that her desperate flight is only a prelude to her surrender.
“Wynter!” I call out, letting my voice ring through the trees.
I see her flinch, her head whipping around.
For a moment, her frantic energy redoubles.
She pushes herself harder, her movements becoming more reckless.
She is driven by a terror I can taste on the air.
A terror of me. And while it satisfies the predator, it infuriates the man.
I don't just want her body; I want her submission.
I want her to look at me with the fire I saw in her eyes earlier, not this desperate panic.
The forest grows thicker here, the canopy of the ancient conifers blocking out the moonlight.
I lose sight of her. For a moment, the world is just black trees and the sound of my own harsh breathing.
Panic, cold and sharp, lances through me.
It’s an unfamiliar, unwelcome sensation.
I am a man who is never out of control, yet this girl has thrown my entire world off its axis in a matter of hours.
I stop, my head cocked, listening. I filter out the sigh of the wind, the creak of a snow-laden branch. And I hear it. The frantic, uneven gasps of someone trying to stifle their sobs. She’s close. Hiding.
I move toward the sound, my steps now utterly silent. I am a wraith in the darkness. I see a large cluster of ferns, their fronds heavy with snow. A sliver of yellow peeks out from behind them. She thinks she’s hidden. The naivety is almost endearing.
I could take her now. Grab her, end this game. But I want her to run again. I want to break her hope completely. I deliberately snap a large twig under my boot.
The gasp from behind the ferns is sharp. A moment later, she bursts from her hiding spot, running with the last of her reserves. I let her go, giving her a ten-second head start, the predator toying with its prey.
Then I follow.
This time, there is no finesse. I crash through the undergrowth, my powerful strides closing the distance with brutal efficiency. She glances back, her eyes wide with renewed terror as she sees how close I am.
Her flight path is becoming erratic, leading her toward the clearing I know is ahead. Toward the frozen lake. A new, sharper anxiety cuts through my possessive haze. The ice there is unstable, especially in the center.
"Stop, Wynter!" I command, my voice harsher than I intend.
She either doesn't hear or doesn't care. She breaks through the tree line and doesn't hesitate, her momentum carrying her straight onto the vast, silver expanse of the lake.
My heart seizes. The ice groans under her weight, a low, guttural sound of protest. I see a spiderweb of cracks form around her feet.
"No," I breathe, the word stolen by the wind. She is a fragile doll dancing on a plate of glass, and the entire world holds its breath as it prepares to shatter.