Chapter 2
two
“My nose does not look like this.”
Two of my packmates lean over my shoulders, peering at the screen cradled in my palm. On it, a Crenmore tabloid has posted an “exposé” about the “unknown alpha” who “inherited” the manor that once belonged to the McAffry dukedom.
A.k.a. me.
And my perfect nose, thank you very much.
Ryker grunts dismissively, clearly murderous that I’d even ask his opinion—but Gideon’s grimace is telling.
Oh fuck.
“Does my nose look like this?” I demand, eyes bulging.
Lucky for these bastards, there isn’t time to answer before our pack leader, Atlas, appears on the threshold of the grand, decrepit parlor. Wearing a tux he should have replaced years ago. Sighing.
What else is new?
“Finley,” he tuts. “Honestly.”
I’m Finley when I’m too loud, too excitable, or too vain.
I’m Finley a lot, guys.
That’s fair, though. Especially tonight.
Listen, I’m fully aware this whole evening is mostly my fault. I might look too pretty to have a brain, but I do have one. I just don’t like to use it all the time.
Sort of like fine china.
Which reminds me—after this party, we’ll probably have, like, eight hundred dirty glasses in the kitchen and no one to wash them.
Again, technically my fault.
But, fuck me, when we took this place, I assumed it would come with staff. I didn’t expect I’d have to hire caterers to cover our first big event.
I suppose the former domestics were too proud to go from caring for an Actual Duke to the likes of me. Their loss, honestly. Although, I probably should have thought about the whole “manual labor” aspect of hosting an event before I planned my grand soiree.
Gideon tried to warn me. He also said people would be mad about the last-minute invites. But my guest list is perfection, so.
A group of cater-waiters pauses at the opposite threshold of the great room, casting me anxious glances. When no one else moves, I smile and wave them toward the kitchen.
Sheesh.
Do I have to do everything around here?
Ryker catches me checking my hair in the front camera on my iPhone and makes another derisive sound, stomping over to one of the three chairs in the formerly grand parlor.
I’ve set up most of the evening’s entertainment outside, on our sprawling lawn, so hopefully none of our guests will mind the lack of furniture in here.
I doubt Ryker will be around to notice either way.
His baggy jeans and sweat-stained tank top are pretty clear Your Party Can Fuck Off signs.
Ignoring him and his grimy man-bun, I finish rearranging my bangs.
As per usual, the thick espresso locks are well-coiffed, courtesy of the fancy mousse Gideon “borrows” every chance he gets.
And they call me a thief.
I glance around the half-empty space at the heart of our new manor, skimming my gaze over our priceless antique fixtures and solid limestone walls. Resisting the urge to wince.
Okay, okay.
So I sort of stole this house.
And the money we’re using to live like kings.
But does that make me a thief…?
Right now, I’m more concerned with being the best-dressed, most delightful host this pitiful place has ever seen.
Gideon may have had a point about waiting a few more weeks to throw an “Aren’t We So Welcome Here” bash—but it never hurts to show the social movers and shakers in your new country where they can find a good time.
And, honestly, after what I went through to get this manor? Cocktails and naked women are in order.
It took months to find a home like this. Somewhere grand, if a little on the shabby side. And, of course, up for grabs.
It also had to be outside the US, but in a country where most people spoke English. Ideally, an abandoned property without a real heir or beneficiary.
Crenmore is the perfect location, with many noble families and a lot of crumbling country houses. This place once belonged to the notoriously nasty Duke of McAffry. Apparently, his long-standing, titled family went to shit about a year ago.
It’s hard to feel bad, though; I heard the former duke was a total dick. And his son, Dairragh Vreeland, only gave up his claim to this place because he married an actual princess.
So he’s fine.
Probably.
I didn’t check, but…
Listen, I didn’t mess with the Vreelands’ primary residences, like the one in the capital or their ancestral home on the outskirts of the city. But this manor is barely even in Crenmore. It was just a vacation home, once upon a time. Too far-flung for anyone to bother with it.
I assume that’s why the deed was supposed to pass to some sort of historical society. a.k.a.: a bunch of snooty old biddies who would have left it to molder forever.
Not to be dramatic, but I saved this place.
I’m a hero.
You’re welcome.
It’s not like I had much of a choice, anyway. Our pack’s former life just collapsed in spectacular fashion, and I swore I would never end up back where I started.
Of all my packmates, Gideon Blackwood is probably the only one who understands that fixation.
My best friend definitely didn’t start from zero the way I did, but he has a similar appreciation for wealth and style.
For him, both are a matter of survival. To me?
They’ve always served as a brilliant means of deception.
You know “fake it ’til you make it?”
Well, I faked a lot.
And then I made it.
Gideon was born with it, which was the main reason we became friends in the first place.
Before his family’s company fell apart, he was next in line to run one of the largest corporations in the world.
None of us really understood how evil Blackwood Corp was until it blew up in our faces.
I’m sure that’s why Gideon opted to let the billion-dollar enterprise go to pieces instead of, you know, making us billionaires.
I might be bitter, if I hadn’t found this place.
Once I did, it was alarmingly easy to steal. Some forged inheritance paperwork, a couple of falsified family histories. Sleeping with a judge and a notary—or was it two? Charming the right people, threatening the wrong ones.
Our pack might not own the world’s largest weapons manufacturer anymore, but we’re still intimidating. Especially Ryker.
Our biggest packmate is also the scariest. Six-foot-six of broad muscles, fuck-all-the-way-off attitude, and overgrown hair he refuses to manage. He doesn’t like to be touched, barely eats, and also doesn’t speak.
Yeah, you heard me. The guy doesn’t talk.
For the most part, anyway. He maybe opens his mouth three times a year, each instance fewer than ten words.
It’s an unspoken rule that no one gets too close to him, and no one questions him except our pack leader, Atlas.
But only because he’s the one who found Ryker and cleaned him up, five years ago.
I’m not surprised the big guy is planning to spend the night locked in his room instead of celebrating with us. Although I wonder what the odds of eventually getting him into a suit might be.
Maybe if Gid and I sedate him…
My Alpha grumbles his disapproval, poking me with his Morality Stick. Like the good little choir boy he is.
What?! I snap back. Just for, like, an hour. It’s not that deep.
He replies with a slew of unpleasant memories—all the times we’ve looked at Ryker and thought, thank GOD I’m not THAT fucked up.
I still don’t get what his problem is, really. Something to do with a woman who left him?
See, this is why I don’t do relationships.
Whatever happened to Ryker before Atlas dragged him into our pack, the fact remains: I feel bad for the poor bastard. Looking at his mean mug—recalling all the times I could have tried to learn more about him and simply decided not to—always fills my gut with an emotion I do my utmost to ignore.
Guilt.
Ew.
You would think I’d be used to it by now. Because it doesn’t matter how much I don’t care, my scrupulous Alpha loves to remind me that every good part of my life came from taking things that didn’t belong to me.
Including this place.
Ironically, while Ryker hates all the social airs that come with wealth, our burly, mute packmate is the only one who doesn’t have an issue with how I secured this escape hatch.
He might not like how opulent it is and doesn’t want any of the luxuries that come with high society, but he knows we had to get the hell out of our former world.
At this point, everyone’s feelings on this subject are pretty much moot, anyway. Like it or not, we need this house. Without Blackwood Corp, our revenue stream narrowed to a trickle, otherwise known as Atlas’s savings. And—sue me—I didn’t sign up for pack life on an academic’s salary.
It’s not like Gideon Blackwood wants to clip coupons, either. I suspect that’s what originally prompted our otherwise upstanding pack leader to consider this plan:
Gideon needs the security, and Atlas needs Gideon.
Lucky for me, once his favorite human admitted that a new, bougie life in the Crenmore countryside sounded like a perfect change of pace? Our grumpy professor got on board.
Aaaaaand I might have ensured he got his dream teaching position at one of the country’s most prestigious universities.
That wasn’t hard: A few nights in bed with the headmistress, starting some well-placed rumors about the previous director of their psychology department… I’m telling you, it is amazing how much you can steal when people are too distracted by your face to notice anything else.
Still, Atlas deserves this. He wants a fresh start for us, too. After heaps of lies and years of deception, pretending Gideon was an alpha. And our pack leader…
I cannot believe we got away with that for so long.
There’s no need to hide the truth now, though.
No more Blackwood Corp. No more mean Grandaddy Blackwood.
Moving out of the States and taking up residence in Europe will only make it easier for us to get past that bullshit—and launch Phase Two.
Otherwise known as, Surprise! All You Bitches Thought Gideon Blackwood Was An Alpha, But He’s Actually An Omega.
Which, admittedly, needs a new name.