Chapter 1 - Dominic
Eight Years Later
The music throbbed through the walls, heavy and pounding.
Dominic Volkhov stood at the edge of the patio overlooking the garden, a glass of whiskey in his hand, untouched. Before him, the Volkhov Pack was in full swing.
Five years since he took the throne. A just cause for celebration.
Wolves in human form filled the long tables, laughter and music tangling with the heavy scent of meat and smoke. Lanterns hung from the trees, massive kegs of beer settled into the damp grass. Through all the noise and commotion, the ocean lapped against the piers of Skymist, icy cold and wild.
It should have pleased him.
It didn’t.
She wasn’t here.
He told himself it didn’t matter, that her absence from the celebration was beneath his notice.
She was no one important. A daughter of a low-status family, only tolerated within the pack’s hierarchy because of her brother.
She’d been missing from these gatherings for years. He shouldn’t have noticed at all.
And yet he had.
He’d looked for her without meaning to, scanning the grounds between the shadowy figures of his pack. Every time the gate opened, a part of him had expected to see her there, soft curves, nervous hands, quiet. Watching from the edges as she always used to.
But she hadn’t come.
He drained his drink in one gulp, grimacing at the burn.
“Dominic!”
The voice cut through the din, easy and familiar. Theodore Hawthorne wove through the crowd toward him, his smile wide, his shirt half unbuttoned, a second bottle already in hand.
“You’re hiding up here again,” Theodore said as he reached him, jumping up the steps. “Five years of glory, and you’re brooding like it’s a funeral.”
Dominic didn’t answer.
Theodore shoved a fresh drink into his hand anyway. “You should come down. The pack’s dying to toast their fearless Alpha. Or at least dance with one of the dozen girls waiting to be noticed.”
“I’ve danced enough,” Dominic said flatly.
“You haven’t danced once.”
“Exactly.”
Theodore laughed, tilting his head back. He was everything Dominic wasn’t tonight. Bright, careless, charming in a way that effortlessly caught attention. It was part of why Dominic kept him close. People liked Theodore; he could smooth edges. Soothe insults. Inspire loyalty.
But right now, that same lightness irritated him beyond belief.
“You should enjoy yourself for once,” Theodore said, “you won. You built all this. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Dominic’s gaze swept the garden. The laughter. The banners. The strength of his pack on full display.
“Yes,” he said, “of course it counts.”
He didn’t sound convinced.
Theodore’s smile dimmed slightly, then recovered. “You’re still thinking about the reports, aren’t you? Leonid?”
Dominic’s jaw tightened, “There’s nothing to think about. Leonid has his pack. Traitors, the whole lot of them. There’s a mountain range between us. They pose no threat.”
“That’s not what the others are saying.”
“The others,” Dominic said evenly, “like to imagine Leonid is planning something. They believe his little rebellion must have had a reason. The politics keep them entertained, but it’s a fantasy. Leonid just wants to be king of his own little kingdom.”
Theodore studied him for a moment. “You don’t believe that.”
Dominic turned his head, his expression unreadable. “What I believe doesn’t matter. What matters is that the pack feels safe.”
Theodore hesitated, but wisely decided against talking back. Instead, he made a big show of spreading his arms out and stumbling back into the crowd. “Well, if you’re not gonna take advantage of all these lovely ladies, then somebody’s gonna have to do it for you!”
Dominic’s jaw tightened, and he shook his head. Theodore was one of his closest friends, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t sometimes a complete ass.
He was nothing like his sister.
His hand tightened around the glass.
Layla Hawthorne.
He shouldn’t think about her. Shouldn’t dwell on the memories. How defiant she was for someone so small. She’d looked at him differently than anyone else ever had. Not with fear, not with awe. With something like loathing. It had fascinated him.
He’d told himself that fascination was disgust. That what she stirred in him was contempt. It was easier that way.
He exhaled slowly, setting the glass down on the railing.
The crowd roared as someone started a song. He could see the younger wolves circling the center floor, bodies loose and fluid with joy. It was the kind of noise he used to love. The unity of it, the raw pulse of belonging. Now it sounded distant, hollow.
He didn’t care that she wasn’t here.
He couldn’t afford to.
He’d built this pack into something his father never could.
A united force, disciplined, thriving. Protectors of the weak, no longer persecutors.
And yet, as the celebration carried on below, Dominic couldn’t shake the sense that everything around him was made of glass.
One wrong move, one crack in the facade, and it would all shatter.
He turned from the garden, slipping into the warm light of The Anchor.
The hall was suffocating now, too warm, the air heavy with scent and sound. He started down the corridor, his movements precise, predatory, each step deliberate. Wolves greeted him as he passed, bows of heads, murmured congratulations, nervous smiles, but their praise bounced off him.
At the base of the stairs, he paused. A woman brushed past him, her perfume cloying. “Congratulations, Alpha,” she purred. He gave a polite nod and moved on without breaking stride, into the busy main bar.
The room was his. Every person in it would bleed for him, obey him, die for him.
And yet, as he crossed the floor, such loyalty tasted like ash.
He reached for another drink, needing something to anchor the raging storm in his head. As he rattled through the bottles of top-shelf liquor, digging for something worth drinking, he caught movement at the edge of his vision. Lowering his arm, he turned to see Julian Rook leaning against the bar.
“Alpha,” he said, low and unhurried.
“What are you doing back so soon?” Dominic growled, crossing his arms. He had no knowledge that Rook was due back today. No warning.
Julian didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.
Dominic sighed. He’d always been more shadow than man.
“Tell me at least you’ve brought information,” Dominic replied, eyes still on the room.
Julian’s mouth tipped at one corner. “I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”
Dominic turned to face him. Up close, Julian was a contradiction of sharp lines and blurred edges; black hair to his shoulders, eyes too dark to read, coat still dusted with hazy snow.
A circular amulet, Lunarion’s sign, caught the light at his chest and went dark again.
Some of the older pack members called him ‘priest’ as a joke. It wasn’t funny.
“Well?” Dominic said.
“Hybrids hit a caravan near Haines,” Julian said.
“Three wolves dead, one vampire gone to ash. Same tactics as the Anchorage raid. Fast, coordinated, no prisoners. They’re testing borders, not hunting for food.
” His gaze skimmed the room once, measuring, then returned to Dominic. “You won’t like the rest.”
“Try me.”
“A scout from Severny claims he tracked a band moving west through the taiga and then vanished. Rory Byrne sent a message. The last tracks point toward our side of the range. Closer than before.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened. Music surged, and someone shouted his name from across the room. He didn’t look.
If Rory Byrne, Alpha of the famously reclusive Severny, thought it wise to send word…
“Any sign of a nest?” he asked.
“Nothing that holds,” Julian said, “Caves scoured clean. Villages abandoned too early in the season. Someone’s marching in, erasing their tracks, and marching out again.”
Dominic folded his hands behind his back to keep his fists from flexing. “Patterns?”
“Triangulation suggests a base beyond the Chilkat range, Volnoye territory, or just shy of it.” The name cooled the air between them. “If Leonid knows something, he isn’t sharing. Or he’s sharing with the wrong people.”
Dominic sneered at the second mention of the once-favored heir of the Volkhov, now Alpha to the splintered Volnoye. “He’s ambitious,” Dominic said, “but not a fool.”
Julian’s eyes were unreadable. “Ambition and foolishness tend to keep company.”
“What do you think?”
“That the hybrids won’t care which banner hangs over a pack when they butcher it. They’re moving like an army. It’s different from any reports from the last five hundred years. Something’s changed. Evidence suggests someone’s controlling them.”
“Who?”
Julian looked up toward the carved rafters, like the ceiling might answer. “I’ve only heard rumors, and nothing strong enough to stick.”
“And within our borders?”
“I’ve frightened most of the rats back into their dens,” Julian said, “but fear doesn’t last forever. There’s been…activity.” He paused, his eyes carefully guarded. “You asked me to look for witchcraft. Consider me looking.”
Dominic’s attention snagged on that word.
Witchcraft. Disgust roiled in his gut. It had been nearly a hundred years since the Northern American packs had put the witches firmly back in their place after they had stupidly risen up against the shifters and vampires, no doubt wishing to enjoy the same power as their European and African sisters.
The shifters had decimated their covens, outlawed witchcraft, and branded it the curse it truly was.
But it had come at a cost of blood.
“Keep it quiet,” he said. “If I have to make a spectacle, I will. But not without an actual crime.”
“Understood.” Julian studied him a moment longer than was polite. “You’re not sleeping.”
Dominic’s mouth twitched. “You’re not, either.”
“I do my sleeping on the road, as I always have,” Julian said. “It keeps my sins away from honest bars like this one.”
“What sins?”
Julian’s strange half-smile returned. “I’ll tell you when they’re of use to you.”