Chapter 15 - Dominic
The collar lay coiled on his desk like a serpent. Silver, polished, its edges etched with the traditional curling patterns. The faintest trace of Leonid’s scent still clung to the velvet box, a mix of expensive cologne and savagery.
He had read the note once. That was enough.
May she wear it well.
Four words, written in his cousin’s elegant, lazy hand. Four words that had been burning a hole in his mind all afternoon.
Dominic sat back in the chair and stared at the gift until the light outside the window dulled to gray afternoon.
The study had grown cold despite the fire, the scent of smoke clinging to the drapes, mingling with the sea salt that always found its way into the office.
He hadn’t moved in an hour. He’d tried to read reports, tally supplies, check the border patrols, anything, but his thoughts returned again and again to that damnable silver thing glinting on his desk.
A leash and a collar. Leonid’s idea of humor.
The insult wasn’t just for him, of course. It was for Layla, for the entire Volkhov Pack. A reminder that the Alpha of Skymist had bound himself to a woman born low, unshifted, unsuitable, a Luna whose weakness would drag them all down.
Hundreds of years ago, when the world was far more savage than it was even now, when alphas could own as many females as they liked, it was customary to collar the low-ranking ones. The slaves and concubines who sat below the mate.
Dominic flexed his hand once against the desk.
He should ignore the insult. Forget it. It was nothing more than a childish attempt to get under his skin. He refused to let it work.
And yet.
The whole point of choosing Layla, of mating her, was because Arthur had gotten it into his head that Layla was his true mate. The one who would lead to gifts of strength and war bestowed by Lunarion himself.
He never should have been so foolish. He had no special powers, no more than before. Instead, he was dealing with stupid insults like this one.
Not to mention, she was avoiding him. He could feel it in the distance of that mating pulse, in the way it dimmed whenever he reached for it. It shouldn’t have been possible for her to mute him, yet somehow, she did.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, forcing his breath steady.
He was Alpha of the Volkhov Pack. His control should be absolute over his temper, his instincts, even his mate.
But for the past week, everything felt out of step.
His temper frayed too easily. His command rang hollow.
His wolf stirred under his skin like an animal trapped in too small a cage.
And through it all, Layla.
Every thought circled back to her. Every restless hour of sleep was full of the sound of her voice, the scent of her hair, the memory of her standing in candlelight at the mating ceremony with the same look she had given him that night so many years ago. Half fear, half disbelief.
All desire.
He kept his promise not to touch her. He hadn’t so much as laid a hand on her since. But it was costing him.
The restraint burned. It wasn’t just want; it was something deeper, heavier. The bond wanted completion. His body wanted what his mind refused.
He pushed to his feet suddenly, the chair scraping against the floorboards. The motion startled a few embers from the hearth; they fell and died before they could touch the carpet. He paced once across the room, then again, hands tight at his sides.
He couldn’t stand the study anymore. Couldn’t stand the collar glinting at him.
With a muttered curse, he snatched up the silver thing and hurled it into the fire. The metal struck the grate, sparks leaping up in protest. It didn’t melt right away, the metal carefully wrought, but the flames licked greedily at the velvet and ribbon. The smell was sharp and acrid.
“May she wear it well,” Dominic whispered, and watched the inscription blacken. “May you rot in hell, Leonid.”
The wolf under his skin stirred again, pacing, restless. He braced a hand on the mantle and closed his eyes, forcing it back down. Losing control wouldn’t solve anything. He was Alpha. Control was what kept him human.
But the silence pressed in harder. He waited for a whisper, a tug at the bond, an awakening of power within him. Nothing came. Only the sound of his own breathing and the slow, steady collapse of the collar into ash.
For the first time in years, Dominic Volkhov felt powerless.
He left the study before the fire finished its work.
The corridors of the Anchor stretched long and narrow, and it occurred to him he hadn’t been home in days.
In the bar below, patrons were trickling in, the earliest beginnings of the evening, members of the pack ready and keen to rejoin their community.
Dominic bypassed the entrance, ignoring the tempting lull of laughter and whiskey, instead turning to the door.
Outside, the sky had gone from gray to near-black.
Rain gathered along the eaves, waiting to fall.
The smell of salt carried up from the sea.
He turned up the collar of his coat and started down the path that wound toward town, the one that led to the bookshop.
He told himself it was for business, for routine inspection, for reassurance, but his wolf knew better.
He needed to see her. Needed to know that she was real, that the muted bond between them didn’t mean she had come to any harm.
As he walked, the tether between them flickered stronger, then weaker, like a heartbeat pulsing.
He swallowed the discomfort of the feeling, focusing instead on the darkening street.
Shifters, both Volkhov and Nordan alike, bowed their heads as he passed.
Some of the humans, too, the ones who knew.
Even those who didn’t give him a wide berth, something primal in them recognizing the predator in their midst.
When the bookshop finally came into view, the lights were out, the windows dark, the sign on the door hung crooked in the wind.
She wasn’t there.
He tried the handle. The new metal gleamed, the lock mocking him. He circled around the side to the back door, finding it similarly bolted. Lucky for him, Julian was an excellent spymaster. He knelt to the ground, shifting a few of the crumbling flowerpots until he found a rusting key.
The lock gave way with a heavy groan.
“Layla,” he called, pausing to listen, “Layla, are you here?”
No response. He walked through cautiously, scenting the air. Inside, it smelled of paper and tea and her. He stood in the middle of the main floor, waiting for her scent to grow stronger, for the sound of footsteps upstairs. Nothing.
The silence was settled, coated over the shelves and books, bedding into the cracks. Nobody had been here all day.
A quick inspection of her small apartment upstairs yielded a similar emptiness. It felt strange walking around her space. He felt too big for it, too animal. Surely a male like him didn’t exist in the same world as crocheted coasters, patchwork throws, or bowls of overripe oranges.
Her bedroom was the worst. It was uniquely her, bed unmade, piles of books haphazardly lining the floor, threatening to topple over at the merest hint of a breeze from the window left unlatched.
Her scent clung to every pillow, every page, surrounding him in a maddening haze.
He was an intruder here; his presence sat like a stone, heavy inside him.
Oddly cowed, he retreated.
Surely, as her mate, he should have some sense of peace in her small space. Some subconscious drift towards it.
Instead, he felt only her absence, and he felt it keenly.
Pulling out his phone, he scrolled through his contacts until her name glowed out at him. He blinked away a vague memory of putting it into his phone when he was all of nineteen, and she was nothing more than Theodore’s little sister.
It rang once, then twice, the electronic jingle scraping his nerves, until finally her voice appeared, perky and unbothered.
“Hi! It’s Layla here—"
“Layla, where the fuck—” he started to growl, before her voice continued.
“I can’t come to the phone right now. You know what to do!”
A long, mocking beep cut through the still shop. He stared, enraged at his phone, watching the little timer of his silent voicemail tick up, before ending the call.
He looked once more around the shop. There was nothing. No indication that she had left in any sort of hurry. Everything was neat and orderly and perfectly boring.
So where the hell was his mate?
He clenched his jaw and left the shop, careful to lock the door behind him
Outside, the rain had begun in earnest, cold needles against his face. He pulled his coat tighter, the water dripping from his hair into his collar. His hands shook, whether from anger or something else, he couldn’t tell.
Dominic started back toward town, eyes hard.
He had been patient long enough.
By the time he reached The Anchor, the rain had soaked through his coat.
Muffled laughter seeped through the windows, the warmth of the lights within bleeding out into the cold.
He paused a moment at the door, forcing his breath even, willing his temper down.
He could not walk in there with his scent spiking all over the place. He needed to appear calm.
He was calm.
He pushed the door open.
Inside, warmth and noise rushed at him, the crackle of the hearth, the scent of beer and bread, and the mud still clinging to worn boots. Conversation dulled when he entered. The handful of guards and pack members looked up, eyes wary. Dominic ignored them.
Julian and Theodore were at the long table near the fire, heads bent over a map. They looked up as he approached. Theodore swallowed, his eyes falling back down again. Julian remained as unreadable as ever.
Dominic didn’t wait for greetings.
“She’s gone,” he said. His voice came out lower than he intended, rough around the edges.
Theodore frowned. “Who—Layla?”
“Who else?”
“She’s probably at the shop.”
“I was there,” Dominic snapped, “the place is empty.”
Julian’s pen stilled. His head tilted just slightly. “Empty? What sort of empty?”
Dominic’s jaw flexed. “You tell me. You’re the one who notices everything.”
Julian ignored his growl. “Had she been gone long?”
“Again,” Dominic said, leaning against the table, “you tell me.”
Theodore pushed his chair back, “Dom, slow down. What happened?”
“She’s not answering her phone,” Dominic said. “The shop was untouched. Looked like it had been closed all day. “
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Julian seemed to be considering, his lips pressed together. In the bright, harsh light of the fire, the shadows of his face seemed to grow and shroud him. His expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes shifted.
He stood slowly, smoothing his coat. “So she isn’t answering her phone,” he repeated quietly, “interesting.”
“Let me try,” Theodore said, jabbing at his screen. “She could just be ignoring you.”
Dominic’s jaw clenched.
They waited, breaths held, as the phone rang several times, then went to voicemail.
“To be fair,” Theodore said, glancing with alarm at the thunder spreading over Dominic’s face, “she could be ignoring me, too.”
“Or,” Julian said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “she could be somewhere with no signal.”
Dominic took a step closer, his voice dropping low, dangerous. “If you know something, now’s the time to speak.”
Julian’s gaze flicked to the window, where the rain beat harder against the glass. When he looked back, his composure had hardened again, every inch the incomprehensible master of shadows.
“I might,” he said, “but you’re not going to like it.”