Chapter 22 Torin
TORIN
“Her?” I bark out, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice.
Nobody has ever accused me of having a poor political mask, but today, I’ve failed.
That blonde woman in the meeting room in front of me is a problem.
Maeve Quinn. Rare shifter. A chromius. And an entitled, pampered princess who thinks she owns the fucking building.
Spoiler alert, maelstrom, but you’re nothing more than a glorified assistant.
The tight dress she’s wearing is deliberate, clinging to every curve like she’s daring someone to comment on it, and the pink stilettos she’s wearing look sharp enough to draw blood.
It’s impressive that she’s got the balance to stand on them, considering they’re longer than one of my fingers.
Not my cock, like she claimed last time.
But then again, Maeve always knows exactly how to hold herself when eyes are on her.
I might be a master of the political landscape, but she’s perfected the optics so well you’d think she wrote the rules.
And, of course, those bastard shoes make her ass sway when she moves.
It’s a shame she wastes that precision playing untouchable instead of being someone actually worth my time.
“Her,” the receptionist confirms with that annoyingly placating smile of a customer service professional. “Maeve is one of our linguistic specialists and is amazing at what she does.”
The receptionist says it like she’s announcing royalty, not an employee. Not just her.
Maeve.
The name alone sours my mood. I should’ve fucking known Draven had ulterior motives with this meeting.
Cunt.
He’s done this on purpose rather than sticking to the plan we crafted together. Backstabbing traitor.
And now I’m stuck here getting to hear her name again and again.
Maeve, Maeve… Maeve.
Like it’s a title people are trained to respect. Or fear.
Her name follows me everywhere these days, worse than a fucking infection I can’t shake. And everywhere it goes, people make space for it.
I’m sick of hearing it. The whispers on the compound about the ice queen Adrian’s protective over have been endless.
I’m pissed off by the way people lower their voices when they talk about her, like she’s something fragile or sacred.
Disgusted by the attention she draws just by existing in a room.
And Draven—fucking Drav—mooning over her like she’s the best thing since sliced bread.
She’s been haunting the compound now for six years, and it’s not been too bad. Sure, she’s always acted like she was better than everyone else because she’s rare, but she never caused half the problems she has been now.
She’s entitled. Pampered. So convinced of her own value that she can afford to withhold herself like it’s a gift no one’s earned.
Draven knows I don’t care for her, so, of course, I’m stuck with her.
“I see,” I say flatly, letting my gaze drag over Maeve’s form with deliberate contempt.
If she notices, she doesn’t show it. She never does.
I turn back to the receptionist, pitching my voice just loud enough to carry.
“I’m one of this firm’s top clients, and I’ve had to fly in here at the last minute to make this meeting. If she is anything less than perfect, if she gives me the same cold, bitter attitude she’s famous for, I’ll—”
“Torin.”
Atticus’s voice cuts in, calm but sharp enough to warn me off.
Bastard.
I swivel towards him, annoyed at his interference. He’s smirking at me like always, like he thinks he knows better.
“Atticus.” I dip my head ever so slightly to give the alpha the respect that his position deserves. Even though it grates.
I’ve never had much of an issue with Atticus, despite us both being in a similar boat of wanting a spot on the Tribunal.
We’re shoe-ins, but unlike him, I don’t have a giant ass pride to back up my name. Luckily, power without territory is still power—it just bleeds more.
“Maeve is one of the best people I’ve hired,” he says evenly, stepping closer.
We’re roughly the same height, although I’m a little stockier than he is.
From the moment we met, Atticus has never once let me intimidate him. He’s always met me with confidence, and it’s been something that’s likened me to him.
Most people cower away from me.
As a pantheral shifter, it’s hard to find people who can see past the primal energy I carry. It’s worse in my shifted form, but even in my human form, people are intimidated by me.
They can feel the predator in my blood, the mythical energy coiled under my skin, and they’re afraid.
Usually, that’s exactly what I want.
But in the instances where I don’t intend to intimidate, well, that’s a lot less great.
“Sure, she is,” I drawl. “So what, Draven was too busy to handle me himself now? You thought it was appropriate to hand me off to his new porcelain doll instead?”
Atticus narrows his eyes. “I’m more than happy to sever the ties you have with our firm and recommend you to someone else if that’s preferable?”
“Of course, not.” I snap the words at him, the idea of it scratching at my pride.
He knows I won’t walk away, and he enjoys it.
He laughs, but it’s a bitter sound. “If I hear a single complaint from Maeve—”
“Yes, yes, you’ll make me regret it,” I cut in, waving a hand. “Relax. I’ll give the girl a chance. I can be respectful.”
Barely.
“But if she fucks me over the way she’s known for doing, she’ll pay the price with more than her job.”
Atticus’s smirk widens, sharp as a blade. “I won’t make you pay, Torin. Instead, I’ll simply pass the infraction along to Draven and Lucifer and let them fight over how unhappy you should be.”
I sneer, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, and turn away from the desk.
Whatever game they think they’re playing, I’m already three moves ahead.
And Maeve Quinn?
She’s just another variable I’ll dismantle—eventually.
My knuckles rap against the meeting room door before I shove it open and step inside.
Maeve turns, and the room adjusts around her without her asking it to.
People do it, too.
Chairs scrape. Breaths catch. Like the world is trained to accommodate her.
Our gazes lock instantly, familiar and unwelcome, and, for half a second, my breath stops.
The air between us tightens, thickening with tension.
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cower. Hell, the bitch doesn’t even blink.
Of course, she doesn’t.
It’s exactly the kind of reaction I expected from the ice queen.
“Mr Ashford, nice of you to join me,” Maeve says. Her words are heavy with sarcasm, her smile biting. “Please, take a seat.”
She gestures to the long table as if this meeting is just another inconvenience in her perfect little life.
I take in the sheer excess of this room. It’s fucking absurd. With just the two of us here, we’re dwarfed by the room, a space practically large enough to fit Atticus’s entire pride.
Overcompensating much?
Her heels click on the floor as she moves to her chair, every step smooth and measured.
She’s putting on a show, like she knows I’m unable to tear my eyes away from her.
She’s revelling in it.
Fucking maelstrom.
She’s doing this because she wants my attention. She thrives on control—on being watched.
Admired.
Untouchable.
I drop into the seat with a scowl. “I do apologise, I was—”
I cut myself off.
She doesn’t deserve fuck all from me, but I do feel a slight flicker of guilt for being so late.
I hate when people fuck around with my time, so I shouldn’t waste hers.
Then again, I can afford her bill.
Her gaze meets mine without hesitation, and there’s not a single part of her that seems unnerved or uncomfortable.
I don’t like it. I don’t like the way she looks at me like I’m the problem when she’s the one who’s been quietly poisoning my life for months.
Her stare is hard and unflinching, as is the norm for this woman. It makes my skin itch, my pantheral stirring restlessly beneath it.
He’s intrigued—traitorous fucking cat.
“Chatting with Alpha Phoenix for seven minutes,” she says crisply, “after complaining to the receptionist about me, is not a valid excuse for wasting my time.”
A venomous little barb wrapped in perfect diction.
A cunt dressed up in designer clothes.
Fantastic.
I didn’t think I could gather enough care to hate someone, but she’s managed the impossible.
I let my pantheral surge forward, deliberately loosening my control. I flood the room with my presence to make her feel what she’s dealing with.
But she doesn’t back down. She barely even reacts.
Her pretty blue eyes narrow to slits, and she exhales a bored little sigh, glancing down at her nails like my aura is nothing more than an irritation she doesn’t have time for.
And that… that is a fucking mistake.
My hearing sharpens until I can pick out the scratch of her pen, the quiet click of her swallow.
My mouth floods like I’ve been bitten.
My skin goes tight like it’s trying to drag me closer whether I want it or not.
I’ve stared down Tribunal rooms without blinking.
And yet, one bored sigh from her has my instincts crawling.
It’s the worst choice she could’ve ever made, because something inside me snaps.
My pantheral takes immediate notice, relishing in the control I gave him, alert and feral as he purrs.
He makes a decision without consulting me, without caring about my feelings for the vapid cow that I’d rather die before allow to come to fruition.
A certainty slams into my chest, hot and violent and completely unwelcome.
The word rises in my throat like it’s been carved there.
Mine.
Maeve Quinn is mine.
The realisation hits like a blow to the ribs. The bond doesn’t care what I want.
All because the stupid beast inside me has decided that this arrogant, cold-hearted woman is his mate.
Fuck.
Grinding my teeth, I reach up and unbutton my jacket, trying—and failing—to calm the sudden spike of rage and heat clawing through my veins.
If I don’t lock him down right now, I’ll cross this table without meaning to.
I slam a wall up between my panther and I, but I know this isn’t over.
“So,” I say, forcing my voice back into something sharp and controlled, “what’s the plan, maelstrom?”