Chapter 2
* * *
The moment Candy picked up her phone, a cold knot twisted in her stomach.
Ten missed calls.
All from one person.
Betsy.
Her baby sister didn’t blow up her phone unless it was a code-red emergency. And given that Candy had been shot in the middle of a Broadway performance by a spell-laced bullet?
Yeah.
This qualified.
She exhaled, dragging a hand down her face. Her body still ached, her magic felt bruised, and her brain hadn’t fully caught up to the fact that she now had a mate. A bossy, overprotective, panty-melting alpha wolf with a growl that could break concrete.
But none of that would matter to Betsy.
Right now, her sister was probably pacing her tiny Brooklyn apartment, hair in a bonnet, fuzzy socks on, eyes wild, ready to burn the world down with siren magic and pure righteous fury.
With a resigned sigh, Candy hit the call button.
It rang once.
“Candy Laurent,” came the shriek, breathless and sharp as glass, “if you don’t tell me you’re alive this second, I’m going to scream loud enough to rupture angel eardrums.”
A tired, genuine smile tugged at Candy’s lips. “I’m alive, Bets. No screaming required.”
A deep inhale answered her, followed by a rapid-fire explosion of words:
“I saw the headlines—Broadway’s Sensation Attacked Mid-Performance—Shocking Attempt on Candy Laurent. I nearly passed out. What happened? Who did this? Do I need to hex someone into oblivion? Are you in a hospital? Are you bleeding? I swear if I have to break into Mount Sinai—”
“Betsy.” Candy cut in with a groan, pressing fingers to her temples. “Breathe.”
There was a beat. Then a drawn-out, exaggerated exhale. “Fine. Breathing. But only because my vocal cords need time to recharge. Now tell me—why the hell were you bleeding out on stage like this is some kind of paranormal soap opera?”
Candy winced, her free hand pressing lightly to her side. The wound was mostly healed, but her ribs still ached like she’d danced barefoot on silver nails. Magic or not, being shot wasn’t something the body—or soul—forgot quickly.
“It was a setup,” she admitted. “Some vampire got past security. He shot me with a spelled bullet designed to suppress magic. We think someone sent him to weaken me… before the real threat made their move.”
Silence fell.
Not just any silence.
The dangerous kind.
Betsy’s sweet soprano dropped into something razor-sharp. “The real threat?”
Candy closed her eyes. “Yeah.”
Another pause.
Then—“Someone was planning to take you. You think it was…him?”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah,” Candy repeated softly.
Betsy didn’t curse often. She’d been raised in a household where words had power. Sirens didn’t curse for effect—we cursed to inflict damage.
So when her sister unleashed a string of expletives that would’ve made a warlock blush, Candy actually flinched.
“Damn, Bets,” she said, managing a breathy laugh. “You kiss Mom with that mouth?”
“Are you kidding? If she was alive she’d be breathing fire too if she knew someone tried to steal her daughter off a Broadway stage like it’s 1812 and we’re auctioning off witches.
” Betsy was full-blown furious now. “Where are you? Who’s protecting you?
And don’t you dare lie—I can smell it through the phone when you do. ”
Candy bit her lip. Here we go.
“I’m protected,” she said cautiously.
“By who?”
Pause.
Inhale.
Jump.
“…Aeolus Stavros.”
Silence.
Candy pulled the phone back to check the screen. Still connected.
“Bets?”
Then—
“You mean to tell me,” Betsy said slowly, voice hushed with disbelief, “that you are currently under the protection of one of the Stavros brothers?”
Candy sighed, already bracing. “Uh. Yes?”
Another beat.
Then Betsy cackled—the kind of sound that said I’m right and I love it.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “He’s your mate, isn’t he?”
Candy groaned, flopping back against the velvet seat of the limo. “You don’t have to sound so smug about it.”
“Oh, I absolutely do,” Betsy shot back. “I knew something felt off in the air. I felt the shift. Holy shit. You mated a Stavros. One of the infamous, lethal, scarily gorgeous Stavros wolves.”
“I didn’t mate him,” Candy muttered. “We just—”
“You just what?” Betsy interrupted, clearly on a roll. “Just happened to find yourself bodyguarded by the alpha wolf equivalent of a walking scene from Fifty Shades of Gray. Just realized that the big, terrifying, delicious male glaring at everyone was actually your fated partner?”
“I. Hate. You.”
“You love me,” Betsy sang sweetly. Then, her voice softened. “But Candy… you know what this means, right?”
Candy stilled. Her fingers curled tighter around the phone.
Oh, she knew.
The Stavros wolves were many things—ruthless, territorial, brutally efficient. But they were also honorable. Bound by oaths, magic, and blood. When a Stavros mated, it was forever. There were no trial runs. No second guesses.
You were kept. Protected. Claimed.
Marked.
“He’ll never let you go now,” Betsy added softly, voice full of both awe and warning. “You belong to him. That’s not just metaphor, Candy. That’s pack law. Blood law.”
Candy stared out the limo window, watching the city blur by—its lights too bright, too fast, too loud. Aeolus hadn’t even said the word “mate” out loud yet. But he didn’t have to.
He’d held her like she was his from the moment he touched her.
And he’d kill anyone who said otherwise.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I know.”
But whether she was ready for what that meant?
That was a whole different battle.
* * *
The limo glided through towering wrought-iron gates, flanked by stone pillars carved with runes older than any city Candy had ever lived in.
Magic shimmered across them—warded, no doubt. Dangerous. Deadly. The kind of spellwork that didn’t just repel intruders but devoured them.
She barely registered the outside world, exhaustion dragging at her limbs like gravity on overdrive. Her eyes fought to close, but the change in the air—the shift from city grime to old-world power—pulled her back to awareness.
The moment the tires touched the long, winding driveway, Candy felt it.
Dominance.
It pressed against her senses like a storm building on the edge of a cliff. Not malevolent, but watchful. Coiled. Ready to snap teeth and tear flesh if something so much as breathed wrong.
And then—the estate came into view.
It wasn’t a house.
It was a goddamn fortress.
Massive wings of dark stone stretched into the night like the bones of an ancient predator.
The architecture was old—elegant—but enhanced with modern touches that whispered wealth and ruthless efficiency.
Motion sensors blinked faint red in the hedges.
Gargoyle statues lined the terrace, enchanted and brimming with residual power.
The windows were tall and paned with glamoured glass, designed to keep secrets in and threats out.
The whole place radiated authority.
Not just money. Not just protection.
Territory.
And Aeolus ruled it like a god.
Golden light spilled from inside the grand entry. Through the tinted glass, Candy saw staff already moving—uniformed, discreet, inhumanly graceful. They weren’t just employees. They were pack.
How long had he been preparing for this?
How long had he known she was coming?
As if reading her thoughts—and she was starting to think he could—Aeolus’s deep voice rumbled beside her, rough and intimate.
“You’re not alone in this,” he said. “You never will be again.”
The limo eased to a stop.
Before she could respond, the driver was out, opening the door with military precision. Warm air and spice-laced perfume swept into the car. A female attendant stepped forward—tall, cool-eyed, all business—and reached inside with a steady hand.
Candy blinked at her, dazed, but didn’t resist as she was helped out of the car.
Her boots hit the stone, and the ground felt different here. Steady. Anchored. Claimed.
Another woman approached Aeolus with a sharp nod. “The food’s ready. Medical team is waiting in the east wing.”
Medical team?
Candy’s head snapped toward him.
Aeolus didn’t flinch. Didn’t explain. Just stepped up behind her, his hand pressing to the small of her back—firm, commanding. The warmth of his palm bled through her shirt like a promise. Or a warning.
“You need food. Then sleep,” he said, voice brooking no argument.
“I’m not helpless,” she muttered, even as her legs wobbled slightly beneath her.
He caught it. Of course he did. His hand slid to her hip, steadying her.
Unyielding. Immovable. Alpha.
“Not anymore, you’re not,” he said darkly.
Her spine bristled. “Excuse me?”
“You’re mine,” he said, eyes locked on her. “That means your strength is my responsibility now. You don’t suffer. You don’t starve. You don’t bleed alone.”
Her breath caught.
She should’ve pushed back. Argued. Raged.
Instead, her pulse did a traitorous little flutter.
He didn’t say it like a man giving orders.
He said it like a force of nature stating fact.
And worse?
Every part of her responded.
Her magic hummed under her skin. Her soul leaned forward. Her siren instincts—normally cold and calculating—purred.
You’re mine.
Those words meant something ancient. Binding. There was no casual in a mate claim. Not from someone like Aeolus Stavros.
Inside, the estate was somehow worse.
Worse because it was beautiful.
Warm lighting. Dark wood. Marble and velvet and ancient spell-bound tapestries. The place didn’t scream wealth—it whispered it. And every hallway was flanked by subtle signs of protection: enchanted sculptures, wolf-shaped wardstones, glyphs woven into the damn rugs.
Candy’s heels clicked against the marble as she was led deeper inside.
She should’ve felt overwhelmed. Trapped.
But instead, she felt… watched over.
As if the very walls of this place had accepted her already. Had whispered to each other—she’s his. Ours. Keep her safe.
Her body ached. Her bones groaned. Her soul? It didn’t know what to feel.
The Stavros wolves didn’t just protect.
They surrounded. Consumed.
And when they claimed something?
They never gave it back.