Wolfsbane (Mate or Madness #1)

1. Chapter 1

The hallway echoed with brisk, purposeful footsteps, but Roman Leitner didn’t spare a glance from the glow of his computer screens.

His grand suite was supposed to be a refuge, the mansion’s old-world charm softened with his own modern touches, but it had never once kept his brother out.

He braced for the impending interruption and kept playing.

Without the courtesy of a knock, the heavy door swung open. He felt Merritt’s disapproving stare settle on the back of his neck.

Wait for it.

“Roman.”

Gritting his teeth, he paused the game and swiveled his chair around, the leather creaking faint in the spacious room. “What?” he asked, making no effort to disguise his irritation.

“You know exactly what. That.” Merritt gestured toward the suspended game, annoyance etched into his otherwise stoic expression. “You cannot waste every moment on that.”

“It’s not a waste.” Roman’s fingers tensed around the armrests. “I’m not just…”

“You’re not a child. You’re twenty-two and there are duties, pack responsibilities, that you cannot ignore.”

Roman shrugged. Fine, if Merritt wanted to think he was just gaming, Let him. Like he’d said, he was an adult, and that meant choosing when to offer explanations and when to conserve breath.

“You even listening, Rome?” Merritt’s voice snapped sharper.

“Considering you’re in my space, pretty hard not to.”

“Enough. You will respect my title, and yours. Clear?” Merritt’s shadow loomed over him.

After a long moment, Roman gave a grudging nod that seemed to satisfy his brother.

Merritt fixed him with a stare that held the weight of his position. “The pack’s patience is wearing thin. You need a mate, or at the very least a betrothal. If you don’t make a move, they won’t hesitate to make one for you, arranging a tie with the Fenters, no less.”

Roman inwardly recoiled. The mere mention of the Fenters conjured their stern, unyielding faces and harsh territory, which was nothing like the manicured grounds and deep forests of the Leitner estate.

The Fenters were stuck in the dark ages, their treatment of omegas was reprehensible, and they showed little regard for any alpha without a bloodline, treating them like serfs.

“Now you understand. It’s step up, or the pack…”

“Always ‘the pack’ dictating every moment of my life. You know that’s why I left for college, to dodge that noose,” Roman scoffed. “They couldn’t force me then, and you can’t force me now. The days of arranged marriages and bloodline bartering are over. Or should be,” he added under his breath.

Merritt straightened to his full height and pointed at him, the polished silver pack ring glinting on his finger. “You stand as my successor until my bloodline extends. Like it or not, the pack and I, have a say in your life. Unless you choose to renounce your bloodline and become… an outcast.”

Roman rose slowly from his chair until he matched Merritt’s towering height inch for inch, his pale blue eyes locked unwaveringly on his brother’s, the tension between them rising a notch.

“Tempting.” It was a lie, and they both knew it.

The stark reality of an exile’s life, stripped of assets, family ties severed, the protective mantle of the pack name ripped away, would mean a life of running and hiding.

While Roman could easily blend among humans and had made many human friends, an unprotected Leitner was a target rival packs might come after just for the street creds.

“What do you want, Merr.” He demanded more than asked. “I can’t just pick a damned mate and hope we imprint. I won’t.” His fist clenched briefly. “So why don’t you do your own damned duty and produce some pups already!”

Merritt spread his hands. “Amanda’s riding accident left her back too fragile to carry a child. Dr. Tines says she needs a year, at least. I’m not going to risk her welfare just because you aren’t ready to grow up.”

“What is the deal with needing an instant successor like it’s a damned emergency?" Roman bristled. "You’re in your prime.”

“If something happens to me…”

“If something happens to you… The hell? If something happens, they can crown me on your funeral pyre and I’ll spin a roulette wheel to pick my mate,” he yelled, his voice echoing off the soaring ceilings.

Merritt placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “This is about perception and meeting the obligations of your station. Entertain potential mates and convince the pack that you’re committed to our customs. Do it, at least until I have an heir, and they’ll back off, for a time.”

“So a pretend betrothal?”

“No!” Merritt snapped. “If you commit to a betrothal, you take a mate within two years of the announcement, as is the right of any omega mate. You will not tarnish this pack’s reputation.”

“Fine. I’ll date!” Roman huffed, masking the resentment roiling inside him. “If we’re done, you can show yourself out.”

At the door’s harsh slam, Roman pivoted back to the glow of his computer screens.

The vibrant landscape on the screen mocked him with its illusion of freedom, a stark contrast to the reality of his gilded cage.

Prince of the pack, an honored title, yet he was shackled by duty’s relentless grip.

His eyes narrowed as a reckless thought wormed its way into his mind.

What if he chose exile?