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Chapter One
Troy Lansing paused outside the door of his adopted father’s study and sucked in a deep breath. He held it for a count of ten, listening to Clark raving about whatever latest event had riled his legendary temper. He could walk away, pretend he hadn’t received the demand for his presence. Could find a warm and willing female and lose himself in a sweaty tangle of limbs. Could get in his car and keep driving until he hit the state line and escaped the daily madness of his life among the Brighton pack.
A dull thud impacted the other side of the heavy wooden door, followed by a groan of pain. Shit! Once Clark got physical no one in the vicinity was likely to escape unscathed. Glass crashed and a high-pitched cry sent Troy slamming through the door. He scanned the room, taking in the scene of devastation. His father’s desk had been upended. Papers, folders, and the pretentious gold fountain pen set Clark used lay strewn across the thick Persian rug. A black stain decorated one wall, the viscous ink pooling against the baseboard like spilled blood. Diamond shards of glass winked in the dark ink, the remnants of the crystal inkwell Quinn had presented to Clark for his birthday.
Quinn.
Troy schooled his face to neutral as he studied the beginnings of a livid bruise on his sister’s left cheek. Green eyes, a mirror to his own, reflected his blank stare. Never one to be cowed by the worst of Clark’s outbursts, she stood at their father’s left hand. He let his eyes slide past her, noting the pursed lips of the man standing closer to Quinn than her own shadow. Nikolas, another of Clark’s adopted strays, served as the alpha’s hammer, a title his father gave him where others might choose protector or enforcer. Family he might be, but Nik was no brother to Troy. His father’s other “son,” Dutton, slumped unconscious at Troy’s feet having obviously lost his fight with the door.
Clark Lansing stood in the center of the chaos, graying hair hanging across his forehead, lungs working like a set of bellows as he snorted and raged like a Pamplonan bull. The madness clouding his black eyes cleared when he fixed on Troy. “Where the fuck have you been?” he snarled.
“I’m here now.” He edged his voice with defiance. Let the alpha focus on him. Let Troy be the needle to lance the putrid boil of their father’s rage. The scent of his sister’s blood strained his control to the limits. He needed her out of the room before his wolf snapped the steel chains in which he’d bound his other half. Stepping over the fallen man, he closed the distance between himself and Clark, near enough to be perceived as a threat. He kept moving, forcing his father to shift position until he’d turned his back on Quinn. Troy tucked his hands in the front pockets of his slacks, an insolent gesture he paired with the easy smile that served as the cornerstone of his reputation for charm. Now. Do it now, you nasty bastard.
Keeping his eyes fixed on the alpha, he sent the force of his will toward Nikolas. Moving fast for a man of his immense size, the hammer clamped one hand over Quinn’s mouth and the other around her waist, carrying her from the room as though she weighed nothing. Tension seeped from Troy. The inevitable beating to come would be acceptable now he knew she was out of the firing line. Had Dutton been conscious they could’ve worn down Clark’s anger between them, but Troy was on his own.
The first blow rocked him on his heels. Hot iron burst in his mouth, and he turned his head to spit blood onto the ruined rug. His father snarled. Eyes glittering, he lowered into a fighting stance. Sometimes drawing blood would be enough to satisfy the alpha. Not today, though. Troy copied him. Removing his hands from his pockets, he slipped off his flat-soled shoes and flexed his toes against the thick carpet. The shards of glass would be a minor irritant compared to the payoff of better balance and speed.
“You think you can best me?” Clark sneered. Feinting to the left, he swung with his right, the blow glancing off Troy’s jaw as he turned his face with the momentum of the strike.
“I know I can’t, Alpha.” He kicked out, catching the side of Clark’s knee, sending him staggering. Even if he could beat the faster, stronger man, Troy didn’t have what it took to lead a pack. He had dominance in spades but maintained enough self-awareness to acknowledge he lacked the special spark of a true alpha wolf. If he took Clark out, the pack would likely implode in a storm of blood and pain. The tentative bonds of peace between their disparate members relied on the alpha’s tight fist to hold them. The best he could do for now was channel the worst of Clark’s madness toward him. Troy cared about the pack. His beta-nature drove his need to protect and shield them. The cuts and bruises he gained today would heal soon enough. The scar tissue on his soul lay so thick another layer wouldn’t make much difference.
A burning stripe of pain flashed across his chest. Blood welled between the tattered ruins of his shirt, thanks to the alpha’s claws. Troy threw his head back, releasing a roar of pain. He hated to give even a hint of his suffering, but he knew it would help to satisfy the demon in Clark that loved to hurt. They traded heavy blows. The wolf in Troy would not allow him to take the punishment without responding, but, unlike his father, he had enough control to avoid striking his face. Hard knuckles impacted his kidneys, and bile surged in the back of his throat. Distracted, he misjudged his own strike, leaving himself open to a roundhouse kick. Blood poured from his split eyebrow, obscuring his vision. Clark yipped in excitement, and Troy dropped to one knee. The scents of copper and sweat swirled in the air, feeding the alpha’s addiction. Let it be enough.
Lowering his head, he tried to calm his rapid pulse. His wolf snarled, desperate to fight back, furious he might yield when they had strength left. The alpha leaned close, the rough edge of his tongue lapping at the wound on Troy’s forehead. Hot breath panted in his ear, and he schooled his gut not to rebel and unload its contents.
He could hear Quinn screaming from the other side of the door, the deep rumble of Nikolas’s responses. The thick wood muffled the details of their conversation, but he knew she would be demanding entry. Nikolas protected Quinn, even from herself. It was his job. A task set him by the alpha at the first hints of her gaining maturity. He dogged her heels, cramped her style, and generally drove her crazy. Troy would have had no issue with it except for one thing—Nikolas served Clark with absolute loyalty and would kill Quinn if ordered to. A fact the alpha used to taunt and torture them all. Divide and conquer, the motto of the Brighton pack, was played out in gruesome technicolor within the alpha’s immediate family.
A calloused hand cupped his cheek. Tears of impotent rage burned behind his eyes as warm fingers stroked his face, drawing him forward until Troy leaned against Clark’s strong torso. Love, hatred, and resentment swirled through him, and he clenched his fists at his sides, fighting the urge to throw his arms around his father’s waist and cling to him. This had been his life for too many years, and he needed to find a way to break free, before it destroyed them all.
***
Ignoring the prickle of broken glass in his heel, Troy took his seat at the dining table. Freshly showered and shaved, Clark sat at the head of the shiny walnut rectangle, a beatific smile on his face. His approving gaze drifted around the table, pausing to rest on each of his four children. Troy didn’t return his smile. There was nothing to smile about, and he didn’t want to reopen the split in his lip. The cut over his eye had stopped bleeding, but the upper lid had swollen to the point he had no vision on his left side. He followed Clark’s gaze, turning his head to regard Dutton who sat beside him. They had coaxed him into a shift after he regained consciousness, and Troy was relieved to note his pallor had lost the sickly green taint. A fractured skull could do that to a man. Without the healing powers of their wolf nature, not one of them would have survived their father’s brutal idea of parenting.
Clark reached for his glass, raising the slender flute of champagne before him in a silent toast. Four matching glasses lifted in response. The sharp, clean zest of alcohol flooded Troy’s mouth, washing away the sour bile. Quinn tipped her own glass steadily, draining the contents in a single draw. Nikolas touched his drink to his lips and returned it to the wrought silver coaster next to his bone-china plate. He stretched a thick arm across the table, the sleeve of his shirt inching back to reveal an intricate tattooed band at his wrist. Grasping the bottle, he refilled Quinn’s glass, returning her nod of acknowledgment. The stilted display of manners between them stoically ignored the deep grooves she scratched in his cheek during her battle to get back into the study earlier.
A pair of submissive females entered the room, placed cold starters before each of them, and fled the room on silent feet. Clark ran his pack like some kind of ancient feudal lord, demanding absolute loyalty from his dominants and servitude from the submissives. Troy and the others waited for their father to lift his silverware before they turned their attention to the food before them. They ate in silence for a few moments. A part of his mind acknowledged the excellent quality of the meal, but the majority of his attention stayed focused on the alpha. He still didn’t know what had triggered the fit of rage.
Placing his knife and fork together, Clark patted his lips with the crisp linen napkin from his lap then steepled his fingers over the empty plate. “Dutton. Share your news with Troy,” he instructed. His calm, reasonable tone sent warning bells ringing in Troy’s head.
Here we go. Flicking his one good eye up, he watched Quinn down her second glass of champagne. Their high metabolism made it hard to get anything other than the faintest buzz from alcohol, but it looked like she was going to do her best. Nikolas moved the bottle out of her reach, putting himself directly in the path of her wrath again. Troy shifted in his seat, unable to deal with the fucked-up dynamic between them.
Keeping his eyes down, Dutton began to speak. “One of my scouts returned this morning from Palmetto County.” Where Nikolas acted as their father’s protector, Dutton served as his eyes and ears. His spymaster controlling the information flowing across the sprawling state of Florida and beyond in a network covering the neighboring states. Not much happened that didn’t make its way across Dutton’s desk sooner or later.
“It appears a new pack has established themselves outside of Sarasota. They are small and very tight-knit. My scout had to leave before he drew too much suspicion, so my data about them is sketchy at best.” He paused, giving Troy time to absorb the information.
Other packs existed in Florida and the surrounding states, but they all fell beneath the dubious shelter of the Brighton pack. Clark sat as reigning alpha over all them, demanding fealty and service, in both practical and financial terms. Every pack paid a quarterly tithe, and the strongest members were either killed or assimilated under Clark’s direct control. Troy, Quinn, and the others had been forcibly removed from their own packs as children when Brighton overran them.
“They have established themselves in a community and look to be putting down roots,” Dutton continued. “New businesses have opened, all run by members of the pack.”
“And yet they have failed to approach me for permission,” Clark snapped.
And there it is. If the new pack was small and inwardly focused, they might not even be aware of the existence of other packs in the state. Most wolf packs steered well clear of each other, keeping large neutral buffers between their territorial lands. Shifter packs traditionally followed the same strictures. Unless their alpha was a megalomaniac, like Clark.
“Troy.” His father’s sharp tone scattered his musings. Failure to pay attention at the alpha’s table could get you in serious trouble. “You will go to this backwater town of….” Clark snapped his fingers at Dutton.
“Moonlight.”
“You will go to Moonlight and explain to their alpha the error of his ways. Take your time; I want to know everything about them.” The alpha stopped, waiting for the submissives to clear their empty plates and serve the main course. A savory aroma rose from the steaming plate of shrimp, a particular favorite of Troy’s. His stomach turned as the scent of the familiar spices hit his nose. Knowledge of what lay ahead destroyed his appetite. He’d trodden the same path before. Guilt weighed heavy, dropping his shoulders.
“It won’t be easy,” Dutton cautioned. “Samuel is one of my best scouts, and they closed ranks on him. He’s played the lone wolf before and eased his way into other packs, but they moved him on within hours of him entering the local diner.”
Forcing himself to eat the shrimp, Troy considered his options. Refusing to go was out of the question. He trusted Dutton’s opinion. If one of his team couldn’t infiltrate Moonlight, then a different tactic would be required. After draining the last of his champagne, he folded his napkin and placed it next to his empty plate. “I’ll approach the alpha directly, offer him the hand of friendship.” A glimmer of hope beckoned, and Troy held his tongue until he knew he could speak without revealing any hint of excitement. “A female would be useful to help break the ice. Would open doors more likely to be closed to a single male.”
An indulgent chuckle from the alpha dragged him back to reality. Shaking his head, Clark fixed a hollow smile on Troy. “Ah, son. You know how hard it is for me to part from any of my children. I will feel your absence every day you are away from my side and will rely on our dear Quinn to keep me company.” He held his hand out across the table toward Quinn, beckoning her to approach.
With a bitter twist of her lips, she rose from her seat, circling the table to assume her position at the alpha’s left side, resting her hand on his shoulder. Shit. If it were only him, Troy would run as far and as fast as he could. He respected Dutton, tolerated Nikolas, but would leave them both without a backward glance if he could. They had nothing holding them to Clark’s side other than their own fucked-up sense of loyalty.
An image of a five-year-old Quinn burying her tear-stained face into his lap taunted him. She may be all grown up and capable of defending herself, but Troy owed her an unrepayable debt. If he’d been quicker, smarter, braver, they wouldn’t be in the mess they were now. The destruction of their pack was on him.