After the war, London is in chaos.
Packs are battling it out for dominance in the streets, lycans are killing each other in illegal fight dens. The Royals are being murdered.
All Juliet wants to do is forget - forget Sebastien, forget the wa...
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Even with the threat of my impending death loomed over my head, I kept my mouth shut. My eyes swept quickly around the room, searching for some kind of weapon or an escape route, while a part of me wondered if the man standing behind me was even Michael. His voice was deeper, huskier. He held the gun to the back of my head with a steady hand, like someone used to wielding a weapon... and maybe even used to pulling the trigger.
But his scent — that light, earthy musk with a hint of something metallic — was so familiar...
My shoulders relaxed instinctively. Michael wouldn't shoot me...
As soon as the thought popped into my head, he moved.
I flinched when he touched me. One hand held the gun while he patted me down with the other, his touch clinical and a little rough. I raised my arms obligingly, painfully aware of the barrel pressed hard against the base of my skull. When he was satisfied I wasn't armed, he secured both of my wrists in his warm hand and yanked me backwards, propelling me in the direction of the sofa.
I landed heavily on the seat, a jolt of pain shooting down my spine. Ow.
My earlier wariness returned and I looked up, catching my first good look at him since I'd jumped in. It was Michael, all right — but an older, colder version. Over the last few years, his face had become thinner and more angular; there was no trace of the baby fat he'd still retained at twenty. He'd filled out, too, his shoulders broadening and his body becoming less lanky. Even his blond hair was darker.
But his eyes were the same. Irises so dark they were almost black with a hint of gold, and fringed by thick lashes.
He leaned back against the desk, the gun resting against his thigh. "Talk."
I forced a smile. "Paranoid, much?"
His eyes were glacial as they met mine and I felt a shiver dart down my spine. "How did you get in here?" I could almost hear the silent, "tell me, or else..." tacked on to the end.
I cleared my throat and slowly jabbed one finger upwards, at the window on the ceiling. "Scaffolding."
He swore under his breath. "Paul?"
It took me a second to realise he was talking about the guy on the roof. "I didn't hurt him if that's what you're asking. He was smoking with his back turned."
I pressed my lips together, a little annoyed. Did he really think I'd hurt one of his men just to break in here? When he didn't respond, I let my eyes wander around the room. There was a map of the London boroughs on the wall behind his desk. Sections had been highlighted and pins dotted different sectors, presumably marking out different pack territories. Hillingdon had been shaded in blue, along with over the half of the boroughs north of the Thames, and a pin marked the place where the factory stood. Michael's territory?
