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?
Unnerved by the silence, I murmured, "Love what you've done with the place."
"You shouldn't have come," he said abruptly.
His expression was indecipherable but there was no masking the coldness in his voice. I stiffened, annoyed and a little bewildered. This wasn't how I'd imagined this going at all. It wasn't like I expected him to throw a party, but even a, "Hey, I'm glad you're still alive" would have been more in line with the Michael I remembered.
"I wasn't sure you'd actually be here," I said honestly. "I thought you hated the factory."
He shrugged. "It's home."
He said it so casually, as though he hadn't been planning to leave this place for years. As though he hadn't always dreamed of something better. But this clubhouse had been my safe haven. A roof over my head and a family I finally belonged to.
A flicker of anger raced through me before I could stop it, and I scowled. "It was my home."
As soon as the words rolled off my tongue, his whole posture changed. Became more alert. He laughed derisively and leaned stiffly against his desk, shaking his head. "And we finally get to the reason why you're here. What, Sebastien thought sending you in first would soften me up?"
I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't play dumb, Juliet." He scoffed. "Where is he? Or was the plan to take me out yourself? Did he send you in to do his dirty work —"
"What dirty work?" I demanded, stupefied. I rose up from the sofa and he raised the gun a little, pointing it directly at me. The hostility radiating from him was enough to send a chill down my spine. And piss me off. "I came here because I thought we were friends."
"A friend would have used the door." He slid a pointed look at the entrance to his office.
"Oh, and your guard dogs would have let me walk right in, would they?"
He glanced up at the ceiling where Paul was posted, and I imagined the, "Well, Paul certainly did..." thought flashing through his mind. "So I'm supposed to believe you dropped by to — what? Catch up? Reminisce about old times?" His voice dripped sarcasm.
"I came to help you," I protested.
"Well, I'm doing just fine without you. Thanks." He smiled coldly, his teeth flashing. "No help required."
Disbelief shot through me. "Are you? Do you know how easy it was to break into this place?" I raked my eyes over him critically. "You're obviously exhausted and paranoid. I can help you —"
"For fuck's sake, Juliet!" he shouted exasperatedly, so loudly I flinched. "I don't want your help!"
The impact of his words lingered in the air like an echo.
It was the coldness in his eyes that hit harder, though. I wanted to launch myself at him; I could feel my limbs tensing in anticipation, my gums starting to tingle as I imagined sinking my teeth into his throat. I had no idea what I'd done to make him hate me so much but damn it, I was the one who found him. I was the one who took him here because he had no place to go.
And the thought of being coolly dismissed again — like I was just a tool whose usefulness had run out — by someone I'd once trusted... made my blood boil.
But just as my fingers curled into fists, Theo's face flashed through my mind. My whole body stiffened, the force of my anger holding me rigid. I had to put Theo first. It wasn't just me anymore — I knew I could scrape by alone in this city, but Theo needed the protection Michael's pack could offer.
"I'm a good soldier," I said stiffly. "You could use me."
His brows rose incredulously. "So you can report every little detail back to Sebastien?"
I stared at him as his accusations finally penetrated, and then my patience snapped, all thoughts of Theo's safety flung out the window.
"Is that what this is about? Now the war's over, you think Sebastien wants to take back the clubhouse?" A hysterical laugh bubbled up my throat as I looked around. "No wonder you're so fucking paranoid — did you even wait five minutes before you threw his stuff out and claimed his pack?"
His eyes flashed warningly. "It's not his pack."
"How long were you plotting to take it from him?" I demanded, my anger escalating. "No wonder you didn't come with us — it makes so much more sense, now. I thought you were scared, but really you were just biding your time until we were out of the picture so you could sneak right in. You couldn't even defeat him in a proper fight like a man."
He moved so fast, he was a blur. In the space of a second, I heard the click of the gun before the barrel was pressed to my forehead. There was nothing cold about Michael's face now — his whole body was rigid with fury, his face contorted with hatred. Maybe I should have been scared, but all I felt was pure, unadulterated anger.
"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," he spat.
"Go ahead," I taunted, sneering at him. "Shoot me. We both know it's the only way you'd ever beat me, because you're a coward."
A cracking sound split the air and I flinched, my life flashing before my eyes — but the noise didn't come from the gun. It was the bones in his leg. I realised he was struggling to control his rage, the urge to shift starting to take over. I could feel it building in me too, but my diluted blood made it easier to control... easier to ignore.
He growled low in his throat, the sound pure animalistic, and then he was throwing the gun down recklessly on his desk. He spread his arms wide in front of me, eyes blazing with fury.
"Here's your chance, Juliet," he challenged. "You want this place back? You can fight me for it, fair and square."
"You're going to fight me?" I eyed him scornfully as I stood up. "Fine. Go for it. It won't be the first time I kicked your —"
He lunged at me. The energy between us changed so fast, my head spun. I had less than a second to brace myself before the hell of his boot collided with my stomach and I was thrown backwards against the sofa. I landed with my feet on the cushions, my hands gripping the back of the seat, and a flicker of shock shot up my spine.
He's actually serious about this.
He stalked forward, his movements sleek and predatory, and I felt my brain switch off. This was familiar territory for me — adrenaline slipping into my bloodstream, the taste of anticipation lingering in the air. I channelled my anger into a surge of determination and when he came at me a second time, I was ready.
I brought my arm up in a combative pose, sidestepping the next kick he aimed at my torso and leaping off the sofa. I circled around him warily, my body tense.
"You're gonna have to be faster than —"
He came at me again, this time with his fists. I blocked with my arms, the brunt of his blows sending shockwaves spiralling toward my shoulders, but I ignored the pain. This was what I was trained to do, what I was good at. I let him back me up against one of the filing cabinets and as soon as my back hit the metal, I braced my shoulders against it and planted my sore foot against his rigid stomach.
I attempted to swing my other leg up, just like I'd done to the guy in Burger King when I'd shattered his jaw, but suddenly Michael's fingers were curled around my calf, and my whole world was a blur.
Shit, he's strong.
I landed hard on the concrete floor, the impact jarring my spine. The metallic taste of blood burst in my mouth and for the first time since I'd dropped into the office, I was... scared.
Don't blackout, don't blackout, I chanted mentally as he approached me. I made myself look as weak as possible even as I worked to suppress the pain arcing my spine. After being thrown through the window yesterday, the damage was catching up with me and I had no idea how long I could hold out in this fight.
As soon as he was close enough, I curled one foot swiftly around his calf and kicked hard at his knee with the other. He growled as he tumbled backwards, his hands reach down to break his fall — and then I was lurching upward off the floor, grimacing through the pain.
He landed with a thump and I stumbled over to the desk, grabbing the gun.
I levelled it at him with unsteady hands. "Quit."
He glared mutinously at me.
"Don't make me shoot you, Michael," I said breathlessly. I attempted to disable the safety catch, to show him I wasn't messing around, but as soon as my focus locked on the gun, he moved. He kicked the gun out of my hands and it flew into the corner, behind his desk. He was on his feet in the next second and charging at me.
I swung around the side of his desk, reaching for his chair, but just as my fingers closed around the back of the seat, his hands caught my waist in a harsh grip. Panic shot through my veins like ice and I attempted to swing the chair back around at him — at the same time he tried to shove me out of the way.
The chair hit his side, propelling us both into the wall, and then we were both tumbling down onto the floor. I waited for the inevitable pain — the sound of my spine cracking or splitting in two — but somehow, Michael's arm took the brunt of the fall. My back arched, my head hitting the concrete, and then his weight collided with mine. It was like being hit by a freight truck and for a second, I did blackout.
Ow, ow, ow...
When my vision finally cleared, Michael was braced over me, his face so close to mine that I could feel the heat of his breath against my lips. The weight of his body pinned me to the concrete and as his scent surrounded me, my body inexplicably grew hot.
I stared up at him, my eyes sweeping over the strange expression on his face — like a blend of pain and determination — before they finally met his eyes.
Liquid fire blazed back at me.
And then, somehow, our lips were crashing together. There was nothing soft about the way he kissed me—he claimed my mouth aggressively, his free hand gripping my hip so tightly, I could almost feel the bruises blooming beneath his fingers. My back arched against him and he growled low in his throat, his chest vibrating with the force of it.
Suddenly, I was caught in another fight; my blood sang with heat and adrenaline, my nails scraping down his back and clutching his hair. His lips were hard against mine, angry and forceful, and I could hear the silent command in each kiss: submit, submit, SUBMIT!
I opened my mouth to protest and he was there, his tongue sweeping inside, dominating the kiss so swiftly, my vision swam. He was biting my lip and drawing blood; I could taste it on his tongue when he kissed me, hot and metallic. It stung, just like the bite of his fingers against my hip, and even as I hated him for doing this to me, I wanted to do it to him too.
But then his fingers were moving downward, his body shifting as he reached the button on the front of my jeans, and the smell was all wrong, he wasn't Sebastien, my gums were tingling —
I bit down hard on his tongue. Blood spilled into my mouth, metallic and bitter, and he yelped in pain, the sound more animal than human.
Then, as suddenly as it happened, the moment was shattered. Michael's face twisted in anger, his lips stained red with blood, and the fire faded from his eyes. He ripped his arm out from under me, flipping me roughly onto my stomach. I barely had time to catch my breath before he was pulling me up off the floor, securing both my wrists in one hand, and shoving me back against the desk.
The fiery confusion in my blood rapidly morphed into icy fear when I noticed the gun in his hand. I stared up at him, my heart beating fast in my ears.
He pressed the gun into my stomach, his expression hard.
"I win," he said.
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