“Don't you even try to play me,” Malcolm grumbled, his voice vibrating with a low, dangerous heat. His knuckles were white where he gripped the bars, the silver-lined metal literally smoking against his skin, but he didn't let go. “You’ve spent years weaving lies. Why should I believe the 'anchor' is in the vault?”

Enrique didn't even flinch at the threat. He just tilted his head to the side with a sickeningly slow, bird-like motion, his eyes fixed on the blood dripping from my palm onto the floor.

“Does it look like I'm playing, Alpha?” Enrique whispered. “Look at your wife. Her life force is tethered to a man who...