Wolves wear crown

The rain battered the roof like it was trying to peel the world open.

Raven Winter pressed her back to the cold steel wall of the estate, breath shallow, fingers trembling as she held the flash drive close to her chest. Her hoodie was soaked through, and the thin fabric clung to her body like second skin. She had ten seconds to make a run for it, maybe less.

Security patterns. Blind spots. Rotating patrols. She had memorized them all. What she hadn't accounted for was the strange energy clinging to the air like smoke. It crackled on her skin, made the hairs on her arms stand on end.

This wasn't a normal mafia compound.

She didn't have time to second guess it. She sprinted across the marble-floored corridor, ducking under a security beam, sliding into the main office. The lights were off. Just like she'd planned. She crossed the room in five heartbeats, reached the massive oak desk, and plugged in the drive.

Five percent. Ten. Twenty-two.

The files transferred slowly, each second screaming louder than the last.

Outside, the wind howled. But underneath it, Raven heard something else.

A growl.

She turned, heart slamming into her ribs. Nothing there. Just the storm. Just her paranoia. She looked back at the screen. Fifty-eight percent. Sixty-nine.

Then the scent hit her.

Dark. Sharp. Masculine. It wasn't cologne-it was instinct. Earth and fire and danger.

Someone was in the room.

She spun around, reaching for her knife.

Too late.

A hand clamped around her wrist, cold steel slammed into her back, and she was pressed against the desk in one smooth, terrifying motion. Hot breath touched her ear.

"You shouldn't be here."

The voice was low. Smooth. Dangerous.

Raven didn't answer. She couldn't. Her mouth was dry. Her lungs locked.

He turned her slowly, deliberately, until she was facing him.

Lucien Drax.

She'd seen him in photographs. The mafia heir turned king. The youngest man to take control of a blood empire. His enemies called him "The Alpha" even before they knew the truth.

But the photos hadn't done him justice.

Six-foot-four, broad shoulders draped in black, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal inked forearms. His face was carved with cruel precision-strong jaw, high cheekbones, and those eyes.

Glowing. Not metaphorically.

Gold. Real gold.

"You're not one of mine," he said, stepping closer, dragging the knife from her hand. "And you're not just a thief."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, hating how small her voice sounded.

He tilted his head. A strand of dark hair fell across his brow. His lips twitched like he was amused.

"You're shaking," he murmured, brushing his fingers over her pulse. "But you're not afraid. Not the way prey should be."

She tried to twist away. He didn't let her.

He leaned in and inhaled her scent-slow, deliberate, predatory.

Then he froze.

The room changed.

The air thickened.

His eyes darkened into something feral. His grip tightened around her arm.

"What are you?" he asked, voice barely human.

She didn't answer.

He pressed closer, his chest brushing hers, his breath hot and unyielding.

"You smell like mine."

Raven jerked her knee up. It connected with his thigh. He didn't flinch. He grabbed her waist and lifted her like she weighed nothing, pinning her against the wall.

"I should rip your throat out," he growled. "Do you know that?"

"Then do it," she hissed, eyes locked with his.

A strange, electric silence filled the room.

He stared at her. She stared back.

Then his lips curled.

"You want to die?" he asked.

"I want you to let me go."

"That's not going to happen."

The flash drive pinged softly from behind him.

One hundred percent.

She used the distraction to shove him with all her strength, sliding under his arm, grabbing the drive, and running toward the hallway.

She didn't get far.

He tackled her halfway down the corridor, slamming her into the wall again, this time harder. She gasped. His hand wrapped around her throat-not choking, just holding. Controlling.

"Tell me who sent you."

"No one."

"Liar."

He dragged her down a hidden staircase. She kicked. Bit. Screamed.

He never flinched.

The lower level was different. Older. Stone walls. Iron doors.

He threw her into a room lined with black velvet and steel chains. A single chair sat in the center. No windows. Just shadows.

She scrambled up, knife ready.

He smirked.

"Cute."

Then he left. The door slammed shut behind him.

Raven collapsed to the floor, heart racing.

She had stolen from the wrong family.

Not mafia.

Monsters.

Hours passed.

She heard footsteps once. Then nothing.

Until the door creaked open again.

This time, Lucien wasn't alone.

A woman in a blood-red suit stood beside him. Blond. Cold. Beautiful. Eyes like ice.

"Is this her?" the woman asked.

Lucien nodded.

The woman stepped forward, examining Raven like she was a broken artifact.

"She's not full blood."

"But she's marked," Lucien said.

The woman bent down, brushed a finger over Raven's collarbone.

And there it was.

A symbol.

She'd never seen it before, but it glowed faintly under the skin-a crescent wrapped in fire.

"How long have you had this?" the woman asked.

"I don't-what is it?"

"Lie again," Lucien warned, "and I'll let her strip the truth out of your bones."

Raven's breathing turned shallow. She didn't know what they were talking about. She didn't remember any mark. Her body had always been strange-too fast to heal, too good at hiding. But this?

"You need to run tests," the woman said.

Lucien didn't look at her. He stared at Raven like he was trying to solve a puzzle only he could see.

"No," he said.

"No?" the woman echoed, shocked.

"She's mine."

"Lucien-"

He turned, eyes glowing.

"I said she's mine."

The woman stepped back. Bowed slightly.

Raven stared at him.

"What the hell are you?"

He smiled.

"Hungry."

Then the door closed again.

And this time, it locked with a sound that felt permanent.

Raven pressed her back against the wall and breathed deep.

She wasn't getting out of here.

Not unless she figured out what the mark meant.

Not unless she figured out what he was.

Not unless she stopped trembling every time his eyes touched her.

Outside the walls, a wolf howled.

Inside her chest, something stirred.

Something ancient.

Something hers.