Page 10 of Merciless Vow
"I have to go," I said, my voice hardening back into the professional mask. "There are people waiting for me. Arrangements to be made."
"Addie," Nell called out as I reached the door.
"I've got to go wedding dress shopping. Vidar's mother is planning the wedding. A big New York affair. But I get to choose my dress."
"Will I get an invitation?"
"Of course." Even though I wasn't sure if I was allowed to have a say in the guest list.
"Are you going for off-white? Eggshell? Or something crazy?" Nell asked, still searching my eyes.
"I was thinking of wearing black."
Nell ground her molars, but she didn't say anything else. She let me go. But she didn't take her eyes off me. I felt her gaze boring into my back as I walked out of her office one last time. I could feel the walls of my life—the one I’d fought so hard to build—closing in on me like a collapsing tunnel.
All I wanted was to go home. I needed to be in my own apartment, surrounded by my own things, to breathe before I had to face the rest of my life as owned property. I took the elevator down to the executive parking garage, my hand already digging into my bag for my keys. I just needed the familiar hum of my own engine. I needed the wheel in my hands.
I rounded the corner to my assigned spot — and stopped dead.
My car was gone.
In its place sat a sleek, black town car, its tinted windows reflecting the harsh overhead fluorescents like a void. A wolf in driver's clothing stood by the rear door, his hands folded in front of him. He looked as if he’d been carved out of the same cold stone as Vidar’s desk.
"Ms. Vane," he said, his voice flat and professional. "Mr. Blackwood sent me to drive you to the family estate. You're expected for dinner."
I stared into the plush leather interior of the car. It looked like a velvet-lined coffin. Vidar hadn't even given me the courtesy of a goodbye to my own life. He had simply erased it while I was still standing in it.
My captivity didn't start at the wedding. It started now.
I didn't argue. There was no one to argue with but a man paid to be a wall. I stepped into the back of the car. The door closed with a heavy, pressurized thud that sealed out the rest of the world. As we pulled out of the garage, I watched the city lights flicker past, knowing that when I saw them again, I would no longer belong to myself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
VIDAR
Igripped the steering wheel of the Aventador, the engine’s roar a low, vibrating hum that synchronized with the thrum in my veins. I was pushing eighty-five, then ninety, weaving through the thinning traffic on the Long Island Expressway.
I passed a state trooper tucked into a median crossover. He pulled out, his lights flickering for a fraction of a second before he caught sight of my plates. He braked hard, his nose dipping as he retreated back into the shadows. He knew better. In this part of the state, the Blackwood name was a sovereign border.
As the smog of the city fell away in my rearview mirror, the air began to change. The gray, suffocating density of Manhattan gave way to the wide-open expanse of the North Shore. The sky cleared into a bruised purple and gold, and for the first time since Adolpha Vane had walked into my office, I felt like I couldbreathe. I needed the room. I needed the space to settle the sudden, chaotic heat her scent had stirred up in my blood.
I turned off the main road and approached the heavy iron gates of our community. They slid open before I even touched the remote; the sensors recognizing my arrival with silent, mechanical obedience.
I pulled into the gravel drive of The Rookery. To the outside world, it was a relic of the Gatsby era; a sprawling stone fortress hidden behind manicured oaks. But to us, it was the only soil on earth that was truly ours.
The sun was dipping low over the terrace, casting long, golden shadows that made the limestone glow. I stepped out of the car, the silence of the estate wrapping around me like a heavy cloak. I looked up at the grand staircase visible through the foyer windows. For a fleeting second, I was ten years old again, sliding down those banisters with Magnus and Gunnar, our laughter echoing off the vaulted ceilings until my mother threatened to put us to work in the kitchen. I remembered my father standing by the fireplace, his hand on my shoulder, teaching me that the strength of the pack wasn't in the howl, but in the foundation of the home. I remembered spinning my baby sister around the hall before we sent her off to college, her laughter the brightest thing I ever allowed myself to receive from a woman who wasn't my mother.
Those were memories. Today was about the acquisition.
I turned the knob of the front door. It wasn't locked. There was no need for it to be. Aside from patrols roaming the grounds, there were wolves inside the house. My family members were the highest on the food chain for miles.
I entered the Great Hall, my shoes echoing against the white marble. This part of the house was a theater of power, a cavernous space of cold stone, soaring ceilings, and gold-leafed molding meant to intimidate anyone who crossed the threshold.It smelled of citrus polish and expensive order. We only entertained guests here; outsiders who needed to be reminded of the scale of the Blackwood legacy.
I bypassed the receiving room, with its stiff Louis XIV chairs and velvet ropes, and moved deeper into the house, toward the heart of the estate. The atmosphere shifted the moment I crossed into the family quarters. Here, the marble gave way to hand-scraped oak and thick, plush rugs that ate the sound of my footsteps. The air was warmer, smelling of wood smoke and the lingering scent of my mother's perfume. This was where we actually lived—the sanctuary behind the fortress.
Magnus and Gunnar were sprawled in the family room, the oversized leather sofas bearing the indentations of their weight. Magnus had his boots up on a trunk that had been in our family for three generations, while Gunnar was tossed back in a recliner, nursing a glass of bourbon and looking like he hadn't a care in the world. This was the homeyness the public never saw; the mess of discarded jackets, the dog’s water bowl in the corner, and the lived-in comfort of a pack that didn't have to perform for anyone.
"There's the groom," Gunnar snorted from his sprawl.
