Sinclair

"Goddamn it," I think, looking around the hastily set-up headquarters—little more than a rickety table surrounded by anxious wolves. If this isn't hell, I don't know what is. We arrived at the edge of the capital days ago and set up in an abandoned warehouse that Damon didn't bother securing; it wasn't worth his time.

A mistake, one of many he's making. Damon made a huge misstep releasing the secret of our kind to the humans. He expected to cow them with fear, to seize their resources and use them against me. What he didn't expect was their entrenched resistance. Now, his army fights on two fronts—against the humans and against me—stretched dangerously thin. This divided focus allowed us to sneak into this warehouse at the edge of his territory and set up shop.

Still, this is nothing like my usual accommodations. The walls are crumbling, the ceiling has collapsed in places, and the remaining rusted rafters look poised to fall. My wolf grumbles, pacing restlessly within me. "Let's move," he growls. "We need to get back to her—to the baby."

"I know," I mutter aloud, angry. Goddamn it, I know. I don't need my wolf constantly nagging me. My mind is consumed by her—my beautiful mate, with her rose-gold hair and that teasing smirk. God, what I wouldn't do to those lips, that tempting mouth. I'd use my tongue to part them, slip inside… I'd hold her against me, tasting her, feeling her moan echo in my own mouth…

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself back to the task at hand, gritting my teeth as I banish these thoughts of what I'll do to my mate the moment I hold her again. This is better than the agonizing worry of what might happen to her without me, but—

Damn it. I take a deep breath, opening my eyes and focusing on the tactical maps. This would be so much easier if she were here, safe. I can't bear her being away. My wolf whimpers in agreement; he wants her near, too.

"Sir," James says, approaching the table where I confer with the other Alphas. "The mission is ready. We're prepared to proceed."

I straighten, looking at the men. "Okay, everyone," I snap. "This is it. Our only chance for surprise. Are we ready?"

We've worked on this plan for days. Everything must go perfectly, but if it works, we could take the city by nightfall.

The Alphas nod. Everything's in place. It's zero hour.

"Goddess's speed, then," I growl, my eyebrows furrowed, my eyes burning with the wolf's fire. "And good luck."

They spring into action. The war truly begins.

Third Person

Damon stands at the head of the empty boardroom table, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the door. His left eye twitches with intensity. Any minute now, he thinks, willing the door to open so his plans can finally unfold.

He received a message that morning from his ally: "We've got him."

That was all he needed. He knew he could use Sinclair's foolish trust in his so-called allies against him. A well-placed bribe, and his little soldiers would fall like dominoes.

The door creaks open. Damon smiles.

"Welcome, Kieran," Damon purrs, scanning the group. "So nice to see you on this… momentous occasion."

"My Prince," Kieran replies, bowing deeply.

"King, now," Damon growls, glaring at the weak Alpha he's promised a kingdom. Promised, but not yet delivered. He smiles at his own cunning. This is just the beginning.

"King when you are crowned," Kieran replies evenly, entering the room. "Until then, Prince."

"Formalities," Damon snaps, watching Kieran's group—mostly guards, his own and Kieran's—filter in. Damon's grin widens as Alpha Sinclair is dragged in, his shoulders straining against the chains and handcuffs.

The guards throw Sinclair to the floor at Damon's feet.

"Well, well," Damon teases, a cruel smile baring his teeth. "How the mighty have fallen."

Sinclair glares, shouting muffled curses through his gag. Damon laughs, leaning down.

"Don't you wish you'd bent the knee weeks ago? All this could have been avoided. You could have been powerful, comfortable, at peace. And now? Now you've lost everything."

Sinclair's glare could burn. Damon laughs, straightening.

"I don't like this," Kieran says anxiously. "Killing him—I don't think it will have the desired effect."

"Cut off the head of the snake," Damon says harshly, "and the body will…" He gestures, then lets his hand fall. "Die."

"It doesn't work like that here," Kieran argues. "Sinclair has rallied many to his cause. If you kill him, another will rise. Perhaps let him go, or keep him prisoner. Don't create a martyr."

"Never," Damon snarls. "He dies today, solidifying my position. And if you suggest an alternative again, you'll join him. Am I clear?" The growl sends shivers down Kieran's spine. "Besides," Damon continues, looking at Sinclair, "I'm going to enjoy this. I've been deprived for so long."

Damon slowly draws a wickedly bladed knife, pressing it to Sinclair's throat. "After all," he whispers, "it's been so long since I killed your first mate. Then I'll take you. And then your new mate. And I'll drink the blood I spill."

A menacing snarl rips from Sinclair's throat. As the knife presses closer, a drop of blood drips down his neck.