Chapter 1

Every Trial Day, Christopher and his childhood packmate, Emma, played the same old "I dare you" game they'd run since they were kids.

"Remember the eighth grade?" Christopher leaned back in his chair with a grin.

"I dared you to skip class, and you dragged me into the bathroom looking for a thrill. Then you flashed me that twenty-centimeter cock of yours."

He laughed louder. "That's nothing. In college, I dared you to date the strongest male on campus, and you ended up snatching Grace's boyfriend instead. You even showed me the sex tape afterward."

I stood in the doorway, my fingers curled tight around the gestation report.

Five years bonded as mates, countless trips to the clinic, and today the runes on the test strip had finally bloomed gold.

Emma's eyes flicked over and caught me.

She tipped her chin and said to Christopher, one word at a time, "Let's make this year's dare bite a little harder. Christopher, I bet you don't have the fangs to announce our bond-pledge tonight, right here, in front of every guest."

The room burst into howls and whistles, the pack pounding on the tabletops.

Christopher turned his amber eyes on me and laughed. "Why not? Wait for me."

He stood, locked his hand around my arm, and pulled me into the hallway.

"Grace, the whole pack's watching. Don't sour the air."

His tone was easy, as if this were already some trivial little arrangement.

"It's just a Trial Day dare. Sign this contract dissolution tonight, and I'll shred it by morning. I can't back down in front of Emma."

I stared at the wolf in front of me.

Five years. Five years of folding myself smaller, swallowing every "little game" he played with his childhood packmate.

This time, I hid the report behind my back and gripped it tight. "But I'm pregnant."

"Grace, you're unbelievable." Christopher blinked, then threw back his head and laughed. "You'd actually make up a pregnancy just to keep me from winning? Fine. You win. That's impressive."

Emma drew her words out, mocking. "Grace, it's only a game. If you can't bear losing, just say it. Using a baby as a shield is a little low, don't you think?"

"Exactly." Christopher tightened his grip on my wrist. "Come on. The party downstairs is about to start. If we're late, the press won't have time to file the story."

He dragged me toward the elevator without a second of hesitation.

Five years.

Off the novels I'd written from inside our apartment, he'd built his media house from a single cracked desk into a publicly listed conglomerate.

And every Trial Day, I'd swallowed the humiliations he staged for Emma.

The ballroom downstairs was packed wall to wall. Christopher took a pre-drafted bond-dissolution from his lawyer and pressed it into my hands.

"Sign. Before I declare for Emma, the press needs something to photograph."

I picked up the pen and looked at the signature line he'd already prepared.

"Fine. I'll give you what you want."

I signed it without a flicker.

Five years of bonding ended like the punchline of a bad joke.

The moment the ink dried, Christopher stripped off his jacket and slid into a tailored tuxedo.

Emma pinned a white lace veil into the silver of her hair, the slim fox-ears at the crown of her head twitching in time with her smile.

They'd even kept a full styling team on standby.

I sat in the shadows and watched the two of them under the ring lights, brushes sweeping across their flushed, eager faces.

Five years ago, on the day Christopher and I bonded, he wore a T-shirt and ripped jeans, his wolf-tail tucked roughly through a slit in the waistband.

When I asked him to change, he said a true bond needed no ornament, that sincerity was the only ritual that mattered.

Now, sheathed in a perfectly cut suit, he locked an arm around Emma's waist and gave the cameras his brightest smile.

The shutter clicked, freezing their grinning faces in light.

A few minutes later, Christopher walked over to me, holding two diamond rings.

"Baby, see that? I won again. Tomorrow morning we'll get 'rebonded.' Don't be angry. It's just for the drama."

The nausea was so bad my legs barely held me.

"Take me home," I said, forcing the acid back down my throat. "I need to pack."

I reached for the passenger door.

Before I could climb in, Emma slid past me.

"Grace, just play along. Tonight Christopher and I are the 'bond-pledged pair,' so this seat belongs to me."

She yanked the door open and dropped into the seat.

One sweep of her arm sent my cushion and my plush fox-doll tumbling onto the floor mat.

Standing by the hood, Christopher gave me an apologetic shrug.

I turned and started walking toward the curb to flag a taxi.

Christopher jogged after me, threw the rear door open, and pushed me inside.

"Stop sulking. Cabs don't run this stretch. Sit down."

A cheesy bond-ceremony pop song poured from the speakers.

Emma hummed along, and when the chorus hit she grabbed Christopher's sleeve and swayed, the white tip of her fox-tail flicking against the leather seat.

"I'm binding to you tonight…"

Christopher sang the next line.

They looked at each other and laughed.

She uncapped a bottle of water, took a sip, then lifted it to his mouth.

Like a freshly bonded mate, he drank from the bottle in her hand.

"Your collar's crooked." Emma leaned closer to fix his tie, her fingers brushing the soft hair at his throat. Half her body pressed against him.

Christopher didn't move away. One hand stayed on the wheel; the other curled around her back.

"Stop messing around. I'm driving."

The words said one thing. His tone said the opposite.

I leaned back against the rear window.

The nausea surged again. I closed my eyes and laid a hand over my stomach.