Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 95748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” Emily murmured.
As they stepped into the hallway, Emily’s shoulder brushed his arm, a fleeting touch that sent a pulse of heat through him. He glanced at her, but she kept her gaze forward, the hint of a smile playing at her lips. Jackson swallowed hard, cursing the sudden tension that coiled low in his spine. “I’ll show you my office.”
“Sounds good,” she said.
Jackson’s stride slowed as he spotted Warren Blount and his eldest grandson standing outside his doorway. “Blount,” Jackson said, his tone clipped. “I’m a little busy right now.”
Warren Blount, a tough old man nearing two centuries, stood with his beaked nose and steel-gray eyes that seemed to pry into one’s soul. His thin lips curled as he sniffed the air, nostrils flaring slightly before his gaze landed on Emily. “You must be Emily Nightsom.”
“I must be,” she replied smoothly, her smile polite but cool.
Jackson’s hackles rose, heat prickling beneath his skin as he forced a tight smile. “What do you need, Warren?”
Warren inclined his head toward his grandson. “Zylas and I wanted to have a little discussion with you.”
Zylas stepped forward, eyes locking on Emily. He was broad-shouldered for his age, around eighteen, with light blond hair and sharp blue eyes that seemed too intense for his years. “Hi, I’m Zylas.” He held out a hand large enough to swallow hers.
Emily shook it, her lips curving into a smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’m an Alpha.”
“Are you, now?” she replied lightly. “That must be lovely for you.” She glanced at Jackson.
How fucking irritating. “Again. What do you need, Warren?” Jackson didn’t bother masking the edge in his tone.
“Someone is brazen enough to attack our mines more than once, and you haven’t caught them,” Warren said, his tone weighted with disapproval. “I think you should consider stepping down.”
Jackson’s gaze locked onto Warren’s, unblinking until the older man glanced aside. “I’m not stepping anywhere. We’ll find out who’s responsible.”
Zylas shifted his stance, a grin playing across his lips as he looked at Emily. “Ms. Nightsom, would you like to have a drink with me? Our local bar stocks rare whisky.”
“You’re not old enough to drink,” Jackson interjected sharply. His pulse kicked harder than it should have as he cut the kid off. Everyone seemed to want a piece of Emily. He gently gripped her arm to remind himself—and anyone watching—that she was with him.
Warren sighed, filling the air with the smell of butterscotch. “Jackson, you’re not doing the job we need as Alpha. You’ve been goofing off constantly with parties and females, and that’s fine, but it’s time for you to step down.”
Jackson calmed. Completely. The old man had no clue how he’d been spending his damn nights, and it wasn’t partying with females. At least, it hadn’t been in years. “Or what?”
Warren gulped. “You’ll be challenged. I mean, probably.”
“Thank you for the warning.” Jackson allowed his Alpha voice to deepen. “But I have things under control.”
“No, you don’t,” Warren replied, his voice firm, his gaze still averted. “Things haven’t been under control for a while now. Are you sure you want to lead this pack?”
“I really do,” Jackson said dryly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Without waiting for a response, he steered Emily into his office. The moment the door clicked shut behind them, he released her, but not before his fingers lingered just a beat too long against her skin, heat sparking between them.
The air seemed to hum with unsaid words, and Jackson stepped back, pulse drumming louder than it should have been.
Emily watched him with eyes that saw far too much, and the corner of her mouth lifted in the faintest of smiles. “That was interesting.” She walked over to sit in one of the two leather chairs across from his desk. The dark-brown leather was worn soft from years of use, its brass nailhead trim gleaming in the light from the antique desk lamp.
“You have no idea.” Jackson moved around the desk to settle in his chair. The deep creak of the old leather accompanied his movements. The chair had belonged to his great-grandfather, and Jackson liked the continuity of it, the history of generations behind him.
“What’s going on?” she asked, leaning forward slightly.
“I really don’t know.” He opened two manila files and laid them flat, sliding them toward her. Each contained photographs of recent mining incidents. “This one,”—he pointed to the first image—“was a collapse caused by someone weakening the support beams. The bolts were loosened just enough to fail when the pressure got too high. Nobody died, but workers were injured.”
She studied the image of twisted steel and shattered rock. “And this one?”
“The second was near the mine’s entrance. Someone jammed the ventilation system, cutting off the airflow and nearly suffocating a crew. The security cameras were disabled. It’s an old system, easy to tamper with.”