I shouldn't even look at him. He belongs to the enemy. He can never be mine. But my wolf calls him mine. How long can I resist?
My task is simple: Go into Stravon territory, deliver the new treaty, and leave. No negotiations. No meetings. No violence. Done.
If only it were that easy.
I made the mistake of going to the local human club to let off some steam. I couldn't possibly step on any toes there, right? Wrong. When I scent the Beta of the Stravon Pack, I decide to leave out the back, making a wrong turn into a storeroom. The most glorious scent fills my senses and I know, without a single second's hesitation, my mate is here. And he is there . . . hiding behind some boxes and begging me to help him.
It isn't until we are in my car that I discover that he belongs to the Stravon Pack heir apparent. My mate is their arranged husband to be and I may have just started a war.
Contains mature themes.
