Taken (Sinful Series - book 1)
Chapter 18 - Inferno

The miles and months between her past and present allowed her to finally settle in Jacob’s territory. It wasn’t easy, but the challenge occupied her days, allowing her heart to heal from Karim Luzuli. Not that he was ever far from her mind. The memory of him held her heart hostage, resurfacing whenever she thought she was ready to move on. Casey often prescribed a random hook up to help clear Violet’s mind and purge the bitterness from her soul. The way Casey talked about sex, convinced Violet there were indeed rainbows and gummy bears on the other side of the orgasmic adventure Casey described. Not Violet would ever allow lust to guide her way.

Not now, not ever again.

The dinner gathering of the all reject group quickly changed to social outings, which Jacob unfortunately never attended. At first, Violet secretly hoped he would join them, developing an elaborate plan to get her hands on him: slow dancing and wolf-bane in his drink were the main ingredients in her sinful plan to loosen his tongue and moral compass. It would work. If only Jacob showed up. Violet could see them drifting apart the more involved she became with the group.

Jacob was truly a home body, concerned about his pack and helping others. It was sad that he didn’t have time to really live. Violet was convinced he was not allowing himself to be happy out of a miss understood loyalty to his Fated. If you truly loved someone, you would want them to be happy even without you. Violet was sure Gia would have thought the same. She secretly hoped he would eventually replace a person to help him get out of his shell.

The all rejects were a tight-knit group and so darn nosy. Everyone was up in everyone’s business, and paranoia was heavy at times. But she liked them. They kept her honest, gave her a safe space to vent, and helped her grow as a person. Casey quickly turned out to be the girlfriend Violet always needed and the new found friend who helped her replace her path to independence.

Over the weeks that followed, Violet ended up moving out of the Pack House. Jacob kept the room she used the way she left it, officially naming it Violet’s room.

“For selfish reasons,” Jacob had laughed when she asked him why.

Violet could come and go as she pleased, but her room meant she would eventually come back. At least that was how she understood Jacob. Jacob’s Gamma Ryan welcomed her like a little sister and made sure she was comfortable with the pack house. Ryan was up and down pack lands essentially becoming the face of the pack, while Jacob stayed recluse in the pack house. They ran the pack but hardly had any time to themselves. If Violet wasn’t there to cook for them, she would come back to take out dinners and reports scattered all over the first floor. Organization was not a skill either one of them possessed. So Violet cooked for them every Thursday night and made it her night with the guys. It was her small way to give back to Jacob for everything he had done for her.

For the first time in her life, Violet was free to do whatever she pleased. But freedom came at a price. Although she had the credit card Xander gave her, she still craved her independence. She started bartending, or when money was tight – she resorted to exotic dancing to make ends meet. At first she told herself she was dancing for the money, but as the days rolled into weeks, she found she enjoyed those lustful eyes fixated over her body. They were the much needed salve for her bruised heart, reaffirming what Jacob had already told her time and time again – there was nothing physically wrong with her. But it was one thing hearing it from Jacob, who wanted to help mend Violet’s heart, and another coming from someone who didn’t know her. She admired Jacob, and at times caught herself leering over his body, only to be reminded of how platonic their relationship truly was.

She was deprived of a more intimate connection by none other than life and her own Fated. So there was no surprise that the lust-filled glances over her barely clad body resonated with her broken heart. Violet found no shame in receiving such attention. While Jacob had made it adamantly clear he did not approve of her being an object of male’s fantasies, Violet saw it differently. The men who were transfixed watching the curves and sensual moves were her objects. She never accepted or viewed herself as something less because of her dancing. It was what helped ease the sorrow. Although she knew it was wrong, she didn’t see the clients of “Velvet” as anything but the tools she needed to mend her broken soul. She was the strong, powerful temptress who dominated the room. Her body now belonged to her and her alone, and how she chose to display or use it was entirely up to her. No male had any say what she could wear, and where she worked.

As the weeks rolled into months, she mastered bartending to the point where she wasn’t just mixing and serving drinks out of a menu. No. She had relearned how to talk to people, how to properly function in shifter society without her wolf as for poor thing had withdrawn into a shell, and at this point of time could not be reached. The shield around her beast was impenetrable even for Violet. She had heard about this side-effect from the rejection, but never really thought much of it until it happened. There was no connection to her beast, no pack belonging, no distant pull to a mate.

What she missed the most about being a wolf, was the wind in her hair, the ultimate freedom to roam and hunt, and the heightened senses and strength.

There was very little research done with rejected wolves, because the rejected wolves were too busy picking up the pieces of their lives to participate in a group study. Pack Order was the authority tasked with evaluation of the risk such wolves possessed to were and human societies. Violet thought it was just a gigantic joke, a waste of money and time. With a withdrawn wolf, she was as close to a human as she could get. Even if she wanted to expose were society to the world, who would believe her? It wasn’t like she could be able to shift in front of their eyes, giving them the undeniable proof. On the contrary, such claims would result in best case a shrug of a shoulder, and worse – a mandatory twenty-four hour psychiatric hold. No, Pack Oder’s real function was to screen for traits associated with becoming berserk, falling off the wagon so to speak. Such individuals permanently disappeared, never to be heard or seen again.

Violet was too busy living through the club’s patrons to have the time to give into the darkness, that swirled in her heart. Violet enjoyed living through her clients’ lives – their hopes, dreams, ups and downs – they were just as important as if they were her own.

Surprisingly, her life choices and consequences made her ideal for not only for bartender, but a therapist. No matter what secrets were spilled, she would keep them locked away. The ultimate confidentiality of such a confession, and the real good advice patrons swore she gave, quickly spread like wildfire among weres, who traveled great distances to ask for her input. Weres or humans, Violet treated them the same as the tips always came in dollars. She quickly managed to pay her bills, afford a car and even her tuition as she put herself through university. Psychology, or the science of helping others help themselves, was her calling.

Pack Order’s visits become more frequent as the clientele diversified into the darker shades of grey. The way Violet saw it, she was there to help anyone who needed it. Much like Xander had done for her. He had been there for her. Period. She lived to pay that kindness forward.

She didn’t turn anyone down because of decisions they had taken. Violet was no Saint either. So who was she to judge someone who was trying to better themselves?

Working under the night club offering meals, drinks and exotic dancers, gave her a way to see clients under the perfect cover for those whose rank otherwise prevented them for seeking help. Her withdrawn wolf only worked in her favor, allowing the client the ironclad privacy not subjected even to an alpha’s command. Her lack of allegiance brought a different clientele to the club, making the nights and days busy.

It was rewarding, yet so tiring.

And she badly needed a drink.

Violet

“This is my joint. Go replace another,” the broad shouldered man on her right informed her, only for her to roll her eyes at him, and ignore him as she ordered her drink.

It wasn’t like she was not searching for company, but his assumption he would be the center of it irritated her to no end. He was rough in all the right places, but it was not in Violet’s nature to drape herself over a shifter no matter his looks. She had been there and done that, and the result was a broken heart. The were-race was blessed with good genetics, their higher metabolic rate sculpturing their bodies to perfection, making them magnets for the lustful eye. When everyone was equally delicious and downright mouthwatering to a deprived she-wolf, Violet was far more difficult to please. She needed connection. Sure, a random lay might be a good enough to relief the itch, just as Jacob had told her when they first met, but it wasn’t a good long-term solution.

The bartender apologetically smiled then busied himself with a drink he was making. Females brought in more business. They were also the reason for sudden outbursts of generosity from their suitors. Violet knew it firsthand, and prioritized females while working not purely out of feminism support – a notion that her clientele assumed. There was no hidden meaning. Just the simple honest to Goddess truth. Cash was king even in their power-hungry society.

“On the house. Thanks for choosing ‘Inferno’,” the bartender announced, passing her a drink. Violet enjoyed more often than not a drink on the house. It wasn’t for her looks, or because she would allow suitors to buy her a drink. By now everyone this side of the valley knew she was not to be troubled, or they would risk the wrath of the Howlers.

“Thanks,” Violet smiled brightly.

It was always a good rule of thumb to be nice to the staff, and a small price to pay for a morning without a nauseating hangover.

“Celebrating or commiserating?” The brute’s voice from two seats down carried over the music. For someone who wanted to be left alone, he sure seemed chatty.

“Is there a difference?” She blurred before she felt the strong pull of his aura.

There was no doubt he was a were of station. She immediately regretted not taking his advice of leaving. Now it was too late. It would raise too many questions, which wouldn’t dissipate even with the murderous fame of the Howlers. The association with the pack was enough to keep the prying souls at hand distance. Make that a foot distance. You could never be careful enough where Howlers’ reputation of hacking off hands and other appendices was concerned. Too bad it was only rumors. Jacob was a sweetheart, not the sadistic bastard as the rumors had you believe.

But he was not one of the locals, easily stirred away.

No, he was something else.

In her experience, the higher the rank, the nosier the wolf became. Whether it was an innate trait to protect the pack, or simply their wolves expecting ultimate submission from lower ranked wolves, she did not want to debate. It ultimately led to invading the privacy of the few to protect the pack. The pack was always put first, before the needs of the individual. That drive only got worse the higher up the chain of command you got. It was a phenomenon recorded for so long that it was part of Psychology 101.

“Of course, you’re right,” the man replied then nodded at the bartender for a refill. “Nurse?”

“What gave it away?” Violet laced her words with sarcasm while her head defiantly sized him up.

She had experience with Alphas trying to exert their power over her, to bend her will to theirs. It was the way of their race. It was only when someone freely accepted their power that they became dependent on them. It was precisely the way Alphas gained traction. The more people believed in them, the more strength did they radiate. It didn’t mean anyone could become an Alpha, but it was a way how they could be made if they checked all the boxes.

Whatever his station, the brute was going to discover he was not above her. Nobody was above her. It was the beauty of being a lone withdrawn she-wolf. No Alpha meant no cunning asshole using her to his own advantage. That was why her services were needed. She would sure not back down even if the cost was her life.

He casually touched his nose, tipping his head, and breaking eye contact. It was his way to assure her he was not trying to make her submit to him. He was just stating the obvious. He had caught the overpowering Clorox scent, she proudly chose to carry.

But she knew better than to believe he was not interested in figuring out her story. He was still poking his nose where it didn’t belong but on a much less noticeable scale. Accepting his mock surrender with more grace than she had to, she plastered a smile on her face, taking a sip of her drink. If only the player knew he was played.

The Clorox scent was easily recognized by the delicate noses of all weres who naively assumed the scent came from the prolonged exposure in a healthcare setting. Because who in their right mind will exclusively use it as spray to mask their scent? It was unfortunate she had to resolve to such cheap theatrics. But it was a hell of a lot easier to mislead someone than to use heavy perfume, which immediately betrayed your intentions, raising suspicion about your motives.

Violet did not know where the sudden urge to correct his assumption came from, but she was certainly regretting the temporal lapse of judgement. Her scent was dangerous. It could always be linked to her past, and she had no intentions of seeing Gagon or Karim ever again.

“Gee, so not a nurse then,” he concluded as his blue eyes kept on observing her with much more interest than Violet thought appropriate for mere strangers.

Violet politely smiled then focused on her phone. It allowed her to put an end to the conversation without raising too many questions. There was nothing unusual about being slightly obsessed with your I-phone these days. It was the socially accepted norm not to be able to peel your eyes from the illuminated screen for some time. She desperately needed the time to think of a way to cover up her slip-up.

Only there was no emergency. Nobody needed a friendly ear. It was nights like this, which made staying sane the hardest. Drinking was the only escape she could afford to tame the longing to be wanted, cherished and sought out. She craved conversation, and chance to do good. Her connection with others was innate, and she thrived on the relationships she could build.

“Why couldn’t I be a doctor?” She asked after almost finishing her drink. The bartender immediately saw the opportunity, and silently left another drink in front of her.

Half-truths were easier to sell than outright lying. It was especially true when in the presence of werewolf. He could easily read her body language, hear her quicker heartbeat, and see her dilated pupils.

She was almost sure, she shamed him enough on his assumption females could not be leaders or more prominent figures, that his gruff voice startled her, “Are you?”

He tapped his empty whiskey glass against the shiny surface, catching the barkeep’s keen ears for a refill. He sure was a spectacular specimen. His icy cold eyes desperately attracted her like a moth to a flame. They were very expressive, and breathed life into his either wise stone-face.

“No, but that’s beside the point,” Violet dried up her glass leaving only ice in her glass. She plucked the straw, popped it in the next one, then swiftly sliding the empty glass in the bartender’s awaiting hand.

“What is the point then?” The stranger asked not bothering to lift his eyes off his whiskey.

“Knowing what I do doesn’t change who I am.”

“On the contrary, who you are defines the choices you make, therefore making what you do important in the overall picture,” he quickly argued.

Violet snorted. The eternal debate, Fate verses Choice was slowly seeping into their conversation and for once Violet did not care how loud the conversation got. It was those blind fools who followed Fate who she blamed for overpromising and overselling the fated matings, only to leave you with the sorrow when one went awry.

“So if the Fates thump Choice every single time, then why even bother doing something with your life? By definition life will provide you with all that was meant to be yours. Better yet, if all is set from birth, then why even bother living? Isn’t it all inevitable?”

“Knowing what’s meant to be shall be, is supposed to give you peace.”

“Supposed to,” Violet repeated his words, showing him the inconsistency of his logic. She was usually not as passionate voicing her displeasure with the Fates, but he stirred something deep within her, and she simply could not let it go.

“Fates and life screw with your hope by calling it choice,” he calmly responded.

Now that was a point Violet could agree with. No matter which camp you favored – Fate or Choice – you could see the truth in his words. So she raised her glass to him, “But you keep living it just to screw it back.”

“Amen,” the guy toasted meeting her eyes once again.

Those icy blues were different now – more mellow, but equally inquisitive. Violet was certain agreeing with him would not end the conversation. If anything he seemed more intrigued. Cursing her curiosity, Violet decided to pretend to be the groupie he so desperately wanted to avoid when she just arrived. Maybe that would deter him from prying.

Violet smiled, openly checking him out over the rim of her drink, and enjoying a little too much the newly adopted strategy. The eyes, she was so fascinated with, were complimented by the rough planes on his face, further accentuating the dangerous vibe radiating from his stature. Those broad shoulders stretched the black t-shirt he wore, making it follow every dip of his defined torso. He was a wet-dream walking in daylight, yet what attracted her most was the interesting way his mind seemed to work. His husky voice snapped her attention to his thin lips.

“If life just screws us in the long run, then why do we allow our society to get hung up on social ranks? They are a byproduct of either the Fates or our Choices, depending on which you believe in. Either way, we serve our purpose then become disposable. So why focus so much on who has the bigger dick?”

Violet almost chuckled at his observation that males measured their masculinity by the length of their appendages. Her experience was no different. Gagon was obsessed about procreation, leering over anything with pulse, and siring more pups than anyone else in the pack. Then Karim had to beat Xander to the pulp to appease his ego, only to end up rejecting her when his dick didn’t feel confident enough to be mated to her. The motives of men could always be traced to their pricks.

There was no right way of answering him without revealing too much of her past or disrespecting alpha authority, so she chose silence.

“Who the heck gave them such power?”

“Careful now,” she cautioned.

It was one thing for her pack-less status to be ignored by the neighboring alphas in exchange for an unsolicited advice and genuine conversation. But a whole other animal, if she was associated with rebellious views against the accepted were-social structure and alpha authority.

“Parentage does not make a person. Sure, we are born into it all, but it doesn’t mean the status can’t change, if the Fates are willing,” he continued.

You were born with a status, and whether or not you moved up or were stripped of rank was entirely up to you or the Fates, depending once again which philosophy of Choice verses Fate, you took to heart.

“It is the experience that defines us,” she agreed deciding he would not stop pushing treasonous views until she conceded. Blaming parentage was much easier than blaming the whole hierarchy, and alpha position.

His booming laughter cut through the silence, “Then you just made my point. What you do defines a part of who you are, and what you’re into.”

She opened her mouth to protest then closed it. He led this conversation too masterfully, and she did not like how he proved his earlier point with her own words. Immediately, the word Interrogator came to mind. Few Enforces of each pack were blessed by the Goddess with an uncanny gift to reason, to lead and effectively to obtain information, even where torture had proven ineffective.

Taking her silence as agreement, a lazy smile spread across his handsome face. Violet felt manipulated, and could only wonder about the motives of such elaborate conversation. Although there was bait in his words, his words showed a deeper understanding of their society’s issues which could only come as a result of struggle with life. You couldn’t just fake the anger reeking into his words, nor the passion in his eyes as he spoke against the status quo. No, he spoke from experience. Whether his motives were genuine though, she could not determine and it made her cautious.

He was dangerous.

Her bitter experience with the authorities made her suspicious of everyone, clouding her judgement to welcome isolation and to value her privacy. Those highly provocative thoughts could be based on his past, and if so, he was a kindred soul. But they might as well be bait by Pack Order, the were-military authority, tasked with keeping packs in check, and keeping the existence of supernaturals a secret.

“I must be drunk,” she said in disbelief.

She felt betrayed. Her mind was the only weapon she had against the world, and now she couldn’t even trust it. Two drinks should not have been enough to render her incapable. Her wolf was sure withdrawn after the rejection but she had never felt the buzzing in her ears, proclaiming what she already feared. She was experiencing euphoria manifesting into the uninhibited conversation, and the lusting after the twerp on her right.

She was drunk. Someone had laced her drink with heavy dose of bane. Bane was street name of wolf-bane which was commonly used to inhibit the were-metabolism, allowing weres to experience the highs of alcohol as humans did. It wasn’t a poison per se. It was its amount that made it the perfect cocktail ingredient or turned it deadly.

Only two people had the opportunity to get to get – the brute or the bartender. Neither looked innocent. One tried trapping her with his words, while the suspiciously avoided looking her in the eye. The scariest part was not knowing who the real enemy was.

But narrowing down the motive was as effective as winning the lottery and she did not have the time to muse on it. It was safe to assume, whoever was behind this had a motive so strong that even her connections in both were and underground world were not enough to deter.

It was bad.

Bad-shit bad.

“Amen to that,” the stranger raised his glass at her, oblivious of the panic settling in her body. He held her eyes as he gulped down his drink, turned it upside down, and taped it against the counter. A sign for the barkeep he was closing his tab.

Her thundering heart pounded against her chest, the rush in her ears told her the slight disorientation she was feeling was only the beginning, promising soon a front seat to the delights of alcohol intoxication. The panic crept in her mind, immobilizing her.

The stranger waved at the bartender.

“Hers also. We are leaving,” he instructed as he was reaching for his wallet.

She reached in her purse and fished out a bill, placing it on the counter with a little bit more force than necessary, her depth perception in daze as the rest of the world. The bartender’s attention was focused on the bill under her small palm. She knew it was more than plenty to cover her drink and to leave a very generous tip. It was her last attempt to win over the bartender, if by any chance she was mistaken and her drink was laced without his knowledge. He wordlessly nodded, licking his lips, imagining what he would do with the extra money. Smart.

“Wow, hold on,” her companion’s voice came closer than from two seats down from her. He was standing right next to her, placing his hand over hers. “You must be tipsier than you think, if you think leaving a Benjamin is appropriate.”

“On the contrary,” she ironically spat. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he finally understood her. He carelessly threw a business card onto the counter then proceeded to close her hand in attempt to put the cash away. The bartender immediately assumed a regretful expression.

Violet screamed inside her mind with frustration. Who the heck did he think he was to manhandle her? She jerked her hand and instead of the bill, she grabbed the black piece of card. The golden letters read Landon Wesley, followed by a phone number.

“You can keep it,” The ass-now-known-as-Landon supplied.

“Fvck you,” Violet said and tossed the card back at his face.

Before she could pull another bill out of her wallet to outbid whatever his card meant to the bartender, Landon’s hand engulfed hers more forcefully than before.

“Don’t make a scene,” he hissed lower than the music, holding her impossibly close to his body, so she could feel the whiskey on his breath, and the aftershave on his cheek. Too close for any comfort. Yet her mind wondered if his lips would taste of the whiskey he had.

“Stupid, stupid,” Violet chanted in her head.

“Like hell, I won’t,” she snickered and kneed him in his jewels. If she wasn’t that close, she would have missed him gritting his teeth, the muscles coiling beneath his clean shaven face. Those were the only signs of his discomfort in his posture.

The bartender’s face paled, and she had a second before the stranger’s lips covered hers in a dominant kiss, as his hands groped her in a bone crushing embrace. Truth be told, if it wasn’t for the spiked drink she would have definitely not minded following up on the said kiss. He sure knew how to kiss, pulling her into his warmth, as mouth relentlessly punished her, and his tongue assaulted her lips. Violet enjoyed being the object of such passion, even if said passion was fueled by anger, not love.

“I am trying to help you,” Landon hissed so lowly she doubted anyone else heard him. The moment he released her, he chuckled at the starring patrons of this otherwise quiet club. Violet knew this was as much excitement as they had seen in awhile. “The things a man does for his girl.”

That was the final straw. Violet did what any self-respected wolf in her position would do – she slapped him hard.

Or at least tried to.

He caught her wrist before it made contact with his slimy face, then interlaced their fingers, showing closeness where there was none. It wasn’t that she hadn’t enjoyed dueling with him with words and tongue. She needed to slap herself out of the sappy thoughts she was having. Sure, found him anything but repulsive, but it was the principle alone – you just didn’t grab at strangers and kiss them senseless. No. Especially when said strangers were experiencing a lack in their mental capacity.

His free hand held her chin, as he rested his forehead against hers. It was a very intimate gesture, only they weren’t anywhere close to being acquaintances, much less lovers who trusted each other. Whether or not he was behind the heftier dose of Bane in her drink, she didn’t care. You just didn’t force strangers to kiss you. Her left hook flew and caught him in the torso. He grunted and didn’t release her only tightened his hold on her.

“Very naughty,” he grunted spanking her bottom. Violet jumped from the shock of the insult, which only brought her closer to his hard body. There wasn’t anything else to do than to dig her nails into his palm he used to keep her in his control, “Now you did it.”

Who the heck did he think he was?