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Mason's POV

The thing about control is that it tastes better when the person under your thumb knows they're utterly helpless, even if they refuse to admit it. And Bethany? Oh, she fights me. Every glare, every sarcastic comment, every stiff movement was her way of saying, "I hate you."

But that hatred fueled me. It fueled me more than it should.

I leaned back in my chair in the mansion's study, swirling the glass of whiskey in my hand. Outside the window, the pack house was alive with activity, wolves scurrying about handling business that wouldn't exist if they were smarter. Competence, it seemed, was as rare as loyalty these days.

Bethany, however, had a front-row seat to my dominance. She was mine, every inch of her—whether she liked it or not. Especially because of the little insurance policy embedded in her.

The bomb.