Claimed (The Lair of the Wolven #1) by J.R. Ward

“Unexpected surprise,” C.P. Phalen said over the din.

As the wind streaked Lydia’s hair into her face, she batted it away. “I needed to see you.”

“You came just in time.”

So did you, before your dogs peeled Candy’s car like a grape, Lydia thought.

C.P. Phalen smiled. “A little later or earlier and I would have missed you.”

At the woman’s motion, Lydia followed her under the covered area to the ornate entrance. It was not hard to imagine a grand party at the house, expensive cars pulling up under the porte cochere to discharge all manner of tuxedo’d, gown’d fancy types.

The whole setup was intimidating. But Lydia wasn’t leaving until she got what she’d come for.

The mansion, like the stone wall, had clearly been built to look old, but there was no attempt to hide the modern keypad by the door. And when C.P. Phalen put her thumb on the screen, there was a muffled shifting and a clank.

“If someone wants to get in here,” the woman said with a sly smile, “they’re going to have to cut my finger off and use it as a key.”

On that happy note, she opened the massive iron and glass doors, revealing … okay, wow. It might as well have been a hotel lobby: The interior floors and walls were all pale marble, polished and gleaming, and so, too, were the double winged stairs straight ahead. Rooms as big as whole houses extended out from both sides of the space, and crystal fixtures sparkled on the ceilings like galaxies.

But there was no furniture, no rugs, no paintings or sculptures. Anywhere.

“Lydia?”

Reaching up to rub the prickle at the base of her neck, she refocused on C.P. Phalen. In spite of the fact that cap of hair had been in a hurricane, the white-and-gray waves had resettled into their proper place, and the black suit remained perfectly pressed, as if it had just come out of a dry cleaner’s.

With a suddenly dry mouth, Lydia swallowed and tried to find her voice. “Rick, our vet, is dead. Peter Wynne is missing. I’m pretty sure I’m next—and you’re the only powerful person I know.”





SO I’ VE JUST moved in.”

As C.P. Phalen led the way through what Lydia assumed was a dining room, given the long, narrow nature of the space, the woman’s heels made sharp sounds that echoed.

“Or rather, I am moving in.” She gave Lydia a smile that did not warm her cool gray eyes. “The furniture is arriving tomorrow in trucks.”

Lydia had an image of all the construction equipment funneling down to the hotel site. Then she remembered what Rick had looked like, crouched on the ground with the bolt cutters, working his way up the chain-link fence so he could fit through. With his duffel.

“I’ve been building the house for over two years,” C.P. Phalen continued. “I’ve always lived in cities, but now, I just want the quiet, the privacy, the freedom you don’t get in Manhattan. I’m not married and I have no ties to anyone so the choice was mine and mine alone to make.”

The woman pushed through a flap door into some kind of staging area with counter space everywhere and all sorts of glass-fronted cabinets for dishes and crystal.

At least Lydia assumed it was for setting up big banquets and dinners. She had no experience with houses like this.

“I’m never going back to the city.” The woman laughed a little. “I already have my bedroom set up upstairs. So I’ll be sleeping here tonight and forever-more.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” Lydia asked. “Such a big house, all by yourself.”

C.P. Phalen stopped in front of another flap door. In a calm, even voice, she said, “I’m not afraid of anything.”

The statement was the kind of thing that was made by teenagers and drunks all over the world, Lydia thought. But something about the way the words were put out there made it seem like any bad guys should be really afraid.

“So I’m not much of a cook,” the woman said as she pushed her way through. “But this kitchen isn’t for me.”

And what a kitchen it was, all stainless steel, like a restaurant’s, with an entire bank of ovens, and a mixer the size of a bathtub, and enough burners to cook for an army.

“I can, however, offer you some coffee.” As Lydia’s feet slowed, the other woman went over to a lonely little K-Cup machine that seemed like a child dropped off on a college campus. “What’s your poison?”

Bad joke, Lydia thought. Plus her nerves were shot.

“I’m okay, thanks.”

“I like mine plain with just a little bit of sugar.” The woman glanced over her shoulder. “Sweet things don’t really interest me.”

“Can I sit down here?”

Without waiting for a yes, Lydia went across to some kind of prep station, pulled a stool out from a lineup of them, and parked it. Hanging her head, she wondered what the hell she was doing.

“So tell me what you’d like me to do for you,” C.P. Phalen said.

Lydia watched as a mug was retrieved and a pod was placed in the machine. A full five-pound-bag of sugar was taken out and then a teaspoon. When the brewing was done, “a little bit of Domino’s best” was added and stirred.

“You haven’t answered me,” the woman said as she leaned back against her cook’s counter and cradled her white mug. “What exactly do you want me to do for you?”