The Executive Suite, Blackwood Enterprises (Temporary HQ) – The Next Morning
On the top floor of the city's most opulent hotel, the conference room had been transformed into an improvised command center. Plush cream carpeting swallowed the footsteps of twelve executives—bankers, negotiators, deal-makers—each clad in impeccably tailored charcoal and navy suits. A single, gleaming mahogany table dominated the room, its surface strewn with open laptops, stacks of printed spreadsheets, and half-empty water glasses sweating with condensation. Fluorescent ceiling lights hummed overhead, and the hum of high-powered air-conditioning created a sterile, chilly envelope around them.
Despite their reputations for ruthlessness, each man and woman sat rigid, eyes darting to the door, knuckles white around their pens. They looked less like titans of industry and more like startled prey trapped within glass walls.
At the head of the table, Damien Blackwood remained standing. His broad shoulders cut a stark silhouette against the floor-to-ceiling window behind him, through which the morning sun glittered off the distant campus skyline. He had not sat down in two hours; his body pulsed with a kinetic tension that made the air taste metallic. Every muscle in his frame was taut—coiled—ready to strike.
"Sir?" The CFO's voice cracked, high-pitched with fear. He tapped a finger against a contract sheet. "About the acquisition of the textile plant… the union reps are demanding a ten-percent wage increase—"
Damien's head snapped around so quickly the room seemed to lurch. His eyes, once a steely gray, were bloodshot at the rims, flecked with swirling black. He leaned forward, both hands slamming on the polished wood. "Give it to them."
The CFO swallowed. "Sir, that's… three million dollars."
A silence as heavy as lead fell. Then Damien exhaled a low, feral growl. "I don't care about three million dollars, Steven. I care about why this meeting is still happening. I care about why I'm locked in this air-conditioned coffin when I have somewhere else to be."
In the recesses of his mind, Ares—the wolf at his core—roared: Go to her. She is vulnerable. Other males near. GO!
Damien's jaw clenched. Twelve hours had passed since he had dropped Elara at her little apartment—twelve long hours without the faintest trace of her scent. His empire, painstakingly built over a decade, demanded discipline, composure. Yet here he was, unraveling. One fragile, pale girl with an aura darker than midnight had undone every carefully maintained boundary.
"Meeting adjourned," he snapped, voice low and final.
"But sir—the contracts—"
"Get out." The words slipped through his Alpha Voice, tinged with primal authority. Instantly, chairs scraped back, briefcases snapped shut, and the dozen terrified executives fled, nearly tripping over one another to escape the predator in their midst. Thirty seconds later, the room was empty but for Damien.
He ripped open his collar and loosened his tie, pacing the length of the room. Each step sent a quiet creak through the carpet. His breaths came in ragged bursts. Ares prowled beside him, whining: She is sick. Did you smell it last night? Beneath the chemicals… decay. Pain.
"I know," Damien whispered to the empty table, voice rough. Fear twisted in his chest. Under her artificially sweet soap and the faint tang of suppressants, she smelled frail—like something slowly dissolving. He had touched her hand and felt warmth give way to an unsettling chill, as if her life force was fraying.
He reached for his coat. To hell with schedules. To hell with optics. He needed to see her—needed to know she was still breathing.
Campus Cafeteria – Noon
The main cafeteria was a riot of colors and sounds: bright plastic trays clattering onto laminate tables, students shouting orders to one another, the hiss and burble of soda machines, the vault-like slam of metal doors. Despite the chaos, Elara sat alone in a dimly lit corner, head bowed over a plate of wilted lettuce, dressing pooled at its center. Her breath came in shallow rasps. Each inhale felt like drawing shattered glass into her lungs.
The second dose of suppressants she'd taken that morning was doing its job—almost too well. Her wolf, Lumina, was caged so tightly she could feel her bones locking up. Light around her edges rippled, and the cafeteria's neon glow smeared into halos. Her veins pulsed with hot, acidic pain.
'Let me help,' Lumina whispered weakly from within. 'I can heal you—stop the poison.'
"No," Elara thought fiercely, her hand clenching the cold plastic of her water bottle. "If I stop, he'll find us. If he finds us, we're dead."
A familiar voice drew her gaze up. Mark, a junior in Engineering with shaggy blonde hair and a perpetual five o'clock shadow, hovered beside her table, Coke in hand. He smelled like laundry detergent and pepperoni pizza—comforting, mundane.
"Hey, Elara. You okay?"
She managed a small, shaky smile. "I'm fine, Mark. Just… a headache."
Mark slid into the seat opposite her, concern etched into his gentle features. "You look really pale. Want something? Gatorade? Aspirin?"
"No, I'm good." She closed her eyes briefly, picturing Damien's dark eyes whenever another male drew near.
Mark's mouth twisted into an apologetic grin. "Okay… but—there's this sci-fi marathon at the Retro Cinema this weekend. Thought you might like it."
Her chest tightened. Under normal circumstances, she'd have said yes in a heartbeat. Mark was safe. Predictable. But right now, the idea of a stranger's hand on her skin made her stomach coil.
"Mark, that's sweet, but I—"
"Just as friends," he hastily added, cheeks pink. "Unless… well, I mean, if you want more. You're cool, Elara. Smart. Pretty." He reached across the table, fingertips brushing hers.
To a wolf, possession is touch. And Elara belonged to the Shadow King.
A hush fell over the cafeteria, rolling outward from the entrance like a cold wave. Chairs scraped as conversations died mid-sentence. Temperature plunged. She felt it before she saw him. A dark weight—male, immense, dangerous.
Lumina snapped to attention, snarl reverberating in her skull: MINE. HE IS HERE.
Her gaze snapped upward to the entrance. Damien stood framed by the glare of fluorescent lights, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar unbuttoned. His tie hung loose, and his disheveled hair caught the light. He moved with predatory grace, each step parting the crowd like reeds in a storm surge.
Mark's hand froze on hers. "Elara? You okay?"
A shadow darker than midnight spilled across their table. Damien loomed overhead, one hand settling on the back of Elara's chair like a claim staked in earth. His eyes, void-black and glittering with fury, locked on Mark.
"You are touching her."
The words were soft but carried the weight of thunder. Mark drew back as though scalded, heart pounding so loud Elara could almost hear it.
"I… I was just asking her to a movie." His voice trembled.
"She's busy," Damien said flatly.
Mark blinked frantically between Elara and the towering man beside her. "I—didn't know she had a boyfriend."
"She doesn't," Elara interjected, voice cracking. "He's… the investor."
Damien leaned in, placing both hands on the table so that his broad shoulders flanked Mark's view. His breath carried the scent of sandalwood, rain-damp earth, power. "Because," he murmured, "she doesn't like sci-fi. She likes quiet. And she does not like to be touched."
His words were lies, pure and simple—yet Mark's pulse spasmed. "Right. Sorry." He sprang to his feet, tray rattling as he fled.
Elara felt her cheeks burn with both relief and shame. The room had gone completely silent, every eye on them. Whispers rippled: What billionaire is freaking out at a student?
She whirled on Damien. "You had no right!"
He smoothed his cuffs, satisfaction cold in his eyes. "He was irritating you. I could smell your discomfort from the door."
"I was sick, not because of him!" She rose abruptly—an impulsive lunge away from his authority.
Her head spun. The suppressants had throttled her heart too far. Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision.
She stumbled. But before her knees could buckle, firm arms wrapped around her waist. She was lifted off her feet, pressed against a solid wall of muscle. His chest was an anchor, his heartbeat a thunderclap against her ear.
"I've got you," Damien rumbled, voice rough with concern. Her thin sweater did nothing to block the heat radiating from him. The scent of his skin—woodsmoke and rain—flooded her senses. Lumina howled within her, the bond flaring like a live wire.
"Elara?" His grip tightened just enough to steady her.
"Put me down," she mumbled, words thick as molasses. "Everyone's staring."
"Let them stare." He turned, carrying her effortlessly toward the exit, ignoring the stares, the gossip, the stunned silence. In his arms, Elara felt the tremor of life return to her limbs, and for the first time in hours, she was too weak to argue.