The conference room was carved out of shadow and glass.
A predator's den disguised as corporate real estate.
Isadora stood at the head of the long obsidian table, fingers grazing the cold surface. Her notes were in order. Her face, composed. But her body? Traitorous.
He hadn't arrived yet.
But she felt him. Moving. Climbing. Getting closer.
Each floor he ascended was a countdown inside her bones.
When the door finally opened, the air itself shifted.
Dorian entered like the storm he was—dark suit tailored to domination, cufflinks glinting like silver teeth. His gaze swept the room and landed on her like a verdict.
She didn't flinch.
He closed the distance in slow, silent strides, stopping at her side.
Too close.
Not touching.
Not yet.
"Ms. Vale," he said softly. "You're in my seat."
She raised a brow. "You're late. I adapted."
He didn't respond. Not with words.
Instead, he leaned forward, bracing a hand on the table beside hers. His breath touched her cheek. The heat of him—a furnace barely held back—pressed at the edges of her self-control.
She didn't move.
Didn't blink.
His fingers brushed hers.
Deliberate. Electric.
And the world tilted.
Magic surged up her arm, her glyph burning hot beneath her blouse. Her legs locked. Her throat closed.
He felt it too. She saw it in the flare of his nostrils, the twitch of muscle at his jaw.
"You can't keep touching me," she whispered.
"I'm not the one reaching."
Then—he stepped back.
A retreat. Or mercy.
Maybe both.
She didn't dare exhale until he sat, folding his hands neatly before him.
Like nothing had happened.
But something had.
The bond pulsed, fed, grew teeth.
And she suddenly understood why wolves never needed contracts.
They took what was already theirs.
And Dorian Blackwood?
He was starving.
---
Ten minutes into the meeting, the first glass cracked.
It started with a low hum under the table—barely noticeable to the humans in the room, but to her, it was deafening. The energy was building, charging the air like static before lightning.
Dorian spoke with perfect calm. His voice was steady, firm, persuasive. And yet, under the surface—
He was unraveling.
So was she.
The glyph on her chest pulsed violently with every word he spoke. Her pen shook. Her palms ached. And the distance between them felt shorter than it was.
Then, a champagne glass at the far end of the table exploded.
Everyone jumped.
He didn't blink.
Isadora didn't either.
"Faulty catering," she said dryly, never breaking eye contact with him.
Dorian's lips twitched. "Unacceptable."
The others nodded, trying to recover, to pretend nothing had happened. But the room felt heavier now. Denser. Like the walls were leaning in to listen.
Another ten minutes.
Another glass, this time near her.
It shattered mid-sentence.
No one spoke.
Not until Dorian closed his folder and said, "That'll be all."
Everyone scattered like prey.
Except her.
She remained seated. Calm on the outside. Internally, on fire.
When the door closed behind the last executive, he rose.
She followed.
"You're losing control," she said quietly.
He walked to the window. "No. We are."
Silence stretched between them like a blade.
She took a breath. "This bond—it's not normal."
"It's not supposed to be."
"I didn't agree to this."
His voice was steel. "Neither did I."
But then he turned.
And she saw it in his eyes—what she hadn't wanted to name.
Hunger.
Not just desire. Not lust. Something else.
A need written into his blood. And maybe hers too.
He stepped toward her again, slow, dangerous.
She didn't back away.
"If we touch again," she said, voice low, "I don't know what will happen."
"Neither do I," he replied. "But I want to find out."