I didn't give them the satisfaction of a glance. I didn't need to assert dominance over dogs that were already whimpering in their heads.
"My room is on the penthouse level." Her voice was a husky whisper as she shoved me towards the elevator, molding her body against mine. "We don't even have to wait for the elevator to stop. I can start right here."
She leaned in, her lips grazing the line of my jaw, but my head snapped to the left. My nose twitched.
The smell of stale tobacco and floor wax was suddenly cut by something sharp. It was the heavy, iron-rich scent of Miyazaki Wagyu—the specific, high-marbling profile that my mother secured through an exclusive contract with a farm in the Kyushu highlands. It was meat that was never sold to third parties. It was meat that was strictly destined for the Fang Dynasty.
And it was here. In a Vane kitchen.
"Vidar?" Her voice was a distant annoyance as I stepped out of the elevator.
I didn't move toward the gold-plated doors. I followed the scent, the hand-stitched soles of my Berluti loafers striking the marble with a heavy, rhythmic finality.
"Vidar? Where are you going?"
I headed straight for the service corridor. A Vane wolf stepped into my path, his chest puffed out, his eyes flashing a dull, pathetic amber. "This is a private area?—"
I didn't slow down. I grabbed him by the throat, my fingers sinking into the soft tissue above his collarbone. I leaned in, myvoice a low, vibrating growl that came from the base of my spine. "Move. Before I decide your hide is better suited for a rug."
He choked, his feet nearly leaving the floor as his instinct finally overrode his ego. He scrambled back, tripping over his own heels. I kicked the double stainless-steel doors open.
The kitchen was a frantic, humid mess. Humans in white coats scurrying like rats under the fluorescent lights. I zeroed in on the central prep station.
There, on a bed of crushed ice, sat a pristine, vacuum-sealed crate. The thermal seal had been hacked, but the digital serial number was still visible on the corner of the heavy-duty plastic.
Batch 904-Alpha.
My spoilage. My missing 0.4 percent. It wasn't rotten. It wasn't destroyed. It was sitting in a rival’s kitchen, being prepped for a food service that no Blackwood had authorized.
The logic of my world shattered. This wasn't a mistake. This was an elegant, calculated theft.
A low, guttural growl ripped from my throat, vibrating through the metal tables until the hanging copper pots began to hum. Every human in the room froze, their faces turning the color of curdled milk. They saw an angry man in a suit. They had no idea a bloodthirsty predator lurked beneath my skin.
The 0.4 percent wasn't a rounding error. It was a declaration of war.
CHAPTER TWO
ADDIE
I’ve always been able to smell a weak man before he even opens his mouth.
It’s a scent like sour milk, always masked by expensive cologne and the unearned confidence of a legacy surname. James Sterling Jr. reeked of it. He stood at the head of the boardroom table, his face flushed a mottled red, blustering his way through a presentation he hadn't written for a client he didn't understand.
"The metrics here are… well, they’re robust," James said, waving a hand vaguely toward the projection screen.
He was using his 'big' voice; the one he used when he was trying to hide the fact that he was drowning in the shallow end of the pool. I knew this because I sat comfortably in the deep end, swimming in all the data and figures that went over his head.
"We’re looking at significant synergy across the verticals. High-level engagement. The kind of results you only get with Sterling & Associates at the helm."
I sat perfectly still, my spine pressed against the ergonomic leather of my chair. My hands were folded on the table, my pen aligned perfectly with the edge of my leather binder. To anyone else, I was the picture of a diligent, loyal junior associate. Inside, I was a cage holding something that wanted out.
My wolf wanted to pull back our lips and snarl. She wanted to stand up, rip the silk tie from James’s throat, and show the room what an actual Alpha looked like. Lucky for Junior, I’d learned at a young age that weak men in power were the most dangerous kind. They couldn't lead, but they could lash out. They couldn't build, but they could break. I’d seen it in my father’s den, and I saw it now in this glass-walled office.
So, I held my tongue. I kept my breathing shallow and my eyes schooled into a mask of professional neutrality. The human population had no idea werewolves walked amongst them during the daylight, taught their children in schools all afternoon, prepared their food in restaurants at night, and dominated in their sportsball games on the weekends.
Beside me, my supervisor was a statue of composure. Nell Odhiambo's skin was the deep, flawless brown of almond bark. Her thin Sistahlocks were a crown of intricate spirals that cascaded over her shoulders. It was her eyes that truly unsettled people. They were a startling, translucent hazel that seemed to strip away your defenses before you could even mount them. They were currently fixed on Sterling Junior, tracking his every bead of sweat with an interest that was almost predatory.
James faltered on a projection. His eyes darted toward the chart on the screen. He’d lost the thread. He was staring at a graph of the quarterly projections as if it was written in a dead language.
