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Darius opened his mouth to say more, but the door to my office opened without a knock. Magnus Blackwood filled the frame.

He was in a dark suit, no tie. His gaze raked over me. Then turned to Darius with an expression that was technically neutral and was actually not. His jaw was set. Amber bled into the brown of his eyes, the pupils doing something that was not quite human. He was inhaling, the way a dog would before he decided where to bite. Or lift his leg and pee.

"Mr. Blackwood, I'm in a meeting."

Magnus said nothing. Only glared at Darius.

Darius rose from his chair with the unhurried ease of a man who was not remotely intimidated by the energy currently filling my office doorway. Darius was tall enough that the eye contact with Magnus was level rather than deferential.

"Darius Omondi," he said, extending his hand with smooth confidence. "The Omondi Group, Nairobi. I've been discussing a distribution partnership with Ms. Odhiambo." A beat. "She's extraordinary, by the way. You're lucky to have her."

Magnus shook his hand. The handshake lasted longer than was professional. "Magnus Blackwood."

"I know who you are," Darius said pleasantly.

Magnus was still inhaling in that slow, deliberate way. Darius was perfectly composed and at ease while a hidden animal took his measure.

"I'll leave you to your afternoon," Darius said, turning back to me. He picked up his portfolio. Then he reached out, took my hand, and bent over it with an Old World formality that nobody had ever deployed at me in my professional life. His lips grazed my knuckles. "I look forward to your proposal, Ms. Odhiambo."

And with that, he walked past Magnus with a cordial nod and was gone.

I picked up my pen. Pointedly not looking at Magnus.

"Did you need something, Mr. Blackwood? I'm working."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

MAGNUS

There was an animal in this building. Not wolf. I had established that in the thirty seconds of the handshake. My nose ran its assessment while I performed the social ritual of introduction. Not wolf. Not any pack species I had encountered in thirty years of moving through the supernatural political landscape.

Something that ran in a different register entirely. A frequency my wolf recognized but had no language for.

Something that had been sitting across from Nell for forty minutes. Something that had kissed her hand and left its scent in her office.

I looked at the two enforcers flanking her door. They looked back at me with the careful expressions of men who had made a judgment call, called it in, and were now living with the consequences of that call arriving in person. I nodded at one of them, a silent instruction to follow whatever the fuck kind of animal that was currently headed to the ground floor.

Nell was at her desk with her pen in her hand and her legal pad in front of her. Her eyes did not move from the pad when I locked the door.

"Did you need something, Mr. Blackwood?" she asked. "I'm working."

I looked at her. At the pad. At the pen moving across it. At the neck high blouse hiding her curves away from me. At the skirt that had a slit where lush brown skin played peekaboo.

I crossed the room. I swept the legal pad off the desk. The pen followed, clattering to the floor. That was followed by the portfolio the dead man had left. Then a folder, a coffee cup — empty, fortunately — and a small ceramic dish that held paper clips all landed on the carpet with a sound that scattered its contents across a six-foot radius.

Nell looked at the carpet. Then at me. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Those were organized."

I pulled her chair back. Lifted her off it with my hands at her waist. And sat her on the desk.

I lowered myself into her chair. Unbuttoning my suit jacket as I did so. I looked up at her from the position of a man who had just placed himself precisely where he wanted to be and had no intention of moving. Her skirt had ridden up when I lifted her. Her knees were level with my chest. Her eyes were blazing with an anger that had several layers to it, and I was aware of every single one. They smelled like smoky vanilla.

"Magnus, I swear to God⁠—"

I put my hands on her knees and pulled them apart. Her sentence stopped.

Forcing my claws to stay put, because I knew how women felt about ruining their pretty things, I pushed her skirt up, watching her face with complete, focused attention. The anger was still there; it wasn't going anywhere. It was real, and it was Nell's, and I wasn't trying to extinguish it. I was going to throw fuel on it and revel in the burn.

Her hands came down to grip the edge of the desk. Her knuckles went bloodless against the wood.