The elevator was descending too slowly.
Isadora kept her posture flawless, but inside… the tension vibrated like a steel cable about to snap. The containment spell under her skin pulsed in short, erratic waves.
Something had been activated in that handshake.
Something ancient.
His blood wasn't supposed to be absorbed like that. No spell could do that—at least, not without consent. And she sure as hell hadn't consented.
The elevator panel read the 37th floor when it began to flicker.
The light failed.
Once. Twice.
On the third time, it went out completely.
Silence became absolute.
Then a sound.
A growl.
Low. Raspy. Inhuman.
As if something far too big was trying to fit inside something far too small.
Instinctively, she pressed her back against the cabin wall.
The spell keeping her "normal"—human appearance, neutral scent—was faltering. Something beyond the magic was trying to pull her out, expose her.
She didn't move.
But she felt it.
A presence. Strong. Hot.
Alive.
She knew monsters. Had faced demons, liminal entities, even unhinged necromancers. But this...
This was something else.
It was primal.
Brutal.
A predator with instinct sharp enough to tear through camouflage spells by scent alone.
Her pulse raced. The silver pendant beneath her blouse burned slightly against her chest—a clear sign of aggressive supernatural presence.
Then something passed behind her.
Not physically. But she felt it. Like space bending. The air turned dense, cutting.
The growl came again. Closer now.
More intimate.
It seemed to come from the side of her neck.
She didn't scream. But her entire body was on high alert. Pupils dilated. Breath held.
Her core tightened—not in fear, but in reaction.
As if something ancient inside her recognized that energy.
Dominant.
Feral.
Hungry.
A bead of sweat slid down her spine.
Light. Suddenly.
Clink.
The elevator returned to normal.
The cabin was empty.
Just her, the panel, the mirror. Everything apparently in order.
But in the reflection...
Behind her, there was something.
A shadow.
Tall. With shoulders far too broad for a normal man. No defined face, but eyes glowing amber—almost golden.
She spun around.
Nothing.
The mirror now showed only her face—pale, sweaty, alert.
She knew that kind of illusion. A trace. Residual energy left by something that didn't fully belong to this plane.
Spells didn't do that.
But werewolves did.
She had read the reports.
She tasted metal in her throat.
The elevator reached the ground floor.
The doors opened with a hiss.
Isadora walked out with controlled steps, as if everything was fine.
But inside, her body was screaming.
In the lobby, the night guard didn't even look up. Didn't notice the subtle tremor in her fingers. Or the way she clenched her fists, trying to contain the spell that begged to be released.
Out on the street, the night air was biting.
But it didn't ease the heat burning under her skin.
Her flesh still ached where his blood had touched.
As if it were... merging with her.
She walked to the cab waiting at the corner.
Got in without looking at the driver.
— Holloway Street, 213 — she said, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.
— Busy night for a job interview — the driver commented casually.
She just nodded.
The car drove off.
In the window reflection, she noticed. Her collarbone was damp.
Wet.
She looked at her palm.
Blood.
Still there.
He'd left a mark. Not physical. Not ordinary.
Something magical. Maybe biological.
Maybe... a bond.
She swallowed hard.
Her stomach twisted.
But it wasn't fear. It was worse.
It was attraction.
And it disgusted her.
She had a plan.
Years of preparation, containment. He was the enemy. The target.
Not a man. Not a body. Not that scent.
So why the hell was her body reacting as if some instinct older than her mind had just recognized him?
---
On the 52nd floor, Dorian Blackwood still stared out at the city.
But his eyes were turned inward.
The blood she absorbed... it wasn't ordinary.
And now, he could feel her.
Feel her trace running along his skin. Like an invisible thread pulling him away from reason.
He shouldn't have allowed it.
But something in her touch had cracked the surface. And the wolf... stirred.
Not fully.
Not yet.
But sooner or later, it would break free.
And she would see.
He ran a finger over the healed scratch on his fingertip.
The memory of her skin's heat was still there.
Soft. Steady. Ironic.
Dangerous.
He caught her scent on his fingers.
Disguise spell. Subtle. But not enough to hide the truth.
Witch.
But not just any witch.
A marked one.
— Interesting — he murmured.
On the wall behind him, an old scar—a crack in the glass they'd never repaired—glowed faintly under the moonlight.
The predator inside him growled low. Almost pleased.
And for the first time in years, Dorian felt something close to... curiosity.