Chapter 2

Elenor POV The memory of the armored Maybach faded into a dark, whiskey-soaked blur. I woke up to blinding New York sunlight knifing through massive floor-to-ceiling windows.

I bolted upright, my head throbbing with a vicious hangover. The bed beneath me was massive, draped in high-thread-count black Egyptian cotton. I looked down and realized I was drowning in a crisp, white men's button-down shirt that smelled like him—cedarwood and rainstorm and something darker, something that made my stomach flip in ways I refused to name.

Panic seized my throat.

I scanned the freezing black hardwood floors. There—my silk dress from the gala, lying in a crumpled heap near a leather armchair. Its side seam was violently ripped, the delicate fabric torn as if someone had shredded it with their bare hands.

Oh, Goddess. What did I do?

The frosted glass door of the en-suite bathroom slid open. And the world stopped breathing.

He stepped out. A white towel slung dangerously low on his narrow hips. Water droplets still clinging to the carved muscles of his chest, tracing paths down ridges of abdominal muscle that didn't belong on any normal man—or any normal Alpha.

But it was the sheer force of his aura that sucker-punched the oxygen out of the room. That suffocating, heavy blend of sharp cedarwood, a raging rainstorm, and rich Cuban tobacco—it slammed into me like a physical blow, and my skin prickled with the phantom electricity of his touch from last night.

I remembered nothing. And my body remembered everything.

I scrambled off the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. "I... I am so sorry," I stammered, my voice trembling as I instinctively backed away. "Last night. The alcohol, the stress... it was a massive mistake. I shouldn't have let things get out of hand."

He didn't say a word.

His charcoal-gray eyes darkened to pitch black. The kind of black that swallowed light whole. I couldn't hear the inner wolf tearing at his mind—I was wolfless, deaf to that part of our world—but the predatory stillness radiating from him made my breath hitch in my throat.

He closed the distance between us with slow, lethal grace. Every step deliberate. Every movement screaming apex predator.

I retreated, step by step, until my spine hit the freezing edge of the massive black marble island in the center of the room.

Trapped.

He stopped mere inches from me. The heat of his bare chest radiated against my skin, and I had to tilt my head back just to meet his eyes. Slowly, he tilted his head to the side.

And my world stopped.

There, at the base of his thick, muscular neck, right on the collarbone—a deep, red, unmistakable bite mark. Still raw. Still fresh.

My bite mark.

A fragmented memory hit me like a freight train. The overwhelming scent. The sheer panic. My teeth sinking into his burning skin in a desperate, drunken frenzy—marking him like he was mine to claim.

"A mistake?" His voice was a dangerous, gravelly whisper that vibrated straight through my chest. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. The quiet was far more terrifying than any roar.

"I... I can fix it," I babbled, my wolfless instincts screaming in absolute terror. "I can go to a pharmacy. Buy some heavy-duty concealer. No one has to know—"

A short, ruthless scoff cut me off.

It was colder than any growl. Sharper than any blade. He looked down at me as if my human solution to a deeply primal werewolf bond was the most insulting, pathetic thing he had ever heard.

Without another word, he turned his broad back to me, walked to the other side of the island, and poured himself a cup of black coffee. Every movement was controlled, deliberate—a predator leashing something dangerous beneath his skin.

I stood frozen, my heart hammering against my ribs.

He picked up a folded newspaper from the counter and tossed it across the marble. It slid, stopping right in front of my trembling hands.

The Wall Street Journal.

The front page headline screamed: BLACKWOOD ENTERPRISES SET FOR RECORD-BREAKING ACQUISITION. Below the bold text was a high-definition photo of the man standing in front of me, looking every bit the ruthless corporate titan.

Damien Blackwood.

The blood drained from my face, leaving me dizzy and nauseous. In the human world, he was Wall Street's most cold-blooded predator—a billionaire who devoured companies whole and spat out the bones. But in our world...

Blackwood.

The name was whispered only in absolute terror. He wasn't just an Alpha. He was a Lycan. The apex predator of the werewolf hierarchy. A myth of unimaginable power and cruelty—the kind of monster even Alphas had nightmares about.

My petty drama with Caleb Thornton suddenly felt like a child's game. I, a defective, wolfless outcast, had just drunkenly bitten and insulted a Lycan King.

Damien took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes locking onto mine with a chilling, calculated emptiness. He set the mug down, reached into the pocket of his discarded suit trousers on the chair, and pulled out his phone.

And I knew—with every fiber of my trembling, terrified being—that my nightmare was only just beginning.