The storm had worsened.
Wind rattled the glass walls of the penthouse, rain streaking down in frantic, silver lines. Elara lay awake on the edge of the bed, staring at the skyline. Sleep was impossible. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw golden eyes glowing in the dark, blood on rain-slick pavement, and the man who claimed her safety without asking.
She wasn't sure if she hated him… or feared him.
From somewhere deeper in the penthouse came the muffled thud of footsteps. Heavy. Uneven. Not the smooth, deliberate steps Adrian made earlier.
Curiosity gnawed at her. She slipped out of bed, tightening the silk robe around her, bare feet silent against the cold marble.
The hallway was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the city beyond the glass. The sound came again — low, rumbling, almost like a growl.
Her pulse jumped.
Following the sound, she reached a partially open door. A flicker of motion caught her eye, and she pushed it just enough to see inside.
Adrian stood in the center of the room — shirt discarded, his muscles tensed as if every fiber of him was fighting itself. His hands gripped the edge of a steel table, claws — actual claws — digging into the metal until it screeched.
"Elara," he growled without looking at her. His voice was rough, strained, like he was holding back something dangerous. "You shouldn't be here."
Her breath caught. "Your… hands—"
In the same moment, he turned, and she saw them — his eyes blazing molten gold, teeth lengthened into sharp canines meant for tearing flesh. Not human. Not even close.
She stumbled back. "What—what are you?"
He moved toward her with predatory precision, though his expression wasn't hunger — it was control. Barely. "You weren't supposed to see this."
"You have claws," she whispered, more to herself than him. "And your eyes—"
Adrian stopped a foot away, the air between them crackling. "I told you the truth wouldn't help you."
Her mind reeled, memories of old folklore and late-night movies flashing in pieces. "You're… you're a—"
"Say it," he dared, voice a low, lethal rumble.
She swallowed. "Werewolf."
For a moment, the only sound was the storm. Then Adrian's lips curved, not in amusement but in something darker. "And you're mine."
Elara shook her head, retreating a step, but his hand shot out — fast, too fast — catching her wrist. His grip was unyielding, yet not cruel.
"You should be running from me," he said softly, almost like a warning. "But I can smell it, Elara. You're not afraid enough."
Her heart pounded. "You're insane."
"Maybe." His thumb brushed over the rapid beat of her pulse. "Or maybe you've always known there's something in this world your kind isn't supposed to see."
"I'm not your kind," she spat, but the words didn't feel as certain as she wanted.
Adrian studied her for a long, quiet moment, then released her hand. "Go back to bed."
She hesitated, but his tone left no room for argument. Turning, she left the room quickly, shutting the door behind her — yet the image of him stayed burned in her mind.
She should have been terrified. She should have been planning her escape the moment morning came. But instead, deep in her chest, something else stirred — a strange, electric pull toward the very man she should be running from.
Inside the locked room, Adrian exhaled slowly, forcing his claws back into human form. His wolf was restless, drawn to her in a way he couldn't explain. She wasn't just a human — no ordinary human could stand this close to an Alpha in partial shift and still meet his eyes.
And somewhere, buried in the instincts of the wolf, was the truth he didn't yet know:
The woman in his bed was not prey.
And when the rest of the werewolf world discovered she was alive, blood would run in rivers.