The city outside shimmered in silver and glass. Neon bled across the skyline like veins of cold fire, pulsing against the windows of Draxen Global Tower. Inside, the building was silent—too silent. The kind of silence that hummed against Lyra Wynthorne's ears and made her heartbeat sound louder than the typing on her screen.
She shouldn't still be here.
The rest of the staff had gone home hours ago, yet she was still buried in reports, chasing perfection. Her boss—Rian Draxen, the infamously cold CEO—was relentless. He demanded flawlessness, precision, and silence.
And tonight, she was the only one foolish enough to deliver it.
Lyra rubbed her eyes. The glow of her monitor made her reflection ghostlike—pale skin, tired eyes, hair escaping its bun. She sighed, glancing at the clock: 11:47 p.m.
"Just a few more minutes," she muttered.
The elevator dinged.
Her breath caught.
No one should be coming up to the top floor at this hour.
The sound of shoes—measured, deliberate—echoed down the hall. A presence filled the air before she even saw him. It wasn't just his authority; it was something deeper, something primal. Like static before a storm.
And then he appeared.
Rian Draxen.
Sharp suit, darker eyes. His expression unreadable, sculpted from marble and shadow. The CEO of Draxen Global looked every bit the predator the tabloids whispered he was—brilliant, dangerous, untouchable.
"Working late again, Miss Wynthorne?" His voice was smooth, a low rumble that brushed against her skin like velvet and threat combined.
Lyra stood quickly. "Mr. Draxen—I was just finalizing the quarterly—"
"Sit." His gaze cut through her protest. She obeyed before she could think why. "I told you not to exhaust yourself."
"You told me to have this ready by morning."
A flicker passed in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or hunger.
"You follow orders too well."
Her throat tightened. There it was again—that strange undercurrent. Something in his tone that made her pulse skip, something that whispered run, even as her body stayed perfectly still.
He walked closer. The faintest trace of sandalwood and cold air followed him. The room seemed to shrink with every step.
"Do you know what time it is, Miss Wynthorne?" he asked, standing behind her chair now.
"Almost midnight," she whispered.
"Midnight," he echoed, his voice quieter… almost reverent. "The hour when masks slip."
She turned slightly, uneasy. "Sir?"
He leaned down—too close—and his eyes caught the city lights, flashing gold for an instant. It was too quick to be real. Too unreal to be human.
Her breath hitched. "Your eyes—"
He straightened before she could finish, his expression smoothing back into calm. "You're overworked. Go home."
But Lyra couldn't shake what she'd seen. A shimmer. A slitted gleam like a serpent's gaze.
Impossible… right?
When she reached for her laptop, her trembling fingers brushed a stack of folders. They tumbled—papers scattering across the marble floor. Lyra dropped to gather them—
—and froze.
His hand caught hers mid-motion. Warm. Firm. And then—suddenly—cold.
Not human-cold, but alive with something electric, ancient.
A hiss of static filled her ears. Symbols flared under her skin where he touched her, glowing faintly like silver veins.
"Wh–what—?" she gasped, trying to pull away.
Rian's pupils narrowed, thin and vertical. His breath deepened.
"Damn it…" he muttered under his breath. "It's too soon."
"Mr. Draxen—your hand—your eyes—what's happening—?"
He released her abruptly. The mark on her wrist shimmered before fading, leaving behind a faint, serpent-shaped outline beneath her skin.
Lyra staggered back. "You—You're not—"
"Not human?" His tone was calm, but his eyes burned with warning. "You should forget what you saw."
"How can I—forget—this?"
The air between them thickened, heavy with energy and instinct. Lyra's pulse raced in her throat. He looked at her like a creature holding back a deadly urge—like she was prey, and he was trying very hard not to devour her.
"Go home, Lyra," he said quietly. The use of her first name startled her more than the mark. "Before I stop pretending."
Something ancient rippled beneath his calm surface. The man she thought she knew—her cold, distant CEO—was gone. What stood before her was something older, darker, and infinitely more dangerous.
Her feet finally moved.
She turned, heart hammering, and fled the office. The elevator doors closed just as she saw him exhale sharply, eyes blazing gold once more.
And somewhere deep in her bones, the mark on her wrist pulsed—warm, alive.
As if it had a heartbeat of its own.
The elevator doors slid shut, sealing her inside the mirrored box.
Lyra gripped her wrist as the mark pulsed beneath her skin, faint but alive—like it was breathing. She tried to steady her breathing, tried to convince herself this was a hallucination. Overtime stress. Too much caffeine. Too many nights chasing deadlines for a man who barely looked at her.
But the pain was real. The warmth. The whisper.
Thrum.
The pulse beat again—synchronizing with her heartbeat. Then something inside her answered it.
Her vision blurred. For a split second, she saw flashes—eyes like molten gold, a serpent coiling through shadows, a voice whispering her name not through sound but through instinct.
Lyra…
She stumbled against the wall. "Stop. Stop this."
The elevator stopped. Not at the lobby—at the sublevel.
The lights flickered, then died.
A voice—smooth, low, too close—echoed in the darkness.
"You shouldn't have touched me."
Her breath caught. "Mr. Draxen?"
The lights snapped back, bathing the confined space in dim emergency red. Rian stood across from her, though she hadn't seen him enter. His eyes burned gold now—unmistakably inhuman.
Lyra backed away, spine pressing to cold metal.
"This… isn't real."
"It is," he said softly. His tone carried regret—and something darker. "The mark responds to instinct. You shouldn't have been near me tonight."
"You mean—this?" She lifted her wrist, the faint serpent-shaped mark gleaming faintly. "What is it?"
He looked at it like it was a wound on his own skin.
"The beginning of a Bond."
"A—what?"
"The Bonding Ceremony," he said, voice roughened by control. "It's an ancient link between my kind and those… chosen by fate. It wasn't meant to happen. Not with you."
She shook her head. "I didn't choose this."
"Neither did I," he said, stepping closer. "But the serpent doesn't obey human reason. Once the mark forms, the ritual completes itself."
Her pulse spiked. "Ritual? What ritual?"
His eyes darkened. "The one that ties your soul to mine."
The air shimmered. Lyra's reflection in the mirrored wall rippled like water, and suddenly the metal box wasn't a box at all. The air around them thickened—time folding, space bending—and the world shifted.
The scent of cold earth. The hiss of unseen voices.
Lyra blinked and found herself standing in a cavernous hall—dim torches lining obsidian walls etched with serpentine patterns. A circle of silver light glowed beneath her feet.
"What—where are we?" she breathed.
"This isn't the physical world," Rian said quietly. His form shimmered slightly, his human edges blurring with something vast and reptilian beneath. "The Bonding Realm manifests when two marks align."
"I didn't want this!"
His gaze softened, though the predator in him coiled beneath the surface. "I know."
A low hum filled the air—the torches flaring as unseen energy built between them. Lyra's wrist burned. The serpent mark spread, threads of silver light winding up her arm like living veins.
Rian's mark—hidden beneath his cuff—glowed in answer.
"Don't fight it," he warned. "The more you resist, the stronger it pulls."
"I don't—" She gasped as energy surged through her chest, twisting warmth and pain together. Her knees buckled. "I don't want to—!"
He caught her before she fell, his arms cold and hot all at once. The contact unleashed another wave of energy—symbols flaring on the floor, forming a circle of ancient runes.
The serpent symbol burned between them.
Rian's voice dropped to a whisper. "It's binding us."
Lyra looked up at him, tears bright in her eyes. "Make it stop."
He hesitated—just long enough for her to see the conflict in his gaze.
"I can't," he said finally. "It's already chosen."
The light burst, flooding everything in white.
Lyra screamed.
And then—silence.
When the brightness faded, she was lying on the cold marble floor of the real office. The elevator doors stood open beside her. The city lights flickered beyond the glass. Everything looked normal again… except for the faint shimmer on her wrist.
The serpent mark now gleamed like silver ink—permanent.
Rian stood near the window, his back to her, his voice low and shaken.
"You shouldn't have been part of this world, Lyra Wynthorne."
She pushed herself up, trembling. "What… are you?"
He turned, his eyes catching the reflection of neon.
The human facade had returned—but she'd seen what lurked beneath.
"I'm what the world forgot existed," he said softly. "And now, because of that mark… you're bound to me."
The sound of the city filled the silence between them—distant sirens, the hum of life continuing above an ancient curse.
Lyra's wrist burned once more, and her heart answered it.
Even in fear, a strange, dangerous pull connected her to him.
She didn't know if it was fate, magic, or madness.
But she knew one thing for certain—
Whatever had awakened tonight… it wasn't done with her yet.