The New York City sanitation truck arrived at exactly 6:14 AM.
It didn't just beep; it sounded like a dying mechanical elephant backing into a wall of empty glass bottles. The noise rattled the single-pane window of Elara's bedroom so hard the glass buzzed.
Elara groaned, pressing a flat pillow over her face. Her spine felt like it had been realigned by a baseball bat.
A loud, ominous THUMP echoed from the living room, followed immediately by a string of ancient, guttural curses that vibrated through the floorboards.
Elara dragged herself out of the twin bed, her joints popping in sympathy. She tied her faded terrycloth robe tight and limped into the living room.
Julian Thorne was on the floor.
The cheap Craigslist sofa had finally surrendered. One of its wooden front legs had completely snapped, tilting the entire piece of furniture at a forty-five-degree angle and dumping the billion-dollar apex predator onto the hard linoleum.
Julian was sitting amidst the wreckage of the mustard-yellow cushions. His ruined bespoke suit was crumpled, his dark hair was sticking up in chaotic angles, and his golden eyes were staring murderously at the broken sofa leg. He looked like a feral cat that had just fallen into a bathtub.
"I am going to burn this building to the ground," Julian rumbled. His voice was thick with sleep and pure, unfiltered homicidal rage. "I am going to buy the land, salt the earth, and build a parking lot just so I can fire the attendant."
"You can't buy a hotdog right now, Thorne," Elara said, stepping over his long legs to reach the tiny kitchenette. She aggressively hit the power button on her ten-dollar coffee maker. It wheezed loudly. "And if you burn the building, the arson fine is five hundred thousand dollars. Which goes on our tab."
Julian slowly dragged his hands down his face, his claws making a soft scratching sound against his jawline. The physical reality of the Mate Bond was making his chest ache again—a dull, gnawing tightness because he was technically 'displaced' from his territory.
"I cannot wear this," Julian muttered, pulling at the stiff, dust-covered collar of his torn suit. He smelled like ozone, plaster, and the subway. "I need my tailor."
"Your tailor probably doesn't accept food stamps." Elara opened a plastic drawer, dug around for five seconds, and threw a balled-up piece of fabric at his head. It hit him square in the face. "Bathroom is down the hall. Don't use the pink towel, it sheds."
Julian pulled the fabric off his face. He held it up.
It was a neon green, aggressively cheap cotton T-shirt. Printed across the front in bold, cartoonish letters was: FLOSS LIKE A BOSS - 2022 Tri-State Dental Convention. Julian stared at the shirt. Then he stared at Elara. The golden glow in his eyes actually dimmed in sheer disbelief. "You want me. To put this. On my body."
"It belonged to an ex," Elara said, pouring black sludge into a chipped mug. "He was a periodontist. Now, put it on before I report you for public indecency."
Fifteen minutes later, Julian stepped out of the bathroom.
It was a physical disaster. The T-shirt was meant for an average human, not a two-hundred-pound hybrid with shoulders like a linebacker. The neon green fabric stretched so tight across Julian's chest it looked like it was painted on, the sleeves straining aggressively against his biceps. The word 'BOSS' was stretched so wide the 'O' looked like an oval.
Elara took one look at him, swallowed a mouthful of scalding coffee, and immediately started choking.
Before Julian could even open his mouth to complain about the synthetic blend cutting off his circulation, three aggressive, rhythmic knocks hammered against the apartment door.
Knock-knock-knock.
"Elara Vance! Open this door or I'm using the fire escape!"
Elara froze, her coffee mug suspended in mid-air. Oh, no.
"Who is that?" Julian growled, his posture instantly shifting. The ridiculous dental shirt didn't stop the sudden, terrifying drop in air pressure. He stepped in front of Elara, his fangs descending out of pure, territorial instinct. "Is it the Paladin? The assassins?"
"Worse," Elara whispered, terrified. "It's HR."
She hobbled to the door, undoing the chain and the slide-latch. She pulled it open a crack.
A massive, neon-pink acrylic hoop earring pushed its way through the gap, followed immediately by the overwhelming smell of vanilla body mist and cheap hairspray.
Chloe pushed the door wide open.
The SCRS archives clerk was wearing a leopard-print blazer that violated at least four dress codes, holding a massive iced coffee in one hand and her glowing smartphone in the other.
POP. Chloe blew a massive pink bubblegum bubble and sucked it back in.
"My tarot cards this morning said 'The Tower' and 'The Fool,' which usually means the cafeteria is serving that awful meatloaf again," Chloe announced, marching into the tiny apartment without an invitation. "But then I checked the internal registry—"
Chloe stopped dead in her tracks.
She lowered her iced coffee. Her wide, heavily mascaraed eyes locked onto the massive, glaring, neon-green-clad Alpha standing in the middle of the kitchen.
Julian bared his fangs, a low, warning rumble vibrating the cheap floorboards. It was the kind of sound that made grown men wet themselves.
Chloe didn't flinch. She just blinked, tilted her head, and squinted at the stretched letters on his chest.
"Oh my god," Chloe whispered, her voice filled with absolute, religious awe. "You're wearing the periodontist's shirt."
Julian's growl hitched. He looked down at his own chest, suddenly acutely aware of how tight the cotton was. "I—"
"Elara," Chloe whipped around, her acrylic nails tapping furiously against her smartphone screen. "The system sent a ping at midnight. It said your financial profile merged with Julian Thorne. As in, the Julian Thorne. The billionaire. The guy who owns half of Manhattan."
Chloe looked back at Julian, taking in the broken Craigslist sofa, the peeling wallpaper, and the neon green T-shirt. She took a slow sip of her iced coffee. The ice cubes rattled loudly.
"Girl," Chloe deadpanned, looking at Elara. "He doesn't look like a billionaire. He looks like a bouncer at a vegan nightclub."
"He's broke, Chloe," Elara said, aggressively rubbing her temples. The headache was back, hammering right behind her left eye. "Gideon slapped a Class-A freeze on his assets. We owe the Vatican thirty-two million dollars. And if he leaves this apartment, he gets executed and I inherit the debt."
POP. Chloe chewed her gum. She looked at Julian, then at Elara, then back at Julian.
Slowly, Chloe reached into her leopard-print pocket, pulled out her phone, and pointed the camera directly at the terrifying, ancient hybrid.
Click. The shutter sound was obscenely loud.
"What are you doing?" Julian snarled, his eyes flashing dangerous gold. "Delete that immediately, or I will tear your arms off."
"I'm sending it to the SCRS group chat," Chloe said calmly, hitting 'Send'. "Brenda in accounting owes me twenty bucks. She said you'd never get married. Also, your aura is completely purple right now, which means you're super stressed. Have you tried lavender oil?"
Julian Thorne, apex predator, closed his eyes and let out a sound that was dangerously close to a whimper.