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 piercing 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. Panic seized my throat. I scanned the freezing black hardwood floors and saw my silk dress from the gala lying near a leather armchair, its side seam violently ripped.

Oh, Goddess. What did I do?

The frosted glass door of the en-suite bathroom slid open. He stepped out, a white towel slung dangerously low on his narrow hips. The sheer force of his Alpha aura-a suffocating, heavy blend of sharp cedarwood, a raging rainstorm, and rich Cuban tobacco-instantly crushed the oxygen out of the room. My skin prickled with the phantom electricity of his touch from last night.

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. I couldn't hear the inner wolf tearing at his mind, but the predatory stillness radiating from him made my breath hitch. He closed the distance between us with slow, lethal grace. 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. Slowly, he tilted his head to the side.

There, at the base of his thick, muscular neck, right on the collarbone, was a deep, red bite mark. A claiming mark. *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.

"A mistake?" His voice was a dangerous, gravelly whisper that vibrated straight through my chest.

"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. 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.

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. But in our world... *Blackwood* was a name 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.

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.