The moment the sliding doors of the elevator shut behind Selena Cross, sealing her from him, the ironclad mask of control Damien wore shattered into a thousand pieces. A roar of guttural and pure rage filled his throat, something more beast than man. He swept his arm across the vast, polished expanse of his desk and sent one laptop, a crystal decanter of scotch, and several other stacks of financial reports flying through the air. The laptop hit the far wall with a sickening crunch of plastic and metal, while the decanter shattered into a million pieces against the bulletproof glass, pouring amber liquid and glittering shards onto the plush carpet. Nothing could calm the storm that raged on inside him. He stalked the length of his office like a caged panther with fists clenched and white-knuckled. Her scent. It was everywhere. It was on the chair she had sat on, in the air she had breathed, driving him mad, away from sanity itself. Lilac, rain, and that indescribable, unique essence that was all hers. It was the scent of his dreams, the scent that called to the ravenous creature now fused to his soul. The beast within had recognized her instantly and surged against the bars of his consciousness with a brutal, possessive force that had almost buckled his knees. While he had been wrestling with her, analyzing her, a primal part of his being had been screaming a single, incessant litany: Mine. Mate. Claim. Mark. It took every ounce of his formidable will not to haul her out of that chair, sink his teeth into the soft, white skin of her neck, where her pulse beat a frenzied, delicious rhythm, and mark her as his for eternity.
He pressed his forehead against the ice-cold glass of the window, fogging it with his breath as he gazed at the twenty-six floors below, with the city sprawled on anything but. I am Damien Voss. Empires are built by my sheer will. Men are broken by a word from my mouth. I have no place in fate, destiny, or the romantic rubbish sold in cheap novels. But knowing that this woman, this stubborn, infuriatingly beautiful journalist, and he were bonded for all time, shook the steel framework underfoot. It was bypassing logic and embedding deep in his bones, right down to the tainted marrow by the wolf's curse. His warning to her had not quite been a threat; it had come out of a desperate, selfish want. He had wanted her to flee, abandon her story, and get as far away from him as possible before he did something that would compromise them both. Just the thought of her doing that, of never getting to see her again, whipped fresh fury from the very depths of his primal soul. She was a paradox: a threat to his cherished world and yet the only thing his beast seemed to want more than blood. The days following their meeting turned out to be a special kind of hell. The rising full moon was a count-down clock; minute by minute, decreased would be the chance to wrench himself from its terrible grasp. His senses, already unnatural, were becoming painfully acute. The city was a sensory torture chamber. He could hear whispers in the boardroom from the other end of the long table, smell the fear sweat of an executive who was trying to bury a mistake, and feel the subway vibrating deep below the tower. Sleep was an act of little mercy. The dreams crowded in more vividly, more gruesomely. It was no longer just a dream of running through the woods; now he was hunting, the thrill of the chase blossoming into the hot metallic taste of blood. He would wake tangled in his thousand-thread-count sheets, his body slick with clammy sweat, muscles stinging from exertions he had not performed in his sleeping state. More than once, he had caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror and saw his own eyes glowing with that feral amber light, a gleaming reminder of the monster staring back from his own face. The obsession with Selena morphed into a ravenous emotionally consuming need. He did what he always did when presented with an obstacle: threw all his weight-and resources-at it. He had his head of security, a former Mossad agent by the name of Elias, compile a full dossier on her. He told himself it was strategic, that he needed to get to know the journalist who was carving away at him. It was a fib. The information became a feast, consumed not like a CEO assessing a threat but like a predator eyeing his quarry, or a lover studying his obsession. He read everything she had published, awed at the ferocious intelligence and uncompromising ethics embedded in her words. He discovered that she was an orphan brought up in the foster care system, which accounted for her relentless drive and ingrained distrust of powerful, privileged men like him. Pictures flooded in of her laughing with friends in a bad downtown bar, that genuine smile breaking forth without any restraint, making his chest ache with a feeling he could hardly articulate. He found out where she lived, grabbed her morning coffee, and what route she would take to work. It was a dangerous comfort, a way to possess a part of her without her even knowing. He was every one of those things: the shadow, the ghost, the phantom, stalking her life from the edges.
On the eve of the full moon, the beast felt like a diamond-clawed creature scratching at the inside of his skin, trying desperately to come out. Sharp shooting pains coursed through him during a conference call, the terrifying sensation of his bones beginning to shift. He bit back a cry, terminating the call abruptly, literally hanging on to the edge of the desk until bruises formed began to form against his fingers. He had to get out of the city. He had a secure, secluded estate upstate, a place where he could lock himself away and weather the transformation without jeopardizing anybody. Logically, it was the responsible and right thing to do. The driver was waiting downstairs. The bag was packed. But still, he could not force his feet toward the elevator. The beast wanted nothing of isolation; it wanted her. It howled for its mate, a need stronger than his will to survive. Down below, he saw traffic flow like rivers of light through concrete canyons of the city. And then he saw her-a dim figure on the sidewalk far below, hair black against the lamplight, walking home from work. Impossible. A million-to-one. But still, there she was. The moment he laid eyes on her, his entire being shook. All rational plans, any carefully-constructed walls of defense, crumbled into dust. He couldn't leave. Not now. Not when she was so close. The need to see her, to be near her, was a physical ache, a gaping wound that could only be soothed by her presence. He could no longer run from her; he was fighting a losing battle. In his resignation, he turned away from the window, toward the elevator. His heart thumped in a rapid, predatory beat as he pressed the button, the beast inside him purring. The driver was waiting in front of the sleek black sedan. "Change of plans," Damien said, a low, dangerous growl. He slid into the backseat, the cool fine leather against his feverish skin. He gave the driver her address, one he now knew as well as his own. "I need to get there. Now."