The espresso machine in the Thorne BioTech lobby was taped off with a handwritten 'Out of Order' sign.
Elara stared at it for a long, empty moment. She did a quick mental calculation the cost of a burnt bodega coffee versus the likelihood of her actually collapsing before she reached the penthouse. She adjusted the strap of her leather briefcase. The cheap metal buckle squeaked, digging a familiar, dull ache into her collarbone. Three hundred pages of offshore account printouts weighed exactly as much as a small cinderblock.
Miss Vance
Elara turned. A young assistant—Liam, according to his crooked name tag—was hovering near the security turnstiles. He was sweating through his slim-fit suit, and he smelled distinctly of wet dog and panic. Submissive rank Werewolf, Elara's brain categorized automatically. Probably underpaid, definitely uninsured. Lead the way, Liam, she said, her voice dry as chalk.
The private elevator ride took forty-seven seconds. Elara counted them, mostly to ignore the way Liam was nervously chewing on his thumbnail. When the heavy steel doors finally slid open, the temperature drop was so violent Elara's teeth actually clicked together.
It wasn't just AC. It was the air pressure. Her ears popped, exactly like they did when a plane descended too fast.
The smell hit her next. Not the lemon-scented floor cleaner from the lobby. This was sharp. Crushed mint, industrial-grade ozone, and a faint, metallic tang that made the back of her throat itch violently.
Pennies. Rust. Blood.
Elara swallowed hard, pushing her thick-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose. Just a routine audit, she reminded herself. Monsters still have to pay the IRS. She pushed through the obscenely heavy oak doors of the CEO's office. The hinges were completely silent. She hated silent doors. They felt deceitful.
The office was the size of a tennis court. Behind a desk carved from a single, arrogant slab of raw obsidian sat Julian Thorne.
He was typing on a ridiculously thin laptop. He didn't look up. The rhythmic tack-tack-tack of his keyboard was the only sound in the room. He was wearing a bespoke charcoal suit that probably cost more than Elara's remaining student loans.
Elara walked forward, her sensible block heels sinking a little too far into the plush Persian rug. She stopped in front of the desk, unlatched her briefcase, and let gravity do the work.
THUD. The sound bounced off the floor-to-ceiling windows. The typing stopped.
Slowly, the man raised his head. Elara felt a sudden, sharp pressure behind her eyes. The supernatural registry hadn't lied about his genetics. Hybrid. The flawless, symmetrical bone structure of a pureblood vampire, but with the terrifying, broad-shouldered bulk of an Alpha wolf.
And the eyes. They weren't hazel. They were liquid, glowing gold.
For a split second, the air in the room condensed. It felt like a physical weight pressing down on her shoulders. Her primitive brain stem screamed at her to drop to her knees, to bare her neck, to apologize for simply existing in his space.
Elara took a breath. It smelled like danger. She reached into her bag, pulled out a thick manila folder, and dropped it on the desk. A rogue paperclip snagged on the edge, pinged off the obsidian, and hit the floor with a pathetic little tink.
Julian Thorne, Elara said. Her voice didn't shake, but it was raspier than usual. She clicked her red plastic pen. Click-click. Supernatural Compliance and Revenue. You owe the federal government exactly three point two million dollars in unpaid blood-import tariffs.
Julian just stared at her. He didn't blink.
And claiming a clandestine human blood bank in Queens as a 'charitable pediatric donation' Elara tapped the folder with the red pen. That's not a loophole, Mr. Thorne. That's just lazy accounting.
Silence.
Then, Julian tilted his head. A low, vibrating sound started in his chest. It took Elara a second to realize he was growling. The sound vibrated right through the soles of her cheap shoes.
Are you lost, little human His voice was a physical texture. Rough velvet over broken glass. It made the hair on Elara's arms stand up.
No. Elara shifted her weight off her aching left foot. But your CFO is going to be in federal lockup by Friday if you don't sign these audit forms. Do you want to use my pen, or do you have a ridiculously expensive feather quill you'd prefer to use
Julian's growl hitched. He blinked, the golden glow stuttering for a fraction of a second, completely thrown off by the mundane threat of paperwork.
He opened his mouth to speak—probably to threaten her life, or try to glamour her into forgetting her own name.
He never got the chance.