Chapter Three: The Beast Beneath the Skin
The office was dark, the only light coming from the moon hanging low over the city skyline.
Damian Nightborne sat in his leather chair, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His amber eyes glinted faintly in the glass as he stared out over Valemont City like a king surveying a crumbling empire.
But there was no kingdom.
Only memory.
Only blood.
He swirled the glass of whiskey in his hand, untouched. Across the desk lay reports, figures, merger contracts—soulless things. Easy things. Things that didn't claw at the locked doors in his mind.
But she did.
The girl.
The cleaner with the bruised eyes and broken posture. The one who moved like she didn't want the world to see her. Like she had already lost too much.
He hadn't meant to notice her. He never noticed anyone. But there was something… off. Not just human sadness. No. Something deeper. Something ancient. Like fate brushing past him in the form of a stranger.
He stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city pulsed below like a beast of its own—restless, hungry, blind.
So was he, once.
Damian's reflection stared back at him. Cold. Sharp-jawed. Controlled. The man the world knew: ruthless CEO. Untouchable. Brilliant. Alone by choice.
But beneath the skin…
A monster stirred.
He felt it tonight, stronger than usual. The full moon wasn't even close, but the wolf beneath his flesh was prowling—restless. And that only happened when something was wrong.
Or changing.
He turned from the window and walked toward the hidden door in the far wall—one only he could open. Behind it: a private chamber of stone and steel. His sanctuary. His cage.
Damian stripped off his shirt, revealing the scars etched across his chest and back—reminders of battles no human could survive. His skin shimmered faintly under the overhead lights, catching the edges of claw marks, bite wounds, burn traces.
Memories of betrayal. Of blood. Of exile.
He sat on the cold bench and let his head fall into his hands. He hadn't shifted in months. He didn't want to. Not unless he had to.
But tonight, the wolf growled.
It had smelled her too.
---
The Beast Beneath the Skin (continued)
The Next Morning.
Luna kept her head down as she mopped the 50th floor hallway, steam rising from the bucket beside her. She had barely slept. The attic's cold bit through her thin blanket, and her stomach churned from hunger and nerves.
Then came the call.
Mr. Tarris, the janitor supervisor, waved her over with a grunt. "You. Office 5001. CEO's suite."
Luna froze. "The… CEO?"
"Yeah. Office needs wiping down before a meeting. Don't touch anything. Don't speak to anyone. Don't screw up."
He shoved a cloth and polish into her hands, then muttered, "Try not to make the building smell like poor."
Her ears burned as she stepped into the executive hallway, alone. Every click of her shoes echoed like a threat. Then she reached the door.
Nightborne Enterprises – CEO Damian Nightborne
She took a breath and opened it.
The office was massive—glass walls, obsidian floors, art that looked more like spells than paintings. The air inside was cold, quiet, clinical. Like the man himself.
She approached the desk carefully, wiping the polished surface with slow, even strokes.
Then it happened.
Her elbow brushed something small—barely a tap.
Crash!
Glass shattered. The sound was sharp, final.
She froze. Her heart stopped.
On the floor lay a broken sculpture—glass, shaped like a wolf's head. Or what used to be one.
She dropped to her knees, trying to gather the sharp fragments, but her hands trembled.
The door slammed open.
It was Mrs. Greyson, the floor manager. Impeccably dressed, lipstick like blood.
"What. Have. You. Done?"
"I—I'm sorry," Luna whispered. "It was an accident—"
"Do you have any idea what that cost?" Greyson hissed, storming toward her. "That was a commissioned piece from a private German artisan. You cleaners come in here, stinking of bleach and desperation, and ruin everything."
Luna's hands bled where a shard had nicked her, but she didn't cry. Not yet.
Greyson's voice rose. "You should be fired for this. No—blacklisted. No one will hire a thief or a vandal."
"I didn't steal—" Luna whispered.
"You don't belong in places like this."
And then, quietly, from behind them—
"That's enough."
Greyson froze.
Luna turned her head slowly.
Damian Nightborne stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled, tie loosened. His amber eyes locked on the broken sculpture. Then on Luna.
"I asked for my office to be cleaned," he said, voice calm—but underneath, a pulse of danger. "Not for employees to be screamed at like animals."
Greyson cleared her throat, flustered. "Sir, she—she broke the glass wolf. It was—"
"I saw," Damian interrupted.
He stepped into the room, gaze never leaving Luna. "Clean it up. And get her a bandage."
"Sir, surely you don't mean to—"
"Do I look like I'm negotiating?"
Greyson flinched, then stormed out, heels stabbing the floor.
Luna remained kneeling, frozen, clutching glass and cloth.
Damian knelt beside her slowly, surprising her. "You're bleeding."
"I—I didn't mean to—"
"I know."
She finally met his eyes. And in them, she didn't see rage.
She saw curiosity.
And something else.
Something old.
Something hungry.
Luna stared into Damian's eyes for barely a second.
It was enough.
The heat in them… the calm… the sharpness beneath the surface—it all wrapped around her like a chain. She couldn't breathe.
Why wasn't he yelling?
Why wasn't he cruel, like the others?
Why was he looking at her like she wasn't invisible?
This is a trick, her mind screamed. This is danger.
With trembling hands, she dropped the last shard into the trash bag, stood, and stumbled backward.
"I'm sorry," she said, voice shaking. "I—thank you—I won't… I shouldn't have been here—"
"Wait," Damian said, standing as well. "You're hurt."
But Luna was already halfway to the door. She didn't look back. Couldn't. Not when her cheeks burned with humiliation, not when her chest felt like it would burst from confusion and fear.
She burst through the hallway, down the emergency stairs, through the back entrance.
Outside, the cold hit her like a slap. She leaned against the brick wall, panting, her cut hand still bleeding through the cloth.
Her heart thundered.
Not from fear.
From something else.
Something she didn't want to name.
Back in the office…
Damian stood in silence.
The room still smelled faintly of her—soap, sweat, and something wild beneath it all. He could still hear her heartbeat. Fast. Uneven. Full of pain.
He turned to the broken glass in the bin.
One word echoed in his head, over and over.
Mate.
He clenched his jaw.
"No," he muttered. "It's not possible."
But deep inside, the wolf growled in agreement.
It was her.
The girl with pain in her eyes and dirt on her shoes.
She was the one.