The Blackwood building had a pulse.
Isadora felt it the second she stepped into the lobby that morning—low, rhythmic, like something breathing beneath the marble floors. Something ancient. Something territorial.
It wasn't just architecture. It was alive.
Every line of the structure, every corner, every sigil-etched beam whispered the same thing:
This is not yours.
But she walked forward anyway, heels sharp on polished stone, spine straight, mouth set in its most professional curve. If she burned, she'd do it standing.
The receptionist didn't ask for her name. She didn't need to.
The elevator was already open, waiting like an open mouth.
Too easy.
Too expected.
She stepped in. The doors closed silently behind her, locking out the rest of the world.
The interior was all mirrors and shadows, and in every reflection, she saw the same thing—herself, perfectly composed. But beneath the poise, the tight twist of desire she hadn't authorized. Her pupils were slightly dilated. Her pulse was visible at her throat.
She touched the amulet beneath her blouse.
Warm.
And getting warmer.
The glyph etched into her skin the night before pulsed faintly, like a second heartbeat. The charm was supposed to block connection. Nullify emotion. Seize control.
Instead, it crackled.
Still unstable.
Still connected.
And beneath it—heat.
Not from fear.
Not even anger.
Craving.
The elevator chimed.
She exhaled slowly, forcing her body into obedience.
The doors slid open, revealing Dorian's private floor. No assistants. No guards. Just empty space filled with the scent of cedar, leather, and him.
And him.
He stood near the window, framed by the skyline like a painting of war. Suit jacket gone. Sleeves rolled. Tie loose around his throat like a leash someone had tried—and failed—to tighten.
The first two buttons of his shirt were open, and gods help her, she looked.
Golden skin. Sharp clavicle. A faint scar bisecting the smooth line of his chest. A detail no file had ever mentioned.
Predator at rest. But never unarmed.
He didn't look at her.
But he knew.
"You're early," he said. His voice was low. A slow, deliberate drag of velvet across exposed skin.
"Habit," she replied, stepping onto the floor like it didn't bite.
She walked toward the desk, back straight, hips steady.
Not prey. Not this time.
His gaze flicked to her then, and it hit her like static—like heat lightning striking water. Her skin rippled. Her breath stalled.
He smiled, faint and wrong. "You smell different."
She froze. "Excuse me?"
"You tried a spell." He tilted his head, nostrils flaring slightly. "Containment? Reversal? Doesn't matter. It didn't work."
She said nothing.
Silence was safer than lying.
He stepped forward, slow and careful, like a wolf approaching something breakable—but interesting.
"I dreamed of you again," he murmured. "This time you were on your knees."
"Fascinating," she said coolly. "I dreamed you bled out."
That smile again. Amused. Dark.
"You want to hate me," he said. "But your magic doesn't."
She moved past him, ignoring the shiver his proximity caused. "I have your schedule for the day. Three meetings. One hostile acquisition. And someone named Miranda keeps sending you orchids. Should I send a thank-you note or a cease and desist?"
He said nothing.
Instead, he moved behind her—close, too close—and she felt it again.
The tug.
The pull in her stomach. The thrum in her veins. Her body responding to a bond that had no name, no permission, no rules.
He leaned in. "You should run."
She turned to face him, spine straight. "You should leash yourself before someone else does."
A flicker of gold in his eyes. Not anger.
Interest.
Challenge.
Danger.
He stepped even closer, crowding into her space like he owned the air between them. His hand didn't touch her—but hovered, inches from her waist.
"Say the word," he murmured, "and I'll burn the bond clean."
She met his gaze. "Do it."
A pause.
Long.
Tense.
Almost unbearable.
Then: "Liar."
Her breath caught.
Because she was.
Because something inside her screamed not to sever it.
She stepped back. "You don't scare me."
He smiled. "No, Isadora. I haunt you."
---
Later, in the privacy of his office, Dorian sat alone again, watching the skyline like it would answer the question he hadn't spoken.
She was resisting. Of course she was.
But the bond wasn't waiting.
It was growing.
Evolving.
He could feel her even now—two floors below, heart rate accelerating, lips pressed tight in frustration.
He didn't need a scent trail. He didn't need magic.
She was inside him.
Not entirely. Not yet.
But enough.
Enough that it would be a war now.
And if there was one thing Dorian Blackwood enjoyed more than control, it was conquest.
And Isadora Vale?
She was not a one-night game.
She was an undoing waiting to happen.
And gods, he wanted to be undone.