Chapter 1: The Interview
The elevator to the Noctis Industries penthouse smelled like money and menace—a dangerous combination of sandalwood, scorched pine, and the ozone tang of lightning about to strike.
Lana Carter stood motionless, resume in hand, tracking the climb: Floor 45. 46. 47. Her other hand trembled against the brushed steel rail, leaving sweat-slick crescents on the chrome. She hadn't eaten more than a protein bar in two days. Her shoes pinched. Her head throbbed.
But nothing could compare to the hunger behind her eyes.
This was it.
Six months of rejection letters. Six months of debt collectors, of neighbors pretending not to see the eviction notice on her door. She had one suit, one shot, and one name everyone in biotech whispered like both a warning and a prayer:
Kieran Noire.
The elevator chimed.
A figure stood framed in the open doors.
Tall. Unmoving. Watching her.
"Miss Carter."
The voice was worse than the rumors. Deeper. Slower. Every syllable layered in gravel and honey, like a warning wrapped in silk. Lana had heard his voice in TED Talks and market takeovers. But in person, it was something else entirely. It clung.
He stood before floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan's skyline behind him like shattered glass and ambition. The suit: midnight navy, custom cut. The watch: matte black, surgical. His cufflinks were silver wolves' heads, tiny rubies gleaming in their eyes.
But his eyes. Jesus.
Not just gray. Storm gray. The exact color of the sky the second before lightning strikes the ocean.
"Sit."
Not a suggestion. A command.
The chair was cold Italian leather, high-backed, throne-like, and deliberately uncomfortable. Behind her, the elevator doors hissed shut. Locked.
Kieran didn't sit. He circled.
His movements were silent, unnervingly fluid. When he picked up her resume from the obsidian desk, his fingers were too long, too precise. Lana kept her expression still, even when she noticed the edge of her resume was burned—as if it had been singed at the corners.
"Top of your class at Columbia," he said. "Yet you've been unemployed for... six months."
Lana's voice was steady. Barely. "The biotech collapse dried the market."
"Excuses bore me."
He didn't look up. He inhaled.
She froze.
"Unscented soap," he murmured. A flicker of amusement curled his lips. "Smart. But not smart enough."
The interview shifted.
"Have you ever been hunted, Miss Carter?"
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Would you describe yourself as territorial?"
He circled behind her chair. The shadow he cast devoured hers.
"Do you believe in monsters?"
Her throat went dry. Something about the way he said it. Like he already knew her answer.
"No," she whispered. "I believe in predators."
For the first time, Kieran smiled.
He stepped into view. His pupils were no longer round.
Slitted. Vertical.
Then it was gone. Just for a second. Her breath hitched.
He offered his hand.
"Why Noctis?" he asked.
Lana stared straight into the storm.
"Because everyone else said no."
A pause. Something passed between them. Hunger. Recognition.
"Welcome to the pack, Miss Carter."
The elevator reopened behind her.
She stepped in without looking back. Only when she reached the lobby did she notice three things:
Her resume was still on his desk.
Her wrist burned where he had brushed against it.
And in the mirrored elevator doors, just before they opened, Kieran Noire's reflection looked at her.
His eyes were glowing.