CHAPTER THREE: Claimed in the Boardroom

Zara hadn’t meant to climb the corporate ladder quite so fast.

One minute she was triple-checking contract citations. The next, she was seated at the obsidian boardroom table of Silver & Vale, surrounded by men in thousand-dollar suits who spoke like gods and glared like wolves.

The merger was tense. House Virex and Blackclaw Industries—two names she’d only seen in Maxim’s private case files—sat across from one another, spitting veiled threats in polished legalese.

Zara had been asked to attend only to transcribe and observe. Nothing more. She kept her head down and typed with quiet precision, avoiding eye contact, blending into the periphery like well-trained shadow.

Until one of the executives leaned back in his chair and sneered directly at her.

“And who’s this one?” he said, voice thick with disdain. “Pretty little coffee runner lost on the wrong floor?”

Snickers. Low chuckles. A few murmured comments she couldn’t catch.

Zara stiffened. Her fingers paused above the keyboard.

Her mouth opened—but before she could reply, before she could even breathe—

BANG.

Maxim’s hand slammed down on the table with a force that cracked the lacquer. The sound echoed like a thunderclap, silencing the room instantly.

Everyone froze.

Then, with terrifying calm, Maxim rose from his seat and walked—slowly, deliberately—across the boardroom to stand behind her chair.

He didn’t look at the others. His gaze was only on Zara.

He placed one hand gently—firmly—on her shoulder. Possessive. Unmistakable.

“This is Zara Cole,” he said, his voice colder than arctic stone. “She’s my junior partner.”

A heavy pause.

“And my intended.”

Gasps. Audible. Immediate.

Someone choked on their drink.

The executive from earlier blanched, the blood draining from his face. “Your—your what?”

“Is that a problem?” Maxim asked softly, dangerously.

No one answered.

No one dared.

Zara couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Her lungs refused to cooperate. She sat frozen beneath his hand, heart thundering.

A man from Blackclaw cleared his throat nervously. “Forgive me, Lord Vale, but that wasn’t in the documentation.”

“It didn’t need to be,” Maxim said without turning.

“Well,” the man muttered, fiddling with his cufflinks, “it certainly… alters the dynamics.”

“Then adjust accordingly,” Maxim said. His voice was smooth, but the steel beneath it made the table feel colder.

The rest of the meeting continued, but the air had shifted. No one interrupted her. No one dared look at her too long. When she spoke—barely above a whisper—to clarify a clause or cross-reference a clause, they all listened.

Maxim always listened.

His presence loomed over her, but not like a shadow. More like a shield.

When the meeting adjourned—abruptly, with excessive politeness and shallow bows—Zara followed Maxim out into the corridor.

The heavy door shut behind them with a hiss of finality.

She turned on him the moment they were alone. “Intended? You couldn’t have warned me before making me your fiancée in front of a table full of bloodthirsty CEOs?”

He didn’t flinch. “It was necessary.”

“For what? Your power play?”

He stepped closer. Not threatening. Just there—so fully, so intensely present that her breath caught.

“No,” he said. “To keep you safe.”

“From who?”

“From them. From the ones who see you as prey. From the ones who already know you're mine.”

Zara’s mouth opened. Shut. She searched for something clever or cutting to say, but nothing came out.

Maxim looked at her, softer now. “A claiming doesn’t have to end in a bite. Sometimes,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face, “a name is enough.”

Her skin tingled where his fingers grazed her cheek. His eyes flicked briefly to her neck, as if something already glowed beneath her skin.

She crossed her arms. “You keep saying I’m yours. But I don’t remember signing up for that.”

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile. “You haven’t. Yet.”

“Then maybe don’t make declarations in front of apex predators without running it by me.”

“You’d have said no.”

“I would’ve asked questions,” she snapped.

“And that would’ve cost us time. Time we didn’t have.” He held her gaze. “This wasn’t about theatrics. It was protection.”

“Your version of protection involves publicly claiming ownership of people?”

“Of you,” he said, without hesitation. “Because you’re already a target, Zara. That room was full of predators. They smell difference. Weakness. Vulnerability.”

“And you think I’m weak?” she asked sharply.

“No,” he said, stepping even closer. “I think you’re unmarked. That’s different. And dangerous.”

She held his stare. “So now I’m a chess piece.”

“No,” he said again, more quietly. “You’re a wildcard. And the only one I trust with my throat.”

Zara’s heart beat faster.

“That supposed to be romantic?” she muttered.

“It’s supposed to be honest.”

She looked away, suddenly unsure what to do with the burn rising in her chest. “Next time you decide to make a public declaration involving my name, maybe at least send me a memo.”

“Would you have read it?”

“Depends,” she said, eyeing him. “Would it have been written in blood or ink?”

His chuckle was low. Unexpected. “Probably both.”

She sighed, pushing her hair back. “What now?”

Maxim’s voice was steady. “Now, we see who responds.”

“To your claim?”

“To us,” he said simply. “You’ve become part of something ancient, Zara. Some will challenge that. Others will try to draw you away.”

“And if I back out?” she asked, voice quieter now.

“You can,” he said. “But it won’t change the fact that your scent is known. Your name was heard. A mark spoken is still a mark.”

Zara nodded slowly. “Guess I better learn the rules, then.”

“I’ll teach you,” he said. “And I’ll protect you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t need to.”

They stood in silence for a beat, the hum of the floor beneath them almost musical—some strange, unseen current running just below the marble.

She finally turned to leave. “Next time, maybe let me choose how I get claimed.”

“Fair enough,” he said, and didn’t stop her.

They parted ways with that quiet agreement. No promises. No vows.

But something had changed.

Later that night, alone in her apartment, Zara sat curled on her couch, the pendant Maxim had given her resting against her skin. Warm. Steady. Like a heartbeat.

She stared into the mirror, brushing a finger along the side of her neck.

There.

A faint shimmer.

Pale silver. Barely visible.

A shape like a crescent claw, shifting beneath her skin like moonlight rippling on water.

Her breath caught.

She touched it again.

It pulsed once.

Not imagined.

Not decoration.

A wolf mark.

Something ancient had just woken.

And it knew her name.