Chapter Four

Y A N A

No. This can’t be happening to me.

My mouth goes dry at the sight of Mikhail Sartori standing in front of the double doors. The logical part of me wants to look at his face to see if he’s angry or not, but the cowardly side of me just wants to look away and ignore him until he goes away.

Unfortunately, the cowardly part wins. I lower my head and pick up the broken necklace, taking my sweet-ass time as the whole hall gets brought into a standstill. I shove Gwen’s leg just to be mean, and of course she makes a whole show of flinching to bring even more attention to us.

“What’s happening?” I hear Mikhail asking in a low voice, amplified by the silent hall. “What commotion is going on?”

The woman at the desk whispers something incomprehensible to him, and I don’t dare get up until he’s gone.

I’m silently praying to all the gods in every religion that ever existed to take me out of this awkward and possibly life-ending situation, stuffing the necklace back into its bag. I hold my breath as I hear his footsteps.

But instead of going away, his footsteps get louder and louder.

Which means that he’s closer.

Then I see the pair of shiny black loafers stopping in front of me.

I don’t dare look up. I stay there on my knees, picking nonexistent shit from the floor.

Gwen shoots to her feet. “Mister Sartori.”

“Good morning,” comes his pleasant voice. “May I know what’s going on here?”

I freeze. My heart is beating so fast in my chest that I can hardly breathe. Sweat is lining up my forehead and I’m sure that my makeup is slowly melting. I can feel his eyes on me, so I think to myself, fuck it.

Then I look up.

And I almost fall over.

Mikhail Sartori is . . . gorgeous.

No. Not even that. That word doesn’t do him justice. In fact, I can’t think of any word that would do him justice.

He’s always been handsome in a old-timey way, but in person, he looks like a statue come to life, an old movie star that could have swept the masses in the fifties. Wavy black hair, straight nose, sculpted jaw, sloping cheeks. And those eyes . . . gray like brewing storm clouds, as intense as lightning itself but also as quietly shocking as the low rumble of thunder.

His crisp midnight blue suit, which is most likely more worth than my annual rent, hugs him perfectly, clinging onto every sharp plane in a way that makes it obvious he has a great body. Even from here, I can smell his perfume. Musk and mint, with a hint of freshness in there that I cannot place, like pine.

In all the times I’ve seen him on TV or on the internet, I always thought he was uniquely and devastatingly good-looking. But I never thought he would be absolutely immaculate.

My breath gets stuck in my throat. I don’t realize I’ve been gawking at him until Gwen prods my knee with the end of her shoe. I flinch, then I come back to reality. I’m still in a kneeling position in front of Mikhail and he’s staring down at me with an expectant expression.

“Well?” he asks in a deep, smooth voice with a slight rasp. “What’s the matter?”

“I. . . .” I start to say but I falter, the lump in my throat seemingly getting bigger. “I just. . . .”

Fuck. I can’t even talk.

Mikhail angles his head and beckons me to get up. “Follow me. Now.”

* * *

M I K H A I L

It’s not even ten in the morning, and yet I have already rejected all twelve of the first business plans I have heard. I was already starting to think that maybe mixing humans into my world is not a good idea, then I heard some kind of commotion in the hall.

I had to dismiss Jane, who has a boring pottery business, just to address whatever childish tantrum was happening.

And there I saw a woman picking things off the ground, looking flustered and sweaty and just plain weird.

“Follow me. Now.”

Without looking back at her, I turn around and head back to the conference room. I hear the woman’s high heels clacking behind me, so I just motion Evan to open the door and let her in.

I sit behind my desk again, motioning the woman to stand in front of me. Without me instructing her to, she slides her folder on my desk. Then, she reluctantly drops what looks like a mashed up twine box on top of the folder.

She stands back, clearing her throat before saying in a really loud, shrill voice, “I’m Yana Allard, twenty-three, and I am the owner and founder of--”

“Hold on.” I raise a hand to stop her. “You haven’t explained what happened back there. My assistant told me that you were the one who screamed. So what makes you think you can start a scene in my building?”

She opens her mouth to say something, but then she just closes it and takes a deep breath. Her face is entirely red now. Her brown eyes are wide, which tells me that she’s panicking. She’s sweating so much that some of her brown hair is sticking to her face, and I worry that her scent might set me off.

But of course, Evan is already on it.

“I lowered the temperature of the room to make sure she doesn’t sweat more,” he tells me through mind-link. “Her scent is killing me. You alright, boss?”

“I am,” I say, and as soon as I say that, I feel quite surprised.

I’m actually not doing too bad. I don’t feel triggered by her scent at all, even though I can smell traces of it in the air, sweet and flowery.

I turn back to her, and as soon as our eyes meet, she splutters, “My step-sister took my products and . . . we accidentally broke one of them when we were fighting over it. And she smashed the box.” When I don’t say anything, she adds, “I’m really sorry.”

I reach out for her folder and start perusing it. “That’s fine, but please don’t bring your family drama here next time.”

“I sent my presentation in the email,” she tells me meekly. “Should I ask your operator to play it?”

“No need,” I say, looking at her introduction.

So she’s Yana Allard, owner of Catori Jewelry, named after her grandmother who was from a tribe named Sioux. Pretty impressive, since Native American tribes have always been friends with Lycans. What I can’t find impressive is the actual business.

I flick through the pictures of her samples. They look indigenous and intricate, but pretty modern at the same time. I can see them going on stores, but not on a massive scale. And her marketing strategy of sharing her process and trying to go viral is not working for her. Her sales are nearly nonexistent.

“Your records are not good,” I say. “Mediocre online engagement. Almost no traction to your site. No physical sales either. Are you sure this is the right line for you?”

“I’m sure,” Yana replies, and I notice that there’s a slight edge to her voice, like this is something she’s tired of hearing. “I’m a design graduate, and this is what I want to do.”

“Hmm.” I set her file down and look at her samples. The broken necklace has a very thin delicate string, so no wonder it broke. The earrings have a unique topaz design. “They are quite well-made.”

“Thank you.” She shifts in her spot. “So . . . will you fund me?”

Something about her question makes me crack up. I don’t know if it’s her tone or the blatant casualness of it. Or maybe just the plain absurdity. Either way, I am not impressed.

I set her samples down and look at her eye to eye. “Do you think I dole out rewards here? What makes you believe you’re the right candidate for this?”

“Well, you complimented my work,” she reasons out. “Also, I know that with your help, I would be able to grow my business into a sustainable, ethical jewelry brand that is in touch with indigenous roots and Native American culture--”

“I literally read that line in your folder,” I interject with a sigh. “Miss Allard, I am here to find a business that could potentially bring profit. And while the chosen owners would have my experts at their side, I can’t bank on a miracle. That is to say, I can’t start from zero. And you have zero.”

Yana’s face turns plum-red. “I don’t have zero.”

“Yes, you do,” I say dismissively. “Three sales in the past month means nothing--”

“It means something. I just need resources to be able to start!”

I sigh. “I am not a charity, Miss Allard.”

She steps back as though I just slapped her. “No.”

I frown. “Excuse me?”

Yana crosses the room, standing directly in front of my desk. She puts her hand on the table, looking directly at me. Standing way too close to me.

Close enough to trigger me.

I hold my breath, leaning back on my chair to prevent myself from inhaling her scent. I call Evan through mind-link, but it seems that he went out and I didn’t notice. He doesn’t answer.

“Take one more step closer and I will call security,” I warn her. “Remember, I can ban you from this establishment.”

To my surprise, she leans in closer and brings her face dangerously close to mine.

I jump to my feet and tower over her, hoping this would make her move away before I end up shifting, but she squares up to me. Her eyes look wild, like a cornered animal’s before it decides to pounce.

And I find it oddly . . . stimulating.

“I need this,” she growls at me. “I will not get out of here, I will not step back, until I hear you say yes to my business.”

I scoff at her. “You don’t call the shots here. You are nothing but a desperate, tantrum-throwing embarrassment and you need to--”

SLAP.

The stinging sensation zaps me first, then comes the realization and the fear that Yana, a human woman, just touched me. The shock of it makes time slow down and go fast at the same time. I clutch my cheek, looking down only to see that she’s already out the door, bumping into Evan on her way out.

Evan sees me, his eyes going wide. “Boss, what happened?”

“She slapped me,” I mutter, rubbing my cheek. “She . . . touched me.”

“But you didn’t shift,” Evan says, then he stops. “Oh. You didn’t shift when she touched you, but she’s human.”

“Yes.” My confusion turns into utmost joy. “Evan, I think I found my girlfriend.”