Chapter 8

I gather the pieces of myself and leave the office. My own intentions are as fractured as his. I cannot think straight with the scent of him so fresh, so insistent, so much like a promise.

The door swings shut behind me, cutting off the warmth and memory of Derek's presence with surgical precision. I pause, letting the emptiness of the hallway seep into the hollow spaces he has left. My breath escapes in a slow, controlled exhalation, the whisper of it tracing ghostlike over the chaos that still churns beneath my surface.

He wants me to fail. He wants me to want him, to need him, to come to him like an addict, like a supplicant. It is the game he plays best, the game I swore I would never indulge. But his words echo in my mind, insistent as the pulse that thuds at my temples.

You'll be back on top of this in no time.

It's important.

I am the wolf, but I feel like prey.

The elevator is waiting for me, its doors parted like an invitation I cannot refuse. The interior smells of glass and chrome, a clinical scent that clears my head, refocuses my resolve. I am grateful for the clarity, however temporary. Grateful for the reprieve it gives me from the tumult of my own thoughts.

It is Derek who brings out this wildness in me, this inability to think in straight lines. When he is gone, I will find my center again. When he is gone, I will make sense of the things he has left in disarray. I tell myself this, hoping I will believe it before he returns to prove me wrong.

The ground floor is as empty as the office, a yawning cavern of dim light and discarded expectations. The woman at the front desk stares as I pass, her eyes wide and uncertain, as if she can sense the upheaval I carry with me like a second skin. Her mouth opens, and I see my own questions form on her lips.

"Ms. Wolfe—"

But I am already gone, the glass doors swallowing her curiosity, her concern, before they can reach me.

The street outside is bathed in the dull, ambient glow of city lights. I feel the gentle patter of rain before I see it, a delicate mist settling over my skin like the brush of distant memory. I do not break stride. The silk clings to me in shifting patterns of shadow and skin, but I do not feel the chill.

I think of Derek and the heat rises in my chest, in my throat, in my mouth, scalding the tips of my fingers where they grip my briefcase too tight. The paper inside creases under my touch, but I do not loosen my hold. I will not let it go. I will not let him win.

It is a lie, and we both know it.

I walk through the city in a haze, my own heart beating a steady, familiar tempo of suspicion and desire. He knew what he was doing, coming here. Knew the effect he would have. But he does not know me as well as he thinks. He does not know the lengths I will go to in order to prove him wrong.

I pass a vendor closing up shop, the sharp tang of newsprint and fresh ink piercing the fog. It brings me back to myself, to the task at hand, and I stop, flipping through the paper with ruthless speed. There are too many deals in motion, too many details to sort, and I will need all of them in order to keep up. I will need all of them in order to keep Derek from outpacing me.

He wants me to need him. But he is the one who will need me.

I take the long way home, circling the block, circling my own scattered thoughts. The rain grows heavier, but I do not seek shelter. I feel the cold sting of it on my cheeks, on my neck, and I welcome the sensation, the reminder that I am still here, that I am still the one holding on.

But the grip is tenuous, and it slips the closer I get.

I pause outside the building, knowing what waits inside. Knowing that I will not be able to resist. Derek has left his mark, and I can already feel it growing, festering, a wound that I cannot keep from reopening.

It is important.

I will not fall into the trap. I will not.

But it is not a trap if I choose to walk into it.

The elevator glides upward, a smooth, mechanical ascent that contrasts with the wild, chaotic rise of my own anticipation. I want to get there. I want to delay. I want to open the door and find him waiting, want to open the door and find him gone.

The keys are slick in my hand, slipping against the cold metal of the lock as I fumble for entry. I am losing my grip on everything, on myself, and I no longer care.

I step inside, closing the door on the night and the rain and the outside world. My things fall from my hands, my briefcase splitting open on the floor and sending the carefully organized contents into disarray. I am too eager, too afraid to gather them back into place.

The phone blinks with new messages, each one a taunt, a promise, a line cast and waiting for me to bite. I hear it with Derek's voice, low and confident, daring me to come to him. Daring me to do what I always do, what I have always done.

The full moon is tomorrow, I remind myself, as if the knowledge will somehow anchor me to the decision I am about to make.

There is only one reply. There has only ever been one.

We need to talk, Derek.

He will understand. He will know that I am giving in, that I am coming to him, but not for the reasons he expects. I will show him. I will win, whatever the cost.

I pour a drink, the liquid smooth and amber-bright as it slides into the glass. It matches the gleam in my eye, the heat of my resolve. The sharp, intoxicating burn is a reminder of who I am, who I will always be, and I toss it back with reckless certainty.

It is done.

I gather the papers, the shattered pieces of my resolve. They will be in place by morning. I will be in place by morning. The wolf waits, but so do I.