The Bite

Walking home alone at midnight was a mistake. I knew it, my aching feet knew it, and the cold wind biting through my thin coat certainly knew it. But my pride was a stubborn thing, loud enough to drown out common sense.

There was no way in hell I was getting into a car with Julian Frost.

Even after two weeks, the humiliation burned as fresh as the moment it happened. Two years wasted. I had thought we were building a life together until she barged into my apartment; a frantic, furious whirlwind in designer heels and slapped me across the face. She screamed that she was his fiancée, that they had been together for a year.

A year. Half of our relationship was a lie.

I adjusted my handbag on my shoulder, increasing my pace. Julian wasn't even worth the cardio. He was a spineless, climbing corporate weasel, and I was well rid of him.

The streetlights on 4th Avenue were flickering, casting long, erratic shadows against the shuttered storefronts. Usually, this street was vibrant with food trucks and hipsters, but at this hour, it was a graveyard of concrete and silence.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

My heels echoed too loudly. The hairs on my arms rose, a primal warning pricking at the base of my skull. It felt like eyes were pressing into my back.

"Just nerves, Maya," I whispered, my breath misting in the air. "Just too much coffee and too little sleep."

Mr. Newman had been riding the audit team hard for three days straight. Mandatory overtime. And of course, Julian, the golden boy, had left early while the rest of us slogged through spreadsheets until 12:30 AM.

I passed a narrow alleyway wedged between an old bookstore and a condemned brick building. The darkness inside seemed thicker than the night around it.

Grrrr-thump.

I froze.

It wasn't a cat knocking over a trash can. It was a heavy, wet sound. Like meat hitting pavement. Followed by a sound that made my blood run cold; a low, vibrating growl that I felt in my chest more than I heard with my ears.

My brain screamed run, but my body betrayed me. I turned toward the alley.

"Hello?" My voice trembled, sounding pathetic in the silence.

I squinted into the gloom. Movement shifted in the shadows. A figure detached itself from the wall, stumbling into the slice of dim light provided by the streetlamp.

It was a man. He was doubled over, clutching his chest, breathing in ragged, harsh gasps.

"Are you hurt?" I took a hesitant step forward, my hand diving into my purse to find my pepper spray, just in case.

"Get... back," the man wheezed. His voice was ruined, guttural and scraping, like he had swallowed gravel.

I should have listened. I should have turned and sprinted until my lungs burned. But I saw blood on his shirt—a crisp white dress shirt that had been shredded at the seams.

"I'm calling 911," I said, pulling my phone out.

"No!"

The command was a roar. The man’s head snapped up, and I dropped my phone.

His eyes. They weren't human. They were burning, molten gold, glowing with a luminescent intensity that defied his body.

He took a step toward me, and the sound of popping joints cracked through the air like gunshots. His body contorted, shoulders broadening, shirt tearing completely off his back.

"Run," he snarled, fighting his own body. "Run, little rabbit."

I stumbled back, my heel catching on a crack in the pavement. "What are you?"

He didn't answer. A spasm of pain crossed his face

His face, terrifyingly handsome, sharp-jawed and covered in a sheen of sweat. He looked at me with a starving, desperate hunger.

With a sound that was half-human shout and half-wolf howl, he lunged.

He moved faster than anything I had ever seen. One second he was ten feet away; the next, a wall of heat and muscle slammed me against the brick facade of the bookstore.

I opened my mouth to scream, but a large hand clamped over my mouth. His skin was burning hot, feverish.

"Mine," a voice growled against my ear. It wasn't human anymore.

Sharp pain exploded in my shoulder. It wasn't just a bite; it felt like a brand, a searing injection of fire directly into my veins. I felt teeth, too sharp, too long, sink into the junction between my neck and shoulder.

My vision went white. Then, darkness.

Six Months Later

"The ticket is on your desk, Maya."

Mr. Newman didn't even look up from his paperwork. He waved a dismissive hand, treating me like a fly he couldn't be bothered to swat.

"Sir," I started, gripping the strap of my bag. "I really don't think I'm the right fit for a solo audit of this magnitude. Usually, we send a senior manager."

"Julian is busy," Newman said flatly. "He has wedding preparations to attend to. You’re the best auditor we have below management level. Consider this a promotion opportunity."

I gritted my teeth. Promotion opportunity. Code for: Doing Julian's work for half the pay.

"Seattle," Newman added. "You leave tomorrow."

I walked out of his office, my knuckles white. I marched straight to the Assistant Manager's desk.

Julian looked up, flashing that dazzling, practiced smile that used to make my knees weak. Now, it just made me want to commit a felony.

"Hey, May-May," he chirped. "Did the old man give you the good news?"

"Don't call me that," I snapped. "And since when do you pass off high-profile clients to junior staff?"

Julian leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Look, Sierra is going crazy with the florists. I can't leave town for two weeks. Besides, it's just Cohen Enterprises. They’re new money. Probably just messy bookkeeping. You'll clean it up in no time."

He slid a thick manila envelope across the desk.

"You're doing me a huge favor, Maya. I owe you."

"You owe me two years of my life," I muttered, snatching the envelope.

I walked back to my cubicle, throwing the envelope onto my desk. My hand unconsciously went to my left shoulder. Under my silk blouse, a jagged web of scar tissue marred my skin.

The doctors had called it an animal attack. A stray dog, maybe a large coyote. They couldn't explain why the wound had burned for three days straight, or why I had healed with the speed of a superhero ever since.

I sat down and rubbed the scar. It was itching today. It always itched when I was agitated.

"So, you got the Cohen gig?"

I looked up. Christine, the office gossip and my only real friend here, was leaning over my partition, chewing gum.

"Yeah," I sighed. "Seattle. Two weeks of rain and spreadsheets."

"Rain and billionaires," Christine corrected, wiggling her eyebrows. "You haven't Googled them?"

"I don't care about the client, Chris. I just want to do the job and come home."

"Girl, you are dead inside." Christine pulled out her phone and tapped the screen before shoving it in my face. "Look. Levi Cohen and Asher Cohen."

I glanced at the screen. It was a paparazzi shot of two men in dark suits exiting a sleek black car.

"They run a massive investment firm. Tech, security, real estate. They popped up out of nowhere five years ago and bought half the city," Christine whispered dramatically. "Rumor has it they're... eccentric."

"Eccentric usually means 'rich and rude'," I said.

"No, like... intense. Reclusive. They say Levi Cohen has never given an interview. People call him the 'Wolf of Wall Street,' but, like, literally."

I froze. My eyes locked onto the man on the left of the photo. Levi Cohen.

Even in a grainy phone picture, he was striking. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair falling over his forehead. But it was the eyes that made my stomach drop.

They were light. Intense. Predatory.

The scar on my shoulder gave a sharp, hot throb, painful enough that I gasped.

"You okay?" Christine asked, pulling the phone back.

"Fine," I managed, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Just... indigestion."

I stared at the envelope on my desk. Cohen Enterprises.

I had a very bad feeling about this.