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Chapter 3: The Anchor
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2025-12-03 21:00:18I did not sleep. I stayed on the window seat all night with the leather journal open on my lap. All I heard was the low, steady panting coming through the wall from Rian’s suite. The sound was wrong. Animals. Controlled only by force.
The journal wasn’t about finance. It was a record of chaos. Desperation. All written in Rian Thorne’s aggressive handwriting.
I reread the entry from nine years ago. *The control is failing again. The scent is overwhelming. I almost lost it on the 55th floor… Thorne Sr. warned me about the first Change. The hunger. The feral need. She is the only thing that filters the noise. She must stay close. She is the anchor.*
“Anchor?” I whispered. The word tasted like ownership and dependence mixed together. He didn’t just control me. He depended on me. He needed me to stay sane.
I flipped ahead. The next entries were short bursts. *Scent rising.* *Too close to the full moon.* *I need her proximity.*
The last entry, two days old, clenched my stomach. *She tried to leave. The panic was instant. The pain was physical. I must never let her leave. I don’t know who I will become when she is gone.*
My resignation wasn’t an insult. It was a trigger. I was the only thing keeping him human.
Morning came without rest. I dressed in silence. All my belongings had been moved into this suite overnight. Not packed. Not requested. Just done. Another act of control.
At 7 AM, I stepped out of Suite 65-A. The hallway was still. Rian’s door, 65-B, was directly across from mine, shut tight. I pressed the elevator button.
The doors opened.
Rian stepped out.
He was perfectly dressed, but something was off. His skin was pale. His eyes strained. His posture too rigid. Heat radiated from him, thick and wrong. I froze as he gave a small nod toward the elevator.
We rode down together. The air felt charged. He smelled of expensive cologne mixed with something wild underneath.
“I assume you are now accustomed to your accommodations,” he said. His voice was flat.
“The suite is excessive,” I answered, staring at the floor numbers.
“It reflects the title. And the necessity.” He used that word like it meant ownership.
“And moving my personal belongings?” I asked.
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Your new security level requires proximity. I cannot risk my Chief Executive Administrative Officer compromising assets due to unsecured housing.”
He hid primal instinct behind HR language.
The elevator reached the 42nd floor. I stepped out fast.
“One moment, Elara.”
He used my name.
I turned slowly.
“You will address me as Rian on the 65th floor. Formality is reserved for the office.”
“I don’t agree with that level of informality, Sir.”
His eyes flashed gold. “You will comply. It is essential. Now, the Q4 projections.”
The morning dragged. By noon, his professional mask was cracking. Sweat slid down his temples. He gripped his pen too hard. His breaths were shallow. He canceled his midday meeting.
“You’re unwell,” I said. The concern slipped out.
“It’s a minor fever. Irrelevant.”
“You need a doctor.”
He slammed his fist on the desk. “No doctors. My condition is managed internally. Continue.”
I remembered the journal.
This wasn’t a fever.
The Change was coming early.
“You’re overheating, Rian,” I said quietly. “The office is too exposed. You need to get back upstairs.”
He stared at me. I knew. Shocked, I understood.
“I will not leave my post,” he said through clenched teeth.
If he changed here, I would die. So would everyone else.
I walked to him. I took his wrist. His skin was burning. His muscles were locked.
“You’re coming with me,” I said. “Now.”
He didn’t fight me. He leaned on my arm as we entered the private elevator. He slumped against the wall, shaking. His breath was ragged. The musky scent of transformation filled the space.
We reached the 65th floor. Inside Suite 65-B, he staggered. He pushed me back against the wall with a trembling hand.
“The room,” he gasped, pointing to a solid steel door. “The containment room. I have to lock it. Don’t watch.”
“What is that room?”
“It’s soundproofed. It’s where I… manage the weakness.”
He tried to take a step. His body failed him. He collapsed onto the carpet with a strangled cry. His suit tore across his back. His fingers clawed at the floor.
I rushed to him. My fear was replaced by instinct. I knelt. I touched his cheek. His skin was burning hot.
His eyes snapped open—amber and wild.
His hands closed around my wrists. Iron tight. He pulled me down against his chest. His heart pounded. His breath scorched my skin.
“Elara,” he growled. His voice was the wolf’s voice.
His mouth hovered near my neck. He fought the instinct to bite. He fought it for *me*.
He trembled violently. He used the last of his control to speak.
“Touch me,” he whispered.
A plea.
A warning.
A command.
“Touch me, Anchor. I am losing my humanity. If you don’t—
I will take what I need.”
His grip tightened.
I had only one choice.
Submit to the bond I never asked for.
Or watch the monster break free.
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