The call came at 11:47 PM, just as I was about to pour my third glass of wine and pretend to review contracts I'd already memorized. Sarah's name flashed on my phone screen, which meant either someone was dead, someone was in jail, or someone had done something so spectacularly stupid that it would be tomorrow's headline.
"Elena." I didn't bother with pleasantries. In crisis management, every second counted.
"We have a problem." Sarah's voice carried that particular strain that meant she was already three energy drinks deep and running on pure anxiety. "Alexander Kane just mauled a photographer at the Children's Hospital charity gala."
I clicked my Mont Blanc pen three times against my glass coffee table. Click, click, click. The sound helped me think. "Define 'mauled.'"
"Blood everywhere. Twelve stitches. Guy's claiming Kane's eyes were glowing when he attacked."
Click, click, click. "Where is Kane now?"
"Locked in the Beverly Hills Hotel penthouse. Building's surrounded by paparazzi. TMZ's already running with 'Hollywood's Most Dangerous Man Strikes Again.' This is career suicide, Elena. No one's going to touch him after this."
I was already reaching for my blazer. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"Elena, I don't think even you can fix this one. The photographer has video."
I paused, one arm through my jacket sleeve. "What kind of video?"
"The kind where Kane's eyes actually do look like they're glowing. And the kind where he moves faster than any human should be able to move."
Interesting. I finished putting on my blazer and grabbed my keys. "Delete the video."
"Elena—"
"Delete it, buy it, steal it, I don't care. Just make it disappear. And Sarah?" I was already heading for my car. "Call Dr. Martinez. Tell him I need a medical consultation tonight."
"The veterinarian? Elena, what—"
"Just do it."
The Beverly Hills Hotel was a circus. News vans lined the street, their satellite dishes reaching toward the night sky like mechanical flowers. Photographers pressed against police barriers, cameras flashing every few seconds in hopes of catching something newsworthy. The kind of feeding frenzy that could destroy a career in one night.
I parked in the underground garage and took the service elevator to avoid the crowd. The hotel manager met me on the twelfth floor, sweating through his expensive suit.
"Ms. Cross, thank God. We've had to shut down half the building. The other guests are complaining about the noise, and the police want to—"
"Where is he?"
"Penthouse. But Ms. Cross, he's... he's not responding to anyone. We've tried knocking, calling, even the master key won't—"
"The lock's broken?"
"Not broken. More like... crushed. From the inside."
I walked past him toward the penthouse suite. The hallway carpet was thick enough to muffle my footsteps, but I could hear something through the door. Pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, like an animal in a cage.
I knocked twice. Sharp, professional. "Alexander. It's Elena Cross. Open the door."
The pacing stopped.
"Go away." His voice was rougher than usual, with an edge that raised the hair on my arms. "I don't need a babysitter."
"You need me more than you know."
I heard him move closer to the door. Even through three inches of solid wood, I could feel him on the other side, listening. Waiting.
"The photographer's going to live," I said. "TMZ's video is going to disappear. The police report is going to say alcohol was involved, maybe steroids. Your publicist is already working on a statement about seeking treatment for anger management."
"And what do you want in return?"
"To come inside and have a conversation."
Silence. Then the sound of metal grinding against metal as he turned the deadbolt. The door opened six inches, security chain still attached. Through the gap, I could see one amber eye studying me.
"You're not afraid," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Should I be?"
The chain slid free and the door opened fully. Alexander Kane stood in the doorway, all six feet and two inches of him, wearing a tuxedo that had seen better hours. His bow tie hung loose around his neck, and his shirt was torn across the chest. Dark stains that might have been blood decorated his white jacket.
But it was his eyes that held my attention. Amber, like I'd heard, but with an inner light that had nothing to do with the hallway fixtures. They were the eyes of something that hunted in the dark.
"Come in," he said, stepping back.
The penthouse was a disaster. Furniture overturned, curtains shredded, claw marks gouged deep into the wooden coffee table. The air smelled like pine trees and something wilder, something that made my pulse quicken in a way I didn't want to examine too closely.
Alexander moved to the bar and poured himself three fingers of whiskey. His hands were shaking slightly, and there were scratches across his knuckles that looked self-inflicted.
"You want a drink?"
"I want to know what happened tonight."
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You saw the news. I attacked a photographer. Lost my temper. Hollywood's most dangerous man strikes again."
"That's the story we're going to sell," I said, settling into the one unbroken chair. "Now tell me what really happened."
He turned to face me, and in the lamplight, his eyes definitely weren't normal. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
Alexander drained his whiskey in one swallow. "The photographer was stalking a kid. Eight years old, maybe nine. Sick daughter of one of the donors. Guy was trying to get shots of her crying, probably to sell some sob story about dying children for clicks."
"So you intervened."
"I told him to back off. He laughed at me. Called me a washed-up has-been." Alexander's fingers tightened around his glass. "Then he shoved the camera in my face and started taking pictures. Flash after flash after flash."
I watched his pupils dilate as he relived the memory. "And?"
"And I lost control."
The admission hung in the air between us. I could see him waiting for my reaction, probably expecting me to run screaming or at least reach for my phone to call security.
Instead, I clicked my pen three times and made a note in my mental file. Subject admits to loss of control under stress. Triggered by protective instincts and bright lights.
"How badly hurt is he?"
"Twelve stitches on his forearm. Could have been worse." Alexander set down his glass and looked directly at me. "Should have been worse."
"But it wasn't. Because you pulled back."
"Because I remembered where I was." He began pacing again, three steps to the window, three steps back. "Do you know what it's like to want to rip someone's throat out and have to smile for cameras instead?"
"I imagine it's exhausting."
He stopped pacing. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone who would lecture me about anger management and breathing exercises. Someone who would try to fix me with positive thinking and meditation."
I stood up and smoothed my blazer. "Alexander, I don't believe in fixing people. I believe in understanding what they are and working with their nature, not against it."
Something shifted in his expression. Hope, maybe. Or desperation.
"And what do you think I am?"
I walked closer, noting how he tracked my movement with the intensity of a predator watching prey. How he tilted his head slightly to catch scents I couldn't detect. How his breathing changed when I moved into his personal space.
"I think you're someone who's been pretending to be human for so long that you've forgotten how to be anything else," I said quietly. "I think you're tired of hiding. And I think tonight, for just a few seconds, you let yourself be exactly what you are."
His amber eyes were locked on mine now, and I could see the exact moment he realized I knew. Really knew.
"Which is?" he whispered.
I reached out and placed my hand on his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat through the torn fabric. He didn't move away.
"A predator who's been caged too long."
For a moment, neither of us breathed. Then Alexander's phone buzzed with a text message, breaking the spell. He glanced at the screen and his expression went dark.
"What is it?"
"My brother. He says the pack is coming."
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the hotel's air conditioning. "When?"
"Tomorrow night." Alexander looked up from his phone, and his eyes held a desperation I hadn't seen before. "Elena, if they find me like this—if they see what I've become—"
"What? What happens?"
"They'll drag me back to the mountains. Away from Hollywood, away from everything I've worked for. They'll say I can't control myself anymore, that I'm dangerous to the secret."
Click, click, click went my pen against my palm. "And are you? Dangerous to the secret?"
"After tonight?" He gestured at the destroyed room. "Yeah. I probably am."
I studied his face, noting the way his jaw clenched when he was trying not to show vulnerability. The way his hands flexed unconsciously, like he was fighting the urge to shift into claws.
"What if I told you there was another way?"
"What do you mean?"
I moved closer, close enough that I could smell the wild scent clinging to his skin. Close enough that when I spoke, my words were barely above a whisper.
"What if I told you I could teach you control? Real control, not just suppression. The kind that would let you keep your career and your secret."
His eyes searched my face. "Why would you help me?"
Because you're the most interesting challenge I've ever encountered, I thought. Because controlling someone like you would prove I can handle anything. Because there's something about your predatory nature that calls to something I don't want to examine too closely.
"Because everyone deserves a second chance," I said instead. "And because I'm very good at what I do."
"And what is it that you do, exactly?"
I smiled and stepped back, already planning our first training session. "I tame monsters."
Alexander stared at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he extended his hand.
"Elena Cross," he said, "I think you might be more dangerous than I am."
I shook his hand, noting the way his fingers were slightly too warm, the way his grip lingered just a moment too long.
"Alexander Kane," I replied, "I know what you are."
End of Chapter 1