The Château Marmont at 1:30 AM was a different beast than during daylight hours. The lobby's worn velvet chairs and dim lighting gave it the feel of an old movie set, all shadows and secrets. Perfect for the kind of conversation Alexander and I needed to have.
He hadn't said much during the drive over. Just sat in my passenger seat, one hand gripping the door handle like he might bolt at the next red light. Every few seconds, he'd glance at the side mirrors, checking for something I couldn't see.
"Your pack?" I asked as we walked through the lobby.
"Not yet. But they're close." He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture I was starting to recognize as nervous habit. "I can smell them on the wind."
The elevator ride to the seventh floor was silent except for the soft jazz playing through hidden speakers. Alex stood as far from me as the small space allowed, but I could feel his tension radiating off him in waves. By the time we reached his suite, he was practically vibrating with restless energy.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside, immediately beginning to pace. Three steps to the window, pivot, three steps to the kitchenette, pivot. Like a wolf testing the boundaries of its cage.
I settled into the leather armchair and pulled out my phone, scrolling through my contacts while he wore a path in the carpet.
"Sarah's handling the photographer," I said without looking up. "Hospital bills, silence agreement, the works. TMZ's video is gone. Your publicist is crafting a statement about exhaustion and seeking treatment."
"Treatment." He stopped pacing long enough to laugh, but the sound had no humor in it. "Right. What kind of treatment do you recommend for someone like me?"
I looked up from my phone. "That depends. How long have you been fighting your nature?"
"Fighting my—" Alex stared at me. "Elena, we just met. You don't know anything about my nature."
I clicked my pen three times and set my phone aside. "Alexander Kane. Born in Montana, raised by a single father who died in a hiking accident when you were sixteen. Moved to Los Angeles at eighteen with three hundred dollars and a fake ID. Started as a stunt double, worked your way up to leading man through a combination of natural charisma and unusual physical abilities."
His pacing had stopped completely now. "Anyone could look that up online."
"You've never been injured on set, despite doing your own stunts. You film night scenes better than day scenes, and you're notorious for your rare steak orders." I stood and walked to the window, noting how his eyes tracked my movement. "You've never had a relationship last longer than three months, and you always end them the same way. Just disappear one morning, usually around the full moon."
"Elena—"
"Your last three films were all shot in locations with large wilderness areas nearby. Your trailers are always positioned on the edge of sets, facing away from crowds. You sleep with blackout curtains and white noise machines because city sounds make you restless."
I turned to face him. In the dim light, his amber eyes seemed to glow with their own inner fire.
"Should I go on?"
Alexander was perfectly still now, and somehow that was more unnerving than his pacing had been. "How could you possibly know all that?"
"I make it my business to know everything about my clients." I moved closer, noting how he tensed but didn't back away. "Especially the difficult ones."
"Difficult." He tested the word like it tasted bitter. "Is that your professional term for monsters?"
"I prefer clients with special needs."
That got a genuine laugh out of him, though his eyes stayed wary. "Special needs. Right. And what exactly do you think my special needs are?"
I walked to the kitchenette and opened the mini fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. "Enhanced sensory perception leading to overstimulation in crowded environments. Circadian rhythm disruption causing insomnia and mood swings. Aggressive territorial instincts that interfere with collaborative work environments."
I unscrewed the cap and took a sip, watching his face over the bottle. "Also, periodic episodes of dissociative behavior, usually tied to lunar cycles."
"Dissociative behavior." His voice was carefully controlled. "That's one way to put it."
"What would you call it?"
"Losing my humanity for a few hours every month."
I set down the water bottle and pulled a leather portfolio from my bag. "According to my research, that's actually a common misconception."
"Your research." Alex moved closer, close enough that I could smell that wild scent clinging to his skin. Pine trees and fresh earth and something that made my pulse quicken. "And what exactly have you been researching?"
I opened the portfolio and spread several printed articles across the coffee table. Academic papers on predatory behavior, psychological studies of alpha personalities, anthropological research on pack dynamics.
"Lycanthropy is a well-documented psychological condition," I said, keeping my voice clinical. "Patients experiencing species dysphoria, enhanced aggression, and sensory hypersensitivity. The medical literature is quite extensive."
Alexander leaned over the papers, scanning the titles. "Lycanthropy. You think I'm delusional."
"I think you're struggling to reconcile two incompatible identities." I sat back down and crossed my legs, projecting calm professionalism. "The civilized actor you need to be for your career, and the predatory nature you can't deny. It's creating internal conflict that manifests as violent episodes."
"Internal conflict." He straightened up and resumed pacing, but slower now. More controlled. "And you think you can fix this internal conflict?"
"I think I can teach you to manage both sides of yourself instead of fighting them."
"How?"
Click, click, click went my pen against my palm. "Controlled exposure therapy. We identify your triggers and teach you to recognize the warning signs before you lose control. Meditation techniques to center yourself when you feel the animal instincts taking over. Behavioral modification to channel aggressive impulses into productive outlets."
I pulled out a typed contract and set it on the coffee table. "I'm proposing a six-month intensive program. Three sessions per week, complete lifestyle monitoring, dietary adjustments, and a carefully managed return to public appearances."
Alexander stopped pacing and stared at the contract. "Lifestyle monitoring."
"I'll need access to your schedule, your living space, your dietary habits. Everything that might contribute to episodes."
"And in return?"
"Your career. Your freedom. Your ability to live as both man and..." I paused deliberately. "And whatever else you are."
He was quiet for a long moment, studying the contract without touching it. I could see the war playing out on his face – desperation warring with pride, hope fighting suspicion.
"What makes you think you can succeed where others have failed?"
"Others have tried to suppress your nature or cure you of it. I'm suggesting we work with it instead." I leaned forward, letting some of my own intensity show. "Alexander, you're not sick. You're not broken. You're just poorly managed."
Something flickered in his eyes. Interest, maybe. Or hunger.
"And what happens if your methods don't work?"
I met his gaze steadily. "They will."
"That's a lot of confidence for someone who's never dealt with anything like me before."
I smiled. "Who says I haven't?"
The question hung in the air between us. Alexander moved to the window and looked out at the city lights, his reflection ghostly in the glass.
"My pack won't approve," he said finally.
"Your pack doesn't have to live with the consequences of your choices. You do."
"They'll see this as betrayal. Choosing humans over family."
"Are you choosing humans over family? Or are you choosing a life where you can be both?"
He turned back to me, and in the lamplight, his eyes definitely weren't entirely human. "You're asking me to trust you with everything."
"I'm asking you to trust yourself enough to try something different."
Alexander walked over to the coffee table and picked up the contract. As he read through it, I noticed his hands were steadier than they'd been an hour ago. The restless energy that had been radiating off him was calming into something more focused.
"Three sessions per week," he read aloud. "Complete dietary control. No unsupervised public appearances. Mandatory check-ins every twelve hours." He looked up at me. "This is pretty comprehensive."
"Transformation requires commitment."
"Transformation." He set the contract down and studied my face. "Elena, what makes you so sure you understand what I am?"
I reached for my water bottle, and as I did, my sleeve rode up slightly. The silver watch on my wrist caught the light, its antique chain gleaming. But where it touched my skin, there was a faint red mark, like a burn.
"Because," I said, not bothering to pull my sleeve back down, "I've spent my entire career learning to recognize predators."
Alexander's gaze fixed on my wrist. On the red mark that should have made me wince but didn't. His nostrils flared slightly, as if he was trying to catch a scent.
"Elena." His voice was very quiet. "Why doesn't that watch hurt you?"
I looked down at the silver chain, at the way it pressed against my skin like a brand. At the mark that had been there for as long as I could remember, that I'd learned to ignore so completely I barely felt the burn anymore.
"Who says it doesn't?"
We stared at each other across the coffee table, the contract lying between us like a challenge. Outside, the city hummed with its endless nighttime energy, but inside the suite, everything was still.
"Sign it," I said softly.
Alexander picked up the pen from the table. His fingers wrapped around it with the same intensity he'd shown when gripping the door handle in my car. Like he was holding onto his last chance.
"If I do this," he said, "there's no going back, is there?"
"There's no going back anyway. Your pack is coming tomorrow. Your career is hanging by a thread. The only question is whether you want to face what's coming alone, or with someone who understands what you're fighting."
He clicked the pen once, twice. On the third click, he signed his name across the bottom of the contract.
"Six months," he said, setting the pen down.
"Six months."
"And after that?"
I stood up and smoothed my blazer, already planning our first session. "After that, Alexander Kane, you're going to be in complete control of exactly what kind of monster you choose to be."
As I reached for the signed contract, my sleeve fell back, fully exposing the silver watch and the angry red mark it left on my skin. In the lamplight, for just a moment, my own eyes reflected the same inner fire I'd seen in his.
Alexander noticed. His head tilted slightly, like a wolf catching an unexpected scent.
"Elena," he said, his voice carrying a new note of uncertainty. "What are you?"
I slipped the contract into my portfolio and headed for the door, not bothering to pull my sleeve down.
"Your manager," I said. "Nothing more, nothing less."
But as I reached for the door handle, I could feel his eyes on my back, could sense him processing what he'd seen. What he'd almost certainly smelled.
"Tomorrow night," I said without turning around. "My office. 8 PM. Don't eat beforehand."
"Elena."
I paused, my hand on the door handle.
"The pack is going to test you. When they realize what you're trying to do, they'll come for you directly."
I looked back over my shoulder, meeting his amber gaze one last time.
"Let them come."
End of Chapter 2