The gym was hidden in the basement of a nondescript building on Melrose, the kind of place you'd drive past a hundred times without noticing. No sign, no windows, just a steel door with a keypad lock. At 3 AM, the street was empty except for a few scattered cars and the distant hum of late-night traffic.
I punched in the code and held the door open for Alexander. He hesitated on the threshold, his head tilted slightly as he tested the air.
"Something wrong?" I asked.
"No." But his eyes were scanning the darkness beyond the doorway. "Just... checking."
The stairwell leading down was narrow and poorly lit, our footsteps echoing off concrete walls. Alexander stayed close behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough to smell that wild scent that seemed to cling to his skin no matter what cologne he wore.
"Elena." His voice carried that careful control I was beginning to recognize. "Where exactly are we going?"
"Somewhere private. Where you can be yourself without worrying about cameras."
The basement opened into a surprisingly large space. High ceilings, mirrored walls, professional-grade equipment arranged with military precision. Heavy bags hung from reinforced chains, their leather surfaces scarred from years of abuse. Free weights were organized by size, medicine balls stacked in perfect rows.
But it was the smell that hit Alexander first. I watched his nostrils flare, watched his pupils dilate as he processed scents I couldn't detect.
"This isn't a regular gym," he said quietly.
"No. It's not."
I walked to a wall-mounted control panel and began switching on lights. Fluorescent tubes flickered to life overhead, casting everything in harsh white light. In the mirrors, our reflections looked pale and slightly unreal.
Alexander moved deeper into the space, his movements careful and controlled. "Elena, what is this place?"
"It's where I work with my more... challenging cases."
I pulled out my tablet and opened a new file, fingers moving quickly across the screen. Heart rate monitoring, stress response tracking, aggression level assessment. All the metrics I'd need for tonight's session.
"Challenging cases." Alexander stopped next to one of the heavy bags, running his hand over the scarred leather. "You mean other actors with anger management issues."
"Something like that."
I walked over to a cabinet and began pulling out equipment. Heart rate monitor, motion sensors, tablets for real-time data collection. Alexander watched every movement, his amber eyes tracking me with predatory focus.
"Strip down to your workout clothes," I said, setting the equipment on a nearby bench.
"Elena—"
"The exercises we're doing require freedom of movement. And I need to monitor your physical responses accurately."
Alexander looked at the equipment, then back at me. "Monitor my responses."
"Heart rate, muscle tension, breathing patterns. Standard biometric data for stress response analysis."
He was quiet for a moment, studying my face like he was trying to read something written there. Then he shrugged out of his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt.
I turned away, ostensibly to organize the monitoring equipment, but I could see his reflection in the mirrored wall. Lean muscle moving under pale skin, old scars scattered across his chest and shoulders. Not the kind of scars actors usually carried.
"Those are interesting marks," I said, attaching sensors to the heart rate monitor.
Alexander paused, shirt half-off. "Old injuries."
"From stunts?"
"From life."
I turned around as he finished changing into gym shorts and a tank top. The scars were more visible now – claw marks across his ribs, what looked like bite marks on his shoulder. The kind of wounds that came from fights with things that had teeth and claws.
"These sensors will track your vitals during the exercises." I moved closer, close enough to reach the monitor around his chest. "May I?"
He nodded, but I could feel the tension radiating off him as I leaned in. The strap went around his torso, and I had to reach around his back to secure it. For a moment, we were close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck, could sense the barely controlled energy thrumming through his body.
"There." I stepped back, noting how his heart rate had spiked on the monitor. "How does that feel?"
"Fine." His voice was rougher than usual.
I walked to the tablet and began entering baseline readings. Heart rate elevated but stable. Muscle tension high. Breathing controlled but shallow.
"Elena." Alexander was watching me type. "What kind of exercises are we talking about?"
"Controlled aggression training. You'll work through scenarios that trigger your stress response, but in a safe environment where you can practice managing the impulses."
I set the tablet aside and walked to the center of the gym. "We'll start simple. I want you to approach me like you're angry. Like you want to intimidate me."
"Elena, I don't think—"
"Alexander." I kept my voice steady, professional. "This is why we're here. You need to practice accessing your aggressive instincts without losing control."
He stayed where he was, hands clenched at his sides. "And if I do lose control?"
"You won't."
"How can you be sure?"
I met his amber gaze directly. "Because I won't let you."
Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition.
"Approach me," I said again. "Show me what you look like when you're hunting."
Alexander moved forward, and everything about his body language changed. The careful human postures fell away, replaced by something predatory and fluid. His shoulders rolled forward, his spine curved slightly, his hands flexed like he was testing claws that weren't there.
When he was three feet away, he stopped.
"Closer," I said.
He took another step, and another, until he was close enough to touch. Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. This close, I could see the gold flecks in his amber irises, could feel the heat of his skin.
"Now what?" His voice was barely above a whisper.
"Now you tell me what you want to do."
"Elena..."
"What does the predator in you want to do when you're this close to someone?"
His breathing had changed, become deeper and more controlled. On the tablet, his heart rate was climbing steadily.
"I want to..." He stopped, jaw clenching.
"Say it."
"I want to pin you against the wall. Want to make you submit."
The admission hung in the air between us. I could see the struggle on his face, human consciousness warring with something more primitive.
"And what's stopping you?"
"You are."
I took a step closer, closing the distance between us completely. "How?"
"I don't know." His hands were shaking slightly now. "But every instinct I have is telling me that you're not prey."
Interesting. I made a mental note on the tablet without breaking eye contact.
"What am I, then?"
Alexander's pupils were fully dilated now, his breathing shallow. "Something more dangerous than I am."
I reached up and placed my hand on his chest, feeling his heart racing under my palm. "Good. That's exactly right."
For a moment, we stayed like that. Him towering over me, muscles coiled with tension, eyes blazing with barely contained intensity. Me with my hand on his chest, completely calm, completely in control.
Then I stepped back. "Again. But this time, I want you to move faster."
We ran the exercise six more times. Each repetition, Alexander's approach became more fluid, more predatory. His human mask slipped further away, revealing something wild and dangerous underneath. And each time, he stopped when I told him to stop.
By the seventh round, sweat was beading on his forehead despite the basement's cool temperature. His scent had changed too, become sharper, more animal.
"How do you feel?" I asked, checking the readings on my tablet.
"Like I'm going to come out of my skin."
"Heart rate's at 140. Adrenaline and testosterone levels are spiking." I made notes quickly. "But you maintained control throughout. That's significant progress."
"Progress toward what?"
I looked up from the tablet. "Learning to access your nature without being consumed by it."
Alexander walked to the water station and drank deeply, his throat working as he swallowed. In the harsh fluorescent light, the scratches on his knuckles looked fresh.
"Elena, can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"How do you know so much about this? About what I am?"
I saved the data file and closed the tablet. "I told you. I specialize in difficult cases."
"That's not an answer."
I began packing up the monitoring equipment, keeping my movements casual. "What kind of answer are you looking for?"
"An honest one."
Alexander set down his water bottle and moved closer. Not with the predatory intensity from the exercise, but with focused attention that was somehow more unnerving.
"You know exactly what triggers my aggressive responses. You know how to position yourself to avoid being seen as prey. You have a private gym equipped for this specific kind of training." He gestured around the room. "This isn't something you learned from textbooks."
I clicked my pen three times, thinking. "Alexander—"
"And the way you smell," he continued, "it's wrong. Humans don't smell like that. Especially not humans who should be terrified of what I am."
I paused in my packing. "How do I smell?"
"Like power. Like something that could hurt me if it wanted to."
We stared at each other across the gym, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Alexander's amber eyes were bright with suspicion and something else. Fear, maybe. Or anticipation.
"Elena." His voice was very quiet. "I'm not your first werewolf client, am I?"
Before I could answer, he stiffened. His head turned toward the far corner of the gym, nostrils flaring. The change in his posture was instantaneous – from questioning to alert to something approaching panic.
"What is it?"
"There's another scent here." His voice was tight with strain. "Another wolf. Recent."
I followed his gaze toward the corner where the oldest equipment was stored. Heavy bags that hadn't been used in months, weight benches covered with dust. But underneath the mustiness, even I could detect something else. Something wild and familiar.
"Alexander—"
"How recent, Elena?" He was moving toward the corner now, following the scent trail. "How long ago was another werewolf in this room?"
I could lie. Should lie. But the way he was moving, the way his entire body was coiled with tension, told me he'd already found the answer.
Alexander stopped next to one of the old punching bags. The leather was torn in three parallel lines, claw marks gouged deep into the surface. Below the tears, dark stains that could have been sweat. Or blood.
He looked back at me, and his eyes held a mix of betrayal and understanding.
"Elena." His voice was barely above a whisper. "What happened to him?"
I closed my tablet and picked up my bag, suddenly exhausted. "That depends on your definition of 'happened.'"
"Did he leave this program alive?"
The question hung in the air like a challenge. Alexander was perfectly still now, but I could sense the coiled energy beneath his skin. If I gave the wrong answer, our entire arrangement could explode in the next thirty seconds.
"He completed the program," I said carefully. "He returned to his pack. He integrated successfully into human society."
"But?"
I walked toward the stairs, not bothering to turn off the lights. "But he's not the same as he was when we started."
Alexander's reflection caught my eye in one of the mirrors. Still standing by the torn punching bag, still processing what he'd discovered.
"Elena." His voice followed me toward the stairwell. "What exactly are you turning us into?"
I paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking back at him one last time. In the harsh fluorescent light, with his amber eyes blazing and his chest still heaving from the exercises, he looked exactly like what he was. A predator who'd walked willingly into a trap.
"Something better," I said. "Something controllable."
I started up the stairs, leaving him alone with the evidence of what I'd done before. Halfway up, I heard him following, his footsteps heavy on the concrete.
But by the time we reached the street level, Alexander had gone quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that meant he was thinking. Processing. Planning.
As we walked to our cars, I could feel him watching me with new awareness. The dynamic between us had shifted in that basement gym. He was no longer just a client desperate for help.
He was a predator who'd realized he might be prey.
End of Chapter 4