My apartment building in West Hollywood wasn't the kind of place that attracted attention. Mid-century modern, well-maintained but not flashy, with security cameras that actually worked and a doorman who knew when to mind his own business. The perfect cover for someone who needed privacy.
It was just past midnight when I heard the footsteps in the hallway outside my door.
Not the casual shuffle of a neighbor coming home late. These were deliberate, controlled, moving with the kind of coordination that suggested pack hunting. Three sets. All male, judging by the weight and stride pattern.
I set down my wine glass and clicked my pen three times, thinking. Alexander wasn't supposed to be here until tomorrow night. And he wouldn't bring company without warning me first.
Which meant his family had found him.
The knock, when it came, was polite but firm. Two sharp raps followed by a pause. The kind of knock that said we know you're in there, and we're not leaving until you open this door.
I walked to the entryway, noting how my silver watch seemed to burn hotter against my wrist. Stress response, maybe. Or something more instinctual.
"Elena Cross." The voice through the door was deep, authoritative, with a slight Montana accent that reminded me of Alexander. "We need to talk."
I checked the security monitor. Three men in the hallway, all wearing dark clothing, all standing with the kind of loose-limbed readiness that suggested they could move very fast if they needed to. The one in front was shorter than Alexander but broader, with the same dark hair and sharp cheekbones. Family resemblance was unmistakable.
"About what?" I called through the door.
"About my brother."
Logan Kane. Had to be. Alexander had mentioned him during our first session - the younger brother who'd taken over pack leadership after Alexander chose Hollywood over family obligations.
I opened the door but left the security chain attached, creating a six-inch gap. "It's late, Mr. Kane."
"It's the right time for this conversation." Logan's amber eyes were lighter than Alexander's, more gold than brown. They studied me with the focused attention of a predator evaluating potential prey. "May we come in?"
"That depends. Are you here to talk, or to cause trouble?"
The man to Logan's left - tall, lean, with prematurely gray hair - shifted his weight slightly. "Depends on what you consider trouble, lady."
"Marcus." Logan's voice carried a sharp note of warning. To me, he said, "We're here to talk. Nothing more."
I studied their faces through the gap. Logan looked tired, like someone who hadn't been sleeping well. The gray-haired one - Marcus - had the restless energy of someone spoiling for a fight. The third man was younger, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of nervous tension that suggested this was his first time dealing with humans on pack business.
"Five minutes," I said, sliding the chain free.
They filed into my apartment with the careful movements of people assessing potential escape routes and defensive positions. Logan's gaze swept over my living space, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows, the carefully arranged furniture, the lack of personal photographs or sentimental clutter.
"Nice place," he said. "Very... controlled."
"I like things organized." I gestured toward the leather sofa. "Please, sit."
Logan remained standing. So did his companions. In my living room, they looked too large, too wild, like wolves forced into a domestic setting.
"Ms. Cross," Logan began, "we understand you're trying to help Alexander. We appreciate that. But he needs to come home now."
"Home being Montana?"
"Home being with his pack." Logan's hands were clasped behind his back, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. "Alex has been away too long. The Hollywood lifestyle, the constant pressure to pretend he's something he's not - it's making him unstable."
I walked to the kitchen island and poured myself another glass of wine. "Unstable how?"
"You saw what happened at that charity gala. That wasn't just loss of control, Ms. Cross. That was a werewolf on the edge of exposing our entire species."
The gray-haired Marcus stepped forward. "Alex used to be able to handle full moons without incident. Now he's having episodes in public, attacking humans, drawing attention we can't afford."
"So you want to drag him back to the mountains and what - lock him up until he learns to behave?"
"We want to bring him back to a place where he can be himself without endangering everyone he claims to care about." Logan's voice carried the weight of pack authority, the kind of dominance that probably made other werewolves automatically defer to him.
It didn't work on me.
"And if he doesn't want to go?"
Logan and Marcus exchanged glances. The younger man - who hadn't spoken yet - shifted uncomfortably.
"Alex doesn't know what he wants anymore," Logan said finally. "That's part of the problem. He's been pretending to be human for so long that he's forgotten what it means to be pack."
I took a sip of wine, using the pause to study their body language. Logan was trying to project calm authority, but there was desperation underneath. Marcus looked like he wanted to grab me and shake some sense into me. The youngest one just looked scared.
"What makes you think I have any influence over Alexander's decisions?" I asked.
Marcus laughed, but it wasn't a pleasant sound. "Lady, Alex has spent the last twenty-four hours talking about nothing but you. His brilliant manager who understands him like no one else ever has. Who's going to fix all his problems and get his career back on track."
"That's what managers do."
"That's not what managers do." Logan moved closer, close enough that I could smell the wild scent clinging to his clothes. "Normal managers don't know how to handle werewolves, Ms. Cross. They don't have private gyms equipped for supernatural training. They don't make werewolves feel safe enough to show their true nature."
Interesting. Alexander had told them about the gym. Which meant he was either more conflicted about our arrangement than he'd let on, or his pack was keeping closer tabs on him than either of us had realized.
"I specialize in difficult clients," I said.
"You specialize in our kind." Marcus was staring at me with open suspicion now. "The question is why. What do you get out of controlling werewolves?"
I set down my wine glass and clicked my pen three times. "I get the satisfaction of helping someone reach their potential."
"By suppressing their true nature?"
"By teaching them to manage it."
Logan stepped between Marcus and me, raising one hand in a gesture that was clearly pack language for stand down. "Ms. Cross, I'm going to ask you directly. What are your intentions regarding my brother?"
"To rehabilitate him. To get his career back on track. To help him find a balance between his human ambitions and his... other needs."
"Other needs." The youngest pack member finally spoke up, his voice carrying a slight tremor. "You mean his wolf."
"I mean his entire identity. Alexander is struggling because he's trying to choose between two parts of himself instead of integrating them."
Logan tilted his head slightly, studying me. "And you believe you can teach him that integration?"
"I believe I can teach him control."
"There's a difference?"
I moved closer, noting how all three men tensed as I approached. Not with fear - with the kind of wariness that suggested they recognized something dangerous.
"Integration suggests equal partnership between human and wolf consciousness. Control means the human mind remains dominant while the wolf serves its purposes." I stopped just outside what would normally be considered personal space. "Which do you think is more useful for someone trying to maintain a Hollywood career?"
Marcus snarled - actually snarled, the sound rumbling up from his chest. "You want to turn him into a pet."
"I want to turn him into someone who can survive in both worlds."
"By making him weak." The youngest one's voice was getting higher with agitation. "By cutting him off from pack, from the moon, from everything that makes him what he is."
"By giving him choices," I corrected. "Right now, Alexander has no control over his transformations, no ability to moderate his responses, no way to access his wolf nature safely. My program will change that."
Logan was watching this exchange with growing intensity. "Your program. How many werewolves have gone through your program, Ms. Cross?"
I could lie. Should lie. But something about the way Logan was looking at me - not with hostility, but with a kind of recognition that made my pulse quicken - suggested that lies wouldn't work here.
"Alexander is my third case."
"And the other two?"
"Successfully integrated into human society."
Marcus stepped forward again. "Where are they now?"
"Living their lives. Working in the entertainment industry. Managing their dual nature without incident."
"We want to see them." Logan's voice carried pack authority, the kind of command that expected immediate obedience. "We want to talk to these successfully integrated werewolves."
"That's not possible."
"Why not?"
I walked back to the kitchen island, putting space between us while I formulated an answer. "Client confidentiality. The same protection I extend to Alexander."
"Bullshit." Marcus was moving now, pacing back and forth in front of my windows like a caged animal. "You're hiding something. Maybe those werewolves aren't as successfully integrated as you claim. Maybe they're dead. Maybe they're so broken they can't function."
"Marcus." Logan's voice cracked like a whip. "Stand down."
But Marcus wasn't listening anymore. His pacing had become more agitated, his breathing heavier. In the lamplight, his eyes were starting to reflect their own inner fire.
"She's dangerous, Logan. Can't you smell it? She's not human, but she's not pack either. She's something else. Something that wants to control us."
"Marcus—"
"She's the kind of thing our ancestors warned us about. The kind of human who learns our secrets and uses them against us."
Marcus stopped pacing and turned to face me directly. His pupils were fully dilated now, his hands flexing as if testing claws that weren't there.
"What are you?" he demanded. "What kind of creature preys on werewolves?"
The question hung in the air like a challenge. Logan and the youngest pack member were both staring at me now, waiting for an answer. Outside, the city hummed with its endless nighttime energy, but inside my apartment, everything had gone very still.
I could feel something rising in me. Something that had been sleeping for most of my life, stirring now in response to the threat. The silver watch on my wrist was burning like a brand, but the pain felt distant and irrelevant.
"I'm someone who isn't afraid of you," I said quietly.
Marcus laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Everyone's afraid of us, lady. That's what keeps the human world safe. Fear and ignorance and the knowledge that some things are better left alone."
He took a step closer. Then another.
"But you're not afraid. You invite werewolves into private gyms at three in the morning. You study our responses like we're lab rats. You think you can control us with contracts and conditioning."
Another step. Close enough now that I could see the gold flecks in his eyes, could smell the wild scent rolling off him in waves.
"So I'll ask again. What are you?"
The thing inside me uncoiled like a snake preparing to strike. My vision sharpened, bringing everything into perfect focus. Marcus's dilated pupils, the rapid pulse visible in his throat, the way his muscles were coiled for attack.
Behind him, Logan was moving forward, probably to intervene. The youngest pack member had backed toward the door, recognizing the signs of impending violence.
But I was only focused on Marcus. On the way he was crowding into my personal space, using his physical presence to try to intimidate me into submission.
He'd made a mistake. A serious one.
"Marcus." My voice was perfectly calm, but something had changed in it. Something that made the youngest pack member whimper softly and take another step toward the door.
Marcus heard it too. His aggressive posture faltered slightly, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.
"I am someone you do not want to threaten."
For just a moment - maybe half a second - my eyes flashed gold. Not the warm amber of werewolf eyes, but something brighter. Something that burned with its own inner fire.
All three men froze.
Logan's nostrils flared as he caught a scent that shouldn't exist. Marcus stumbled backward, his aggressive posture collapsing into something approaching submission. The youngest pack member made a sound that was part gasp, part whine.
"Logan." My voice was still calm, but it carried an authority that made him straighten to attention. "Take your packmates and leave. Now."
"Elena—" Logan's voice was hoarse with shock.
"Now."
They moved toward the door with the kind of jerky, reluctant obedience that suggested their bodies were responding to commands their minds didn't understand. Logan paused at the threshold, looking back at me with something that might have been awe or terror.
"What are you?" he whispered.
I walked to the window and looked out at the city lights, keeping my back to them. "I'm exactly what your brother needs me to be."
The door closed behind them with a soft click. I stood at the window for a long time afterward, listening to their footsteps fade down the hallway, waiting for my heartrate to return to normal.
The silver watch on my wrist had stopped burning. In its reflection on the window glass, my eyes were their normal green color.
But I could still feel it inside me - the thing that had awakened when Marcus threatened me. The thing that had made three grown werewolves back down without a fight.
My phone buzzed with a text message. I glanced at the screen, expecting it to be Sarah or maybe Dr. Martinez.
Instead, it was from an unknown number: Impressive display, Ms. Cross. We should definitely talk. - M.C.
I stared at the message for a long moment, then deleted it without responding.
Outside my window, somewhere in the sprawling city below, Alexander Kane was probably wondering why his pack had come to Los Angeles. Why they were so desperate to bring him home.
Soon, he'd realize it wasn't just about pack loyalty or werewolf politics.
It was about me. About what I was. About what I could do to creatures like him.
The question was whether that realization would drive him away or pull him deeper into whatever I was becoming.
End of Chapter 5