Damon's POV
Hell had an address: The Penthouse, Storm Tower.
My body was tearing itself apart. Not metaphorically. Literally.
I lay on the floor of my study. Panting. The room was a disaster zone. The antique mahogany desk? Kindling. The bulletproof windows? Fractured. Three places. My own nails digging gouges into the hardwood. Leaving trails. Blood. Splinters.
"Sir." Dr. Lee stood by the door. Clutched his medical bag like a shield. Trembling. Smart man. "The sedatives aren't working. Your... your biology is burning through them. Faster than I can inject."
"Get out!" I roared.
Not human. A distorted, metallic growl. Vibrated through the steel beams.
The Feral Madness. The curse of the Alpha Prime. Too much power for a mortal vessel. Without a Mate to balance the energy, my wolf was consuming me. Eating my organs. Cooking my brain.
"If we don't lower your temperature," Lee persisted. Sweat dripping down his pale face. "Your heart will explode within the hour. Damon, please. Cryo-chamber."
"No!"
Tried to stand. Legs buckled. Crashed into a bookshelf. Priceless first editions tumbling.
Pain. White-hot needles in every nerve ending. Vision a wash of red static. The Wolf wanted out. Wanted to hunt. To kill. Find the source of the emptiness.
"She..." I rasped. The memory of a scent haunting me.
Rain. Milk. Mountain flowers.
Six years. Every night for six years. Dreamed of that scent. The only thing that stopped the pain. But she was a ghost.
"Sir, your vitals are crashing!" Lee shouted. Rushed forward with a syringe.
I swiped my hand. Lee flew backward. Hit the wall. Sickening thud. Slid down. Unconscious.
Great. Alone with the monster.
Dragged myself to the center of the room. Air conditioning on full blast. Still burning alive. Silk shirt in ribbons. Wet with blood. Sticking to my chest.
Kill. The Wolf whispered. Find. Take.
"Shut up," I groaned. Pressed my forehead against the cool floor.
Then.
A drift.
Ventilation shaft. Near the floor. A subtle current of air rising. From the apartment below.
Nostrils flared. Once. Twice.
The red static flickered.
Not exhaust. Not the metallic tang of blood. Not the sterile stink of medicine.
It was...
Sage. Rosemary. Simmering bones. And underneath that... something cool. Something impossibly, devastatingly calm.
Ribs expanded. Pain stopped.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The fire in my veins didn't vanish. Receded. Like a tide pulling back.
Crawled toward the vent. Pathetic. The King of Obsidian City. Crawling on the floor like a junkie.
Pressed my face against the grate. Inhaled.
Oh, god.
It was her.
Not the exact scent from six years ago. That had been raw, pheromone-heavy. This was domestic. Warmer. But the core note was the same. That impossible tranquility.
My Wolf stopped screaming. Curled up in the back of my mind. Ears perked. Whining softly.
Found. It purred. Source.
Need more.
Pushed myself up. Legs shaking. But they held. Stumbled out of the study. Past the unconscious doctor. Past the terrified staff hiding in the corridors.
"Sir?" Elias, my assistant. Peeked out from behind a pillar. "Where are you going?"
Didn't answer. Couldn't.
A man possessed. Gravity. Inevitable.
Walked to the private elevator. Bare feet leaving bloody footprints on the marble.
Pressed the button. Floor below. 40-A.
Lyra's POV
"Mommy, this soup tastes like grass."
I stirred the pot. Steam curling around my face. "It's not grass, Aries. Valerian root. Moonflower. Drink it. Stops you from accidentally blowing up the school with your thoughts."
Aries pouted. Sitting at the kitchen island. Legs swinging. "I wouldn't blow up the school. Just the gym teacher. He's loud."
"No blowing up teachers," I said automatically. "Leo, stop hacking the neighbor's Wi-Fi. We have our own."
"Their encryption is offensive," Leo muttered from the living room floor. Surrounded by holographic screens. "A three-digit password? Like they want me to steal their credit card info."
"Don't steal. Borrow bandwidth."
"Fine."
The apartment was nice. High ceilings. Soundproof walls (essential). And a ventilation system that—I hoped—circulated the heavy Alpha scents my children produced.
"Cyra, finish your soup," I said, wiping the counter. "I need to take out the trash."
"I'll do it!" Aries volunteered, looking for an excuse to escape the herbal brew.
"No. Stay inside. Door locked."
I grabbed the black garbage bag. It wasn't just trash. It contained the shredded remains of the shipping manifests for the sniper rifles. Needed to go into the incinerator. Not the chute.
I checked the monitor. Hallway empty.
"Be right back. Code Red protocol while I'm gone."
"Meaning TV and popcorn," Leo translated.
I unlocked the door. Stepped out.
The hallway was quiet. Plush carpet swallowed my footsteps. The air was cool.
I walked to the service elevator. Pressed the button.
Beside it, the display for the private elevator—the one that only went to the Penthouse—lit up.
Ping.
Doors slid open.
I froze.
A man stood there.
He was huge. Filling the metal box. But he wasn't standing straight. He was leaning against the mirrored wall, head down, chest heaving.
Barefoot.
His shirt was shredded. Silk hanging in strips. Revealing skin that was flushed a dangerous, feverish red.
Damon Storm.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Why was he here? Why did he look like he had just fought a war?
He lifted his head.
Our eyes met.
His were burning gold. Slitted pupils.
And they were locked on me.
"Found..." he rasped. A sound that was more animal than human.
He didn't step out. He just stared. And inhaled.
Like I was the oxygen he'd been drowning without.
The trash bag slipped from my fingers.
Addicted.
The word flashed in my mind. He looked like an addict seeing his fix.
And I was the drug.