The wind howling through the shattered penthouse window didn't even register.
Elara stared at the cracked screen of her phone. Her thumb pressed so hard against the glass that a tiny, sharp edge bit into her skin. A drop of blood—her own, completely ordinary human blood—welled up, blurring the number.
-$32,450,000.00.
"Thirty-two..." Her voice was barely a rasp. She swallowed hard, but her throat felt completely completely dry, like she'd just swallowed a handful of shredded tax forms. "You've got to be shitting me."
Julian took a step toward her. His expensive Italian oxfords crunched loudly against the broken glass. It was the only sound in the room, sharp and grating.
He stopped. The dust from the ruined plaster was settling over his ruined suit. He opened his mouth, but instead of that smooth, hypnotic alpha voice, he let out a harsh, awkward cough. The drywall dust had gotten into his lungs.
He pounded his chest once with a massive fist, clearing the obstruction. When he spoke, the rumble was still there, but it sounded... unsteady.
"Miss Vance. Elara. Put the phone down." He reached out again. His golden eyes were fixated on the tiny scratch on her neck, his pupils blown wide. "The bond... it's disorienting. You need to sit before you—"
"Don't. Touch. Me."
Elara swatted his hand away with the heavy manila folder. The impact made a dull thwack.
"My credit score is one-forty." She wasn't yelling. It was worse than yelling. Her voice was flat, breathless, tripping over the words. "I can't even rent a car. I can't buy a toaster on installment. Because of you. You... you walking margin call."
Julian frowned, a genuine flicker of confusion crossing his perfectly symmetrical face. "I am the CEO of Thorne BioTech. I have billions in offshore—"
"Frozen!" Elara shoved the phone inches from his nose. Her hands were shaking so badly the screen vibrated. "Read it! Joint liability! The SCRS locked it all down. You have nothing. I have nothing. We are legally, financially..." She let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "...fucked."
Before Julian could process the word 'frozen', the heavy oak doors of the office didn't open. They were blown off their hinges.
BOOM.
The solid wood splintered, chunks of it flying across the room and embedding themselves in the drywall.
The silence that followed was instant and absolute. Even the howling wind outside seemed to choke. The only sound was the metallic clink of a brass door hinge rolling across the floor, stopping right at Elara's feet.
The smell hit her before she looked up. It wasn't the ozone and blood of the ghouls, or the expensive mint of Julian's cologne. It smelled like burning sage, polished steel, and clinical, terrifying sterility.
No. Elara's stomach plummeted straight to the floorboards. Anyone but him. Not today.
A man stepped through the ruined doorway.
He was dressed in a tailored, immaculate white trench coat over a tactical vest. Not a single speck of dust seemed brave enough to land on him. He paused, slowly pulling off a pair of black leather gloves, finger by finger.
"Julian Thorne," the man said. His voice was soft. Soothing, almost. Like a doctor telling you the terminal diagnosis.
Julian's posture changed instantly. The confusion vanished. The air around the vampire thickened, dropping the room temperature by ten degrees. A low, continuous growl started vibrating in his chest, so deep Elara could feel it in her own sternum.
"Gideon," Julian spat, the name sounding like poison in his mouth.
Gideon Cross didn't look at the billionaire. He finished folding his gloves and tucked them neatly into his pocket. Then, he adjusted his cuffs. Only then did his pale, icy blue eyes slide over to Elara.
His gaze dropped to the scratch on her neck. To the tiny smear of blood.
A muscle in Gideon's jaw twitched. Just once.
"Elara," Gideon murmured. He smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. It was a terrifyingly calm expression. "I step away for two years to purge the European covens, and I come back to find you letting stray dogs chew on you."
Elara gripped the edge of the obsidian desk so hard her knuckles turned completely white. "Gideon. This is an SCRS audit. You don't have jurisdiction—"
"I have a Class-A Purge Warrant." Gideon pulled a rolled parchment from his coat. It bore the glowing, golden wax seal of the Vatican. He tapped it casually against his palm. "Thorne's assets are forfeit. His life is forfeit. The Inquisition is taking over the liquidation."
He took a step forward, extending a hand toward Elara. His voice softened, taking on that sickly-sweet, patronizing tone she remembered so well.
"Come here, Elara. Let me clean you up. We'll burn this filth, and we can go home."
Julian moved. He didn't walk; he just appeared in front of Elara, completely shielding her from Gideon's view. His fangs were fully bared now, his claws extending from his fingertips, tearing the sleeves of his ruined suit.
"Take another step, Paladin," Julian snarled, his voice dropping into a demonic, dual-layered pitch, "and I'll paint this office with your holy water."
Elara looked at Julian's broad back. She looked at Gideon's glowing warrant. She looked down at her phone, where the -$32,450,000.00 was still glaring at her.
If Gideon killed Julian and confiscated his assets, the debt wouldn't disappear. It would default entirely onto her. As the surviving bonded mate, she would owe the Vatican thirty-two million dollars.
Elara closed her eyes. She took a deep, shuddering breath of the dusty, sage-scented air.
"Julian," she whispered.
The vampire glanced back at her, his golden eyes wild with protective instinct. "Stay behind me."
"No."
Elara ducked under Julian's arm and stepped out. She walked straight past the terrifying hybrid predator, marched right up to the heavily armed Paladin of the Inquisition, and shoved her red pen into the center of Gideon's immaculate white chest.
"Nobody," Elara said, her voice shaking but her grip on the pen absolute, "is burning my collateral."