The tip of Elara's plastic red pen pressed a tiny, perfectly round dent into the immaculate white fabric of Gideon's tactical vest.
Gideon didn't blink. He looked down at the pen, then up at Elara's face. The smell of holy incense and clinical antiseptic was so thick it was making Elara's eyes water.
"Article 14, Section B of the Accords," Elara said. Her voice cracked on the 'B'. She cleared her throat, forcing the pitch down. "A bonded mate holds primary custody of the asset during an active financial audit. He is my collateral, Gideon. You execute him, you destroy federal evidence."
Gideon's pale blue eyes stayed fixed on hers for five agonizingly long seconds. Then, a slow, terrifyingly serene smile stretched across his face.
He didn't yell. He didn't curse. He just reached up, gently pinched the plastic barrel of her pen between two gloved fingers, and moved it away from his chest.
"Bureaucracy," Gideon whispered, sounding almost fond. He smoothed his tie. "Always hiding behind your spreadsheets, Elara. But collateral can default. And when he inevitably bleeds you dry... I will be the one assigned to collect the ashes."
He turned on his heel. His pristine boots crunched over the shattered glass of the Thorne BioTech penthouse. He didn't look back as he stepped over a piece of the ruined door and disappeared into the hallway.
The moment the elevator chimed, Elara's knees simply stopped working.
She hit the carpet with a heavy, ungraceful thud. The adrenaline left her system so fast it made her dizzy. She dropped the red pen. It rolled under the obsidian desk with a hollow plastic rattle.
"Elara."
Julian was there instantly. The terrifying predator from three minutes ago was gone, replaced by a man looking completely overwhelmed by his own biology. He reached for her, his large hands hovering awkwardly around her shoulders, driven by a frantic wolf instinct to check his mate for injuries.
"Don't," Elara wheezed, holding up a flat palm like a traffic cop. "Just... don't breathe on me right now."
She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the heels of her hands hard against her temples. Thirty-two million. The number was flashing behind her eyelids in neon red.
A timid crunch broke the silence.
Elara opened one eye. Liam, the assistant, was slowly creeping out from behind a massive, overturned potted ficus. He was holding a small plastic dustpan. It was an incredibly stupid thing to be holding in a room that looked like a war zone.
Liam took a bite of a saltine cracker. His hands were shaking so badly that crumbs cascaded down the front of his slim-fit suit.
"Is... is the Inquisition gone?" Liam squeaked, swallowing the dry cracker with a painful gulp.
"Yes, Liam," Elara sighed, using the edge of the desk to haul herself back to her feet. Her left knee screamed in protest. "The Inquisition is gone. The assassins are gone. Now, we have to deal with the real problem."
She turned to Julian.
The billionaire CEO was currently trying to brush drywall dust off a bespoke charcoal suit jacket that was literally missing its left sleeve. He looked ridiculous. Like a tragic, incredibly expensive stray dog.
"Wallet," Elara demanded, sticking her hand out.
Julian stopped brushing his lapel. The golden glow in his eyes flared, pure Alpha arrogance returning. "Excuse me?"
"Your wallet, Thorne. Give it to me. And your keys." Elara snapped her fingers. "You are an active target, which means I have to keep you alive. And your assets are frozen, which means if you try to buy a coffee with a corporate card, the overdraft fee will trigger an automatic felony warrant. Hand it over."
Julian drew himself up to his full, intimidating six-foot-four height. He looked down his perfectly straight nose at her.
"I am a pureblood hybrid and a board member of the High Council. I do not hand over my personal effects to a civil servant." He turned his back on her, snapping his fingers at the terrified assistant. "Liam. Call the driver. Bring the Maybach to the subterranean garage. We are going to my secure compound in the Hamptons."
Liam dropped the dustpan. It clattered loudly. He looked at Julian, then looked at Elara, whose face was twitching with bureaucratic rage.
"Sir," Liam whimpered, taking another bite of his cracker. "I... I can't. The SCRS just remotely locked the garage protocols. And the Maybach... the repo trucks are already downstairs."
Julian froze. For a second, Elara thought he was going to rip Liam's throat out. Instead, the hybrid slowly reached into his ruined jacket and pulled out a sleek, black leather cardholder.
He didn't hand it to Elara. He dropped it onto the cracked surface of his desk.
"Fine," Julian bit out, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles jumped. "We take a taxi."
"Do you have cash?" Elara asked, snatching the cardholder. She opened it. Three black metal credit cards, a diamond-tier concierge pass, and zero paper bills. "Because my debit card currently has a balance of negative thirty-two million dollars. So unless you plan to compel the cab driver with your vampire eyes—which is a Class B misdemeanor, by the way—we are walking."
Julian's nostrils flared. "I am not walking in this city."
He stormed toward the elevator bank.
Elara didn't chase him. She just watched him go, absentmindedly rubbing the tiny, dried scratch on her neck.
Julian made it exactly thirty-five feet down the hallway.
Right as he reached the elevator buttons, he stopped. His broad shoulders hitched. He let out a sharp, choked gasp, his hand flying to the center of his chest. It looked like he had just walked face-first into an invisible brick wall.
The Mate Bond, Elara realized, a tired smirk finally touching the corner of her mouth. The wolf can't abandon its tether.
"Having some chest pain, Mr. Thorne?" Elara called out, limping slowly toward the doorway. "Feeling a sudden, irrational panic at the thought of leaving me behind?"
Julian leaned heavily against the marble wall, breathing hard through his nose. His knuckles were white as he gripped the elevator frame. He glared at her over his shoulder, his golden eyes filled with absolute, humiliated fury.
"I hate you," he rumbled, the sound vibrating in the empty hallway.
"You literally owe me your life," Elara shot back, stepping into the elevator and hitting the lobby button. "And more importantly, you owe me money. Welcome to the working class, Julian. We're taking the F train."
Forty minutes later, the CEO of Thorne BioTech was standing in the Delancey Street subway station.
It smelled intensely of old urine, hot brake dust, and stale pretzels.
Julian was huddled near a structural pillar, trying to make his massive frame as small as possible. He looked like he was holding his breath. A rat, roughly the size of a small cat, scurried over his ruined Italian oxfords.
Julian didn't even flinch. He just stared blankly ahead, his brain utterly failing to process his current reality.
Elara limped over from the ticket machine, smacking a piece of plastic against her palm.
"Alright," she said, out of breath. "I had exactly five dollars and fifty cents in loose quarters at the bottom of my bag." She shoved a yellow, bent MetroCard against his chest.
Julian looked down at the sticky piece of plastic like it was a live grenade.
"What," he rasped, "is this?"
"It's your ticket to my apartment, where you are going to sleep on a sofa that I bought from Craigslist for forty dollars," Elara said, grabbing his torn sleeve and dragging him toward the turnstiles. "Swipe it fast, Thorne. If you get stuck, I'm not paying the fine."