The drive from the Northwood heights to the city was a blur of screeching tires and narrow misses. Malcolm Ford didn't see the scenery; he only saw the violet-silver haze clouding his vision. By the time the car pulled into the shadowed valet at the Panarom Hotel, the Alpha was no longer a man—he was a localized storm of territorial aggression and biological desperation.
He didn't wait for the elevator. He took the stairs, his boots thundering against the concrete as he ascended to the fifth floor. When he reached Room 58, he didn't hesitate. He hammered his fist against the wood with enough force to crack the frame.
The door swung open with a silent, taunting smoothness.
Dahmer Lukas stood there. Even in the dim light of the hallway, the Enigma was a terrifying sight. He wore a high-collared black silk shirt and tailored trousers, but it was the mask that dominated the space—a sleek, featureless visor that reflected Malcolm's own distorted, enraged face back at him.
