Dorian’s inner beast was clawing at his ribs, demanding to be let out.
The moment Margot’s car had crossed the boundary line of his property, her scent had hit him like a physical blow. It was stronger than it had been in the town, carried by the rising wind and the damp mountain air—a sweet, intoxicating mixture of lavender, rain-wet wool, and the rich, copper warmth of her blood.
And now, she was standing in his study.
She was so close he could see the tiny gold flecks in her hazel eyes, the rapid pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, and the way her lower lip trembled slightly despite her fierce, stubborn expression. She looked so small compared to him, so fragile in her heavy flannel shirt and muddy boots, yet she was standing there accusing him of theft, demanding answers like a sheriff confronting a thief.
It was all he could do to keep from grabbing her, pulling her against his chest, and burying his face in the crook of her neck to soothe the wild, frantic roaring of his wolf.
Mine, the beast growled, a deep, ancient instinct that had been silent for thirty years. She is ours. Protect her. Claim her.
But he couldn't. She was human. If he let the beast take over, if he showed her what he really was, the terror would break her. He had seen it happen before to humans who caught a glimpse behind the curtain of the wild. They either went mad with fear, or they ran until the forest swallowed them.
He forced his hands to remain flat on the desk, his knuckles aching from the strain of holding his human form.
"This is not your pendant, Margot," he said, his voice a low, strained rumble as he tried to control his breathing.
But she didn't back down. She demanded the facts. She wanted the truth.
Dorian looked at her, his pale-grey eyes darkening. If she wants the truth, he thought, a cold, dangerous resolve settling in his chest, I will give it to her. Let’s see if her iron-clad denial can survive what's really out there.
"You want the facts, Margot?" Dorian asked, his voice dropping the polite, human facade, taking on a flat, commanding edge that made the air in the room instantly grow colder.
He walked over to the heavy timber doors of the study and slid them shut, the thick oak panels locking together with a heavy, final click.
Margot spun around, her hand flying to her canvas satchel, her eyes wide with a sudden, sharp spike of panic. "What are you doing?"
"I’m keeping the wind out," Dorian said, turning to face her. "And making sure we aren't disturbed."
He walked back to her, but he didn't stop two feet away this time. He kept moving until he was standing directly in her space, his massive frame casting a long shadow over her.
"Last night," Dorian said, his silver-grey eyes locking onto hers, "you heard something on your porch. You told yourself it was a dog. Or a bear. You spent your morning scraping wood putty into those claw marks, pretending the world is made of numbers and bank statements."
"It was a stray," Margot said, her voice shaking, though she didn't back away. Her chin was lifted, her golden-hazel eyes blazing with defiance. "A large, feral dog. They get aggressive in the winter."
"No dog can do this," Dorian said.
He raised his hand.
Margot gasped, flinching slightly, but she didn't run.
Dorian didn't touch her. Instead, he held his hand out in front of her face, palms up.
Margot watched, her breath catching in her throat, as the skin of his hand began to shift.
It wasn't a sudden, violent transformation. It was a slow, agonizing ripple beneath the surface. The muscles in his palm thickened, the bones of his fingers lengthening and broadening with a sickening, wet sound of shifting cartilage. His nails—usually neat and short—darkened into thick, black, curved hooks that grew half an inch in seconds.
The hair on the back of his hand grew thick and dark, a coarse, grey-brown fur that spread up his wrist.
Margot’s eyes went wide, the pupils dilating until they were almost entirely black. She backed away, her boots slipping on the polished wood floor, her hands flying to her mouth to stifle a scream.
"No," she whispered, her voice a tiny, terrified sob. "No. This... this isn't real. I’m having a nightmare."
"Look at it, Margot," Dorian commanded, his voice vibrating with the power of the Alpha. It wasn't a human voice anymore; it was a layered, resonant sound that carried the weight of the pack, a command that her body, despite her terror, felt compelled to obey.
He took a step toward her, his altered hand still held out.
"This is what was on your porch last night," he said, his silver eyes glowing with a bright, luminous light in the dim room. "This is what killed the man by the river. We are not dogs. We are not bears. We are the Ridgeback pack, and this mountain has been our territory since before your grandfather cleared his first acre of timber."
Margot backed up until her spine hit the heavy wood of his desk. She was trapped. She looked at his hand—the massive, clawed hand that looked exactly like the shadow on her office door—and then up to his face.
His face was still mostly human, but his jaw was tighter, his canine teeth slightly longer, glinting sharp and white against his lower lip.
"You're... you're monsters," she whispered, her voice shaking violently.
"We are predators, Margot," Dorian corrected, his voice softening slightly, though the command was still there. "There is a difference. We live by laws. We protect our own. And we keep the peace. But there are others who do not."
He let his hand shift back, the bones popping and sliding back into their human shapes, the dark claws receding into normal nails. He rubbed his knuckles, a familiar ache returning to his joints from the forced suppression of his shift.
"The man in the river," Dorian continued, stepping closer to her until he could feel the cold draft from her wet coat. "He was a rogue. His name was Vance’s kin, a member of a fractured pack from the northern ridge. They don't respect the treaties. They don't care about keeping the secret."
"Why did he have my pendant?" Margot demanded, her voice rising in a desperate attempt to find some logic in the madness. "Why did he break into my house?"
Dorian’s expression grew incredibly grim. He reached out and grabbed the silver-and-jade pendant he had set on the desk, holding it up between them.
"Because he was looking for you," Dorian said.
Margot froze. "Me? Why would he look for me? I don't know anything about... about whatever you are!"
"Because of your scent, Margot," Dorian said.
He stepped into her space, his chest nearly touching hers. The proximity was overwhelming. Margot could feel the heat radiating from his body, a deep, primal warmth that seemed to call to something hidden deep inside her own flesh.
"When we found his body," Dorian said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper that sent a shiver down her spine, "he had been dead for hours. But his clothes... his claws... they carried a scent. A very specific, very rare scent."
He leaned down, his face just inches from her neck. He took a deep, slow breath, his chest expanding as he inhaled her lavender-and-rain warmth.
Margot felt a sudden, electric shock ripple through her skin. Her breath hitched. A strange, burning heat flared in her lower belly, a biological reaction that she had never felt before—an intense, involuntary pull that made her want to lean into him, to let his massive body shield her from the cold world outside.
It was terrifying. It was completely alien. It felt like a violation of her own mind.
"He smelled of you, Margot," Dorian whispered, his eyes locking onto hers, the silver-amber light in them burning with an intense, possessive flame. "He was in your bedroom. He touched your things. He had your scent all over him."
"No," Margot gasped, her hands coming up to press against his broad chest to push him away.
But touching him was a mistake.
His chest was like solid rock beneath his wool sweater, radiating a fierce, thrumming heat that felt like a heartbeat. The moment her hands made contact, the electric current between them doubled in intensity.
Margot felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. Her core felt heavy, a deep, liquid warmth spreading through her veins, making her knees feel weak. Her body was betraying her, responding to his presence with a wild, instinctual hunger that her mind desperately rejected.
Dorian’s hands came up, his large, warm fingers wrapping around her wrists. He didn't squeeze, but his grip was unyielding, holding her hands flat against his chest.
"You feel it, don't you?" he murmured, his gaze dropping to her mouth. "You can't lie to me, Margot. Your heart is racing. Your skin is burning. Your body knows what mine does."
"Stop," Margot cried, her voice cracking as she fought against the dizzying pull of his presence. "Stop it, Dorian! Let me go!"
"It's the bond," Dorian said, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy emotion. "Our beasts... they recognized each other the moment you came back to the valley. My wolf has been pacing the borders of your land for three weeks, Margot. I didn't understand why until today. Until I smelled your fear, and my wolf wanted to tear the mountain apart to keep you safe."
He stepped closer, his hips pressing against hers, pinning her against the edge of the heavy desk. The physical contact was explosive. Margot let out a soft gasp, her eyes closing as the intense, biological pull threatened to drag her under.
"You are my mate, Margot," Dorian whispered, his breath hot against her cheek. "That's why the rogue took your pendant. He wanted to draw me out. He wanted to find my weakness. And he found you."
The word mate broke the spell.
It sounded so ancient, so predatory, so entirely devoid of her own free will. It was a label that stripped her of her agency, turning her into a piece of property, a target in some wild, monstrous game she had never agreed to play.
Her eyes snapped open, the gold flecks in them flashing with a sudden, furious light.
"No," she said, her voice clear and hard.
She wrenched her wrists from his grip with a sudden, violent effort. Dorian, caught off guard by the sheer strength of her rejection, let her go, stepping back a single pace.
Margot stood her ground, her chest heaving as she stared at him with a mixture of terror, anger, and absolute disgust.
"I am not your mate," she spat, her hands trembling as she wiped them on her jeans as if she could scrub away the warmth of his skin. "I am a human being. My name is Margot Miller. I am an accountant, and I have a life that has nothing to do with your... your pack, or your wolves, or your disgusting biological pulls!"
Dorian’s jaw clenched, his silver eyes darkening into a stormy, wounded grey. "Margot, you don't understand the danger you’re in. Vane knows about you now. If he finds out what you are to me—"
"I don't care!" Margot shouted, her voice breaking with the sheer volume of her panic. "I don't care about Vane, and I don't care about you! You think you can just stand there, show me your claws, and tell me I belong to you? You think my body's reaction to some... some freaky animal pheromone means I’m yours?"
She grabbed her canvas satchel from the desk, her fingers white as she clutched the strap.
"My mother lived in this valley for twenty years," Margot said, her voice dropping to a cold, bitter whisper. "She spent her whole life running from you. She locked herself in that cabin, she kept her secrets, and she died alone because of whatever you people did to her. And I am not going to let you do the same to me."
Dorian stepped forward, his hand reaching out. "Margot, Clara wasn't running from us. She was—"
"Stay away from me!" she screamed, pointing her finger at his chest.
Dorian froze, his hand hovering in the air. The raw, desperate terror in her eyes was like a knife to his chest. His wolf whined, a low, pathetic sound of rejection that made his heart ache with a heavy, hollow pain.
"I am going back to my cabin," Margot said, her voice shaking but resolute. "I am going to pack my things, and I am leaving this valley. You can keep your timber tracts, you can keep your secrets, and you can keep your dead rogues. I want nothing to do with you."
She turned and ran toward the sliding doors of the study. She grabbed the heavy brass handles and pulled them open with a violent yank, her boots clattering loudly as she fled down the dark hallway of the estate.
Dorian didn't follow her.
He stood in the center of the study, his broad shoulders hunched, his hands clenched into tight, hard fists. The scent of her lavender and sweet heat was still thick in the room, a mocking reminder of the bond that had just been severed before it could even begin.
Outside, the roar of her car engine broke the silence of the mountain, followed by the sound of tires spitting gravel as she sped down the winding road, leaving him alone in the dark.
He closed his eyes, his head falling back as a low, agonizing howl of loss rose from his chest, echoing through the empty, silent halls of the Thorne Estate.