The elevator to the Noctis Industries penthouse smelled like money and menace - a dangerous combination of sandalwood cologne and something darker beneath, like copper left too long in the rain.
Lana Carter's fingers left damp crescents on her resume as she counted breaths through her nose. In. Out. The numbers on the display climbed. 45. 46. 47. Six months of rejections had led here. Six months of watching her savings evaporate like morning dew on hot pavement, of eating ramen until the smell of artificial chicken flavor made her stomach revolt.
The elevator chimed.
"Miss Carter."
That voice.
She'd heard recordings of Kieran Noire in business seminars - that low, controlled tone that made even Harvard professors sit straighter. But nothing prepared her for the reality. It wasn't just deep. It was textured, like whiskey poured over gravel, every syllable designed to raise goosebumps.
He stood framed by floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan's skyline glittering behind him like a crown of broken glass. The late afternoon sun cut across his profile - all sharp angles and calculated indifference. His navy suit probably cost more than her graduate degree. His watch - a sleek black Patek Philippe - could pay her rent for a year.
But his eyes.
Lana's breath caught.
They weren't just gray. They were the color of a winter storm rolling over the Atlantic - that impossible shade where water meets sky just before the world drowns.
"Sit."
Not an invitation. A command.
The chair was cold Italian leather, unforgiving against her thighs. Behind her, the elevator door clicked shut. Locked.
Kieran didn't sit. He prowled to his desk, movements too fluid for a man his size. When he picked up her resume, his cufflinks caught the light - 'silver wolves' heads with ruby eyes.
"You graduated top of your class at Columbia." He didn't look up. "Yet you've been unemployed since January."
Lana's nails bit into her palms. "The biotech crash-"
"Excuses bore me." He lifted the paper to his face and inhaled, nostrils flaring.
Her stomach dropped.
"Unscented soap." His mouth curved, revealing teeth too white, too sharp. "Smart. But not smart enough."
The interview spiraled into surreal territory:
"Have you ever been hunted, Miss Carter?"
"Would you describe yourself as... territorial?"
At one point, he circled behind her chair, his shadow swallowing hers whole. "Tell me," his breath ghosted over her ear, "do you believe in monsters?"
Lana's pulse roared in her ears. This wasn't professional. This wasn't legal. But when she turned to protest, the words died in her throat.
For a fraction of a second, his pupils weren't round. They were slitted.
Then it was gone.
The final question came as she stood to leave, knees trembling:
"Why Noctis?"
Lana met his storm-gray eyes. "Because everyone else said no."
Something dark flickered in his gaze. Approval? Hunger?
"Welcome to the pack, Miss Carter."
The elevator doors closed between them.
Only when she reached the lobby did Lana notice three things:
Her resume was still on his desk.
Her wrist ached where he'd "accidentally" brushed against it.
In the polished brass elevator doors, just before they opened - she could have sworn his reflection's eyes glowed.