Agony wrenched at his muscles. Tendrils of burning fire lit up every pore as his body tightened to iron for the briefest of moments. Once the bright flash of verdant bronze subsided in his eyes, he realised all of his weight hung on his shoulder joints from unforgiving bands holding his forearms behind him. Jolting awake hadn’t helped his situation, and the agony of the collar subsided. There were buckshot gashes on his stomach, slowly oozing, clearly exacerbated by silver. The pieces of embedded metal had already been retrieved by a callous hand. The burn of silver, his torso, and shoulders slid into his world of sensation. His wolf was barely present, a bare shadow behind a frosty wall.

Another blink. He was in one of the storage rooms they used for…training. The cool air on his naked flesh caused a momentary shiver, and his mind raced back to what had occurred. His beast had slammed down a wall of control for those moments in time, but he saw bits. Flashes of memory through a haze, the woman pinned beneath him, frozen as he explored her curves, the taste of her blood and sexual release still in his mouth. And then Cobra and his men —

“Is she all right? I didn’t hurt her? Or any of the men?”

It didn’t make sense. Why did he care more about her than the men who’d worked around him for years? He didn’t even know her bloody name. Cobra’s expression remained unchanged when he responded.

“No one was injured beyond a complete recovery.”

Malcolm swallowed, relief flooding through him on a level a person in his tortured position shouldn’t be able to conceive, much less feel. They were good people, all of them. Well, except for the vile succubus who had somehow destroyed his control over his wolf. What was so special about her, he didn’t know. Her scent plagued him, as did her taste. Inwardly, Malcolm recoiled at the fact, at what he’d done. No. Not him, his darker half. Though, to be perfectly honest —

Light flashed his vision black as a force pulled his muscles taunt. The energy of the collar pried at the sinew of every joint, a hot blade carving out a furrow under his skin. He ground his teeth together, barely holding in a scream. 

Fortunately, it was quick. 

He went lax when it stopped, no longer concerned about lifting his head to see. A vision of the mysterious woman danced behind his eyelids, sprawled on the desk like the decadent dessert that she was. And he’d taken what he wanted from her, greedily and without hesitation. He tried to shake his head, to rid himself of it, but he couldn’t. She was taunting him.

A thousand needles stabbed him at once, down to the bone, all electrified. His spine bowed back at the sheer behest of his musculature, and he concentrated on the flame, trying to maintain his sensibility. He kept reminding himself.

It was necessary.

Everything was necessary. Whether he knew why yet or not.

There was a rational explanation for the order of things. 

The universe had logic.

The pain stopped again, and he slumped, panting as sweat dripped from him. The worst part was the difficulty in thinking, in reasoning.

This was nothing compared to the excruciating agony of a shift…but this lasted longer. Heat flushed through him, an appropriate physiological response to his predicament. Malcolm didn’t bother trying to escape or fight. Nor would he scream or cry. He’d done enough of both in his life, and he wanted no more. This was something to endure, especially because of —

“Dr. Book.” Cobra’s voice was distant, beyond the pounding blood in his ears. How long had they been at it? Hours? Days?

Malcolm blinked, somehow finding the will to lift his head a scant few centimetres. There was an orderly standing at the door, and four new security guards. No sign of the woman. For some reason he could not explain, he thought that She had stopped the torture.

“Dr. Book, can you perform surgery?” This question from the intern. Liam. No, Lawrence. No, that wasn’t quite right either. It took far too long for the query to present itself as it was — a verbal probe expecting a response.

“What—” His voice was hoarse from his suppressed screams, sounds that he dare not let leave his lips but still tore at his throat.

“The Turnaday twins are coding and Dr. Lang needs you for surgery,” Luther explained. His name was Luther. That was it.

Oh no. The boys were rejecting their transplants. Information relevant to their case flooded his brain, pushing all thoughts aside as he offered a weak nod. Eleven years old, monozygotic twins, blood type A Negative.
“Yes…get me—”

“Got it right here,” Luther held up a quick injector. Green.

Malcolm fell to the ground. An insignificant sensation on top of everything else.

The injector pricked his neck as rough hands released the restraints. The red welts healed much more slowly than typical. Energy rolled through him, a tangy, artificial surge of what Malcolm called ‘False Hope.’ He didn’t know who tried to help him up, but he waved them off. It was important to move on his own, to allow the Molupinil to saturate his muscles through activation. The pain became a memory as he stumbled through the door, sheer determination forcing the fog — and woman — from his clouded mind.

It didn’t last.

The surgery was a challenge, even for him with his additional senses. After Theophania, a skilled healer Evo, had performed her miracles in removing his physical fatigue, he was ready to work alongside the attending Dr. Sydney Lang. Between them and her team of six, there was very little room between the two gurneys. The surgical field was less than half the size of an adult, and far more delicate due to the severe illness present in the two young men.

No one said anything about what had occurred for the entire twelve hours and nine minutes they were under the lights. Dr. Book knew they were all aware of the events that had transpired. Perhaps not the exact details, but there was a reason there were two of Botwin’s best guards, in scrubs, armed with the red quick injectors in the room. They’d been relieved by two others seven hours in. It was easy for Malcolm to ignore them, but not so for everyone else.

After all, he had more distressing distractions to keep him preoccupied. Malcolm found himself constantly re-focusing his thoughts. It was beyond frustrating that they drifted to earlier, to the Latina woman who hadn’t even bothered to introduce herself. All he knew was that she was Mr. Ruiz’s cousin. And that he owed her an apology.

And what she smelled like. How soft her skin felt under his fingers. How she tasted.

The mask hid his scowl, but the team could feel his growing ire radiating. It was awkwardly quiet, no one ever quite feeling comfortable enough to carry on small-talk.

There was a tense moment when they removed the bypass. His surgery gown had the usual remnants of body fluids from such an endeavor. Dr. Book’s was more sullied than Dr. Lang’s, who had not caught a powerful spurt of blood from a nicked artery. No one commented then, either.

Everyone watched their vitals on the monitor, collectively holding their breath at the zig-zag line dancing up and down. Everyone except the two guards — they watched Malcolm Book.

Michael's numbers dipped, and Dr. Book looked down at the young man, mind racing at the speed of light. Had he missed a stitch on his mistake? Did he cut something else? Was everything on the table?

The erratic sound normalized, and Malcolm looked up to see a steady heart rhythm. Just a scare. 

He and Sydney exchanged a look, and though her face was obscured, he knew she was smiling. For the first time that day, Malcolm did too, though his was not so energetic. Both boys would survive, it would seem.

"Good work," he said. 

It wasn't the best of compliments, but Malcolm was tired, distracted, and angry.

Correction.

He was exhausted, and furious, and had caused problems on the table due to his mental fatigue. Sydney didn’t respond, unable to express her pleasure at the compliment. After all, he was just a wolf. It was still nice to see the respect in her eyes.

Malcolm left her to close, and exited the theater, his due diligence done. The two guards followed him to the locker room. There was no privacy afforded a creature such as he, who’d proven himself dangerous so recently.

Imagine his surprise when he found Cobra waiting for him at the lift.

“I have been informed that your efforts today are recognized.” He paused with a significant look. “Should you step out of line again…there won’t be an emergency surgery to save you,” he said. Cobra gave a dismissive nod to the two men, and they stepped into the waiting car.

“I understand,” Malcolm said. The two men regarded one another. Malcolm had hired Cobra, back when he was still masquerading as a human. There was a purely professional, mutual respect between them. That much was clear to Malcolm, a fact that didn’t bother him in the least. The man was doing the job he’d been hired to do.

They parted ways, and he rode the lift to the Penthouse, wondering if the mysterious woman that had riled up his beast was still in the building.

Bollocks. He should’ve asked Cobra for her name. After all, he owed her a staggering apology.

She’d been in his room, whoever she was. He could smell her, the intoxicating aroma of her amber, cedarwood, and musk a pleasant addition that permeated his space. After everything he’d gone through, he thought he would have at least found peace in his own bedroom. The most frustrating part was that he actually enjoyed the scent, despite logic dictating he should loathe the vile vixen.

For once, he dallied in the shower; the solace of running hot water shut out the world, offering up a quietude the likes of which he’d never fully appreciated. The sweat and smells of the day washed away to a mere whisper…except for hers. Introspection spiraled from his hesitation to rid himself of her presence, and he turned the fact over in his mind. If Malcolm had really wanted to clean himself of every trace, he would be in the UV shower. But he wasn’t. He didn’t want to lose that scent, regardless of how she’d treated him.

He’d done far worse to her.

The pads of his fingers slid over an unusual texture, and he looked down. Past the garish scar over his heart, there was a new peppering of fresh tissue on his abdomen. Healers were brilliant, and some, like those of Theophania’s level, were able to heal wounds at an astounding rate. He frowned, hand drifting over the dotted pattern, thoughts turning over the events leading up to the marks.

Now that he wasn’t resisting the agony of torment, or saving lives, he could ruminate. He allowed himself to remember everything he could. The most prominent detail was that his dark passenger had emerged in earnest as soon as he’d laid eyes on her. His wolf had been restless when they’d stepped off the lift, and became downright violent in his bout for control when he’d seen her. 

As he focused, his visions through the eyes of his beast came more clearly. A new memory of sensation, how she felt squirming against his mouth paired with the taste that still haunted his palate. The sensory impulse of such an eroticism moved his hand lower, his imagination tumbling over glorious fantasies. What would she feel like in a different position? Her legs wrapped around his waist? How would her lovely mouth feel? 

His rationality tried to interfere, pointing out that the primal urges from his dark passenger were usually satisfied for weeks at a time after he visited Divinity. He’d only just been to the BDSM club four days prior, and he should be bereft of such a plague of distraction. 

She was dangerous in her power, whatever it was. The carnality of his thoughts overwhelmed his logic, and his mouth parted slightly as his soapy hand gripped his growing cock. Eyes closed, using every bit of detail he could recall, he built up the scenario. A distinct detail, one that he could clearly hear, was how she sounded. The sighs and whimpers, and oh how she moaned. How wonderfully she’d sang out for him.

Up and down he moved his hand, tugging the velvet skin over the hard length as he thought about her. The way her eyes had looked over the top of his hand, burning bright with fiery indignation. The sweet taste of her thighs, still there…

His fingers curled against the ceramic as he groaned, that blissful pressure building to a crescendo. She’d danced for him, at the behest of his tongue. Pressed against him for more, unafraid, even though he wasn’t in control, squirmed under his attention. His breath hitched, and he hit the wall with his fist, tile cracking under the force. Ecstasy coursed through him in a wave, each upward stroke drawing a new surge of his sticky seed from the tip of his cock. It coated his hand, quickly washed away in the shower’s spray. He dragged in a breath, wondering what the bloody hell he was doing. 

He should be planning an apology, not fantasizing about the bloody woman. How the devil did she sway his thoughts so drastically?

The toothbrush fractured when he grabbed it, taking his ire out on the innocent object.

A few minutes later, he killed the flow of water with a swipe, and stepped out, water dripping freely from his form. He grabbed a towel for his hair; a sound grew in his chest as he scrubbed the cloth against his scalp, squeezing his eyes shut. The journey to his bed ended in a growl of frustration as he sat down. Her aroma was just as pungent as before, and Malcolm hoped he could actually go to sleep despite the noon hour. He gripped his skull, bunching the cloth as he glared at his hips. His reaction to the tantalizing scent was a legitimate phenomenon, and he wondered if she were some type of creature mistaken for a succubus in mythos. The chances were atomically small, but not impossible. His wolf rose to a simmer, making him acutely aware of his carnal needs, and the insistence to satisfy them.

As she overwhelmed his thoughts again, he slammed the towel down on the bed, and pushed himself back to the headboard, the collar pressing into his neck. This was ridiculous. Perhaps some light reading would distract him—

The woman on his mind was sitting next to him, wearing nothing but his shirt.