The sunlight streaming through the windows belied the dark nature of the situation. Rampant thoughts conflicted with the rapture of his body. It didn't feel like his lungs could take in enough oxygen, that he was near to blacking out. His dark passenger hadn’t relaxed for a single second in his attempts to overcome the odd prison. Between trying to move and the uncontrollable spasms of another forced orgasm, his body burned. Malcolm tried to stop himself, to not enjoy. Wave after wave of bliss jumbled his mind, and both parts of him unashamedly drank in the vision of her pleasure. It was all he could do.

Malcolm bemoaned his plight as she met his hips with her own, taking the full length of his cock into her silken heat. Her thigh was damp under his palm, her leg flexing with every thrust. The situation was going to drive him insane. If she kept up this torture, he would be just as stark raving mad as any lunatic in literature, all with a wild animal in danger of controlling his actions.

Malcolm watched, trying to maintain his reason, to piece out the logic, to understand. The riveting beauty of her visage relaxed into a completely honest expression; the sculpture of her art putting anything Michelangelo coaxed from his marble to utter shame. His breath caught in his throat, struck by such a vision. Another orgasm slammed through him, and that frozen  moment was lost. He had tried to resist, tried to ignore the building pressure, but the front-row seat to her unadulterated bliss was the most erotic display he'd ever had the fortune to view. More of the small sounds escaped the back of his throat, his hips jerking as he filled her with his seed.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and their panting breaths barely made it through to his brain. The near desperate force of his wolf to move relaxed its hold, and his entire body thrummed, pulsing in time with his heart. She didn't move, not for minutes, needing to recover, it seemed.

It was an unfortunate delay. Still buried in her heat, his cock sprang to attention. His beast began its efforts anew, and Malcolm relaxed his grip on control. It didn't matter. She was going to do whatever she wanted with him, and he could do nothing but react.

The fine sheen of sweat that coated him didn't cool him. He couldn't think of anything that would accomplish such a feat. As Malcolm resigned himself to endure her wicked treatment, she offered up that false smile, the same sort a cat who had eaten the canary wears. He noted it didn't quite reach her eyes as she gave him a gentle pat on the cheek.

There was a wet sound as she lifted away from him, and he could feel himself standing at attention, throbbing from a fresh need. His darker half was still not satisfied, the urge to dominate, to take, overwhelming. Malcolm closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath, listening to her move around. When he glanced at her again, she was getting dressed. Oh thank gods she was leaving. Wait. She wasn't allowed to leave. They weren't done. He was so bloody tired, the full weight of the day bearing a heavy psychological toll. But they weren't done. His fatigue slowed his thoughts, confusion at what she was telling him. 

Tiffany will see to your needs.

Tiffany? She had Theophania to come see to his…

Oh no. Nonononono.

At the moment, he and his wolf were one, united in the primal want of the Latina. Both of them, his logic and his instinct, raged to act, to catch the beguiling vixen and do what he wanted. To relieve the pressure of the state in which she left him. The Latina abandoned him, paralyzed by her technology and sitting in their combined juices, desperate to act.

His eyes slid sideways, only catching the shadow of the petite woman in the door. Theophania's unique aroma reached his nose, chamomile and sage. Her arousal followed, having never seen him in such light. Strength blossomed in his primal nature as his dark passenger responded.

She would suffice for now.

"Dr. Book?" Tiffany asked, taking a few timid steps towards him.

That odd thrum that held him vanished, and he turned to look at her. Whatever she saw flooded the space with fear, and Malcolm lost the battle.

This time, he didn't care about the little red flash.

Morgan St. James was formerly the diurnal Executive Assistant of Malcolm Book. She kept her position during the takeover, as they called it. The screams startled the woman at her desk. She lifted from her seat, her hand automatically picking up the phone and dialing security. She was surprised her hand wasn't shaking. She had never heard such a harrowing sound. Seconds later, the top floor tactical team rushed past. The silence afterwards was eerie. 

He'd broken her.

Before he'd wrestled down the iniquitous urges...bones snapped and flesh tore. He'd almost done it. But he hadn't. But almost.

A deep gash spiralled Tiffany's leg. Another marred her shoulder. Her left arm hung useless, and he stared at the bone protruding from her shin. He quashed the anguish at what he'd done, instead using it to fuel his hold on his dark passenger. The cool, analytical mind of a doctor overtook his demeanor once again, and he set to work quickly.

First to set the bone. He moved next to her, ignoring her futile kick. He grabbed her broken leg on either side of the tibia. A quick jerk and the two pieces set into a line once more.

Deja vu washed over him, an unfounded terror clutching his heart.

Theophania let out another screech, and he looked at her. For the briefest of moments, she was not herself.

A tall brunette sat before him, her dark eyes set in an exotic tilt. A sheer blouse hid nothing, rose tipped breasts pressing against the fabric. That same look of wide-eyed fear stretched the pale skin of her face. There was a softness to it that didn't make sense in her fright. The sunlight streaming in through his penthouse windows vanished, replaced suddenly by wood-paneled walls. They were in his bedroom, at the estate. The layout was similar, Malcolm finding peace in routine and consistency. White tea and sage flooded his nose, overtaking his senses.

Malcolm scrambled away from the hallucination, fighting the bile that rose in his throat. Wide eyes scanned the room, ensuring he was where he was supposed to be. The Penthouse. Not the estate. 

Was he cracking again?

He'd not eaten in gods knew how long. Hadn't slept. Been tortured in various ways. A hallucination wasn't out of the question. Except he'd never seen that woman before. The exotic shape of her eyes danced across his mind, and he couldn’t not see her.

The hold he'd so carefully crafted on his sanity, pieced together after Emmaline, fractured at his doubt. Thundering steps barely penetrated his madness before the dart released its poison, and darkness claimed him.

He awoke in an unfamiliar room.

The layout was identical to the cells in the basement, cot against the wall, a chair in one corner, a small table for accoutrement. However, the bed was far bigger than a cot, the chair was a sturdy affair of oak, most likely a Swanson piece judging by the joints, and the end table matched. And there was an attached bathroom. It wasn’t nearly as luxurious, but it was more than just the stall and toilet.

A single clock was mounted above the door. Besides that, there were no electronics or paintings. Nothing to stimulate his mind. A stiff layer of something clung to his thighs, and he realized he’d been dumped in the room, wherever it was. He took advantage of the shower before returning to further explore his surroundings. There were sweatpants, a zip up, and a t-shirt. All nondescript and heather grey. The clock indicated that he’d slept for many hours, and yet, he was still tired.

Knocking on the locked door yielded no results. Malcolm knew he could take it down, but he didn’t know what was on the other side of the door. And such drastic action could make his predicament even worse. So…he waited.

It was midnight when he felt the shrill sensation of his collar activate. He was sitting in the chair, simply thinking about all that had happened, since he was left with nothing else to occupy his mind. About the gorgeous woman he’d imagined, with the almond-shaped eyes. Who the Latina was, and why she had such a drastic effect on him. What he could possibly do about any of it. Meal shakes were provided regularly, every three hours. The door would slide open, and a stoic guard would set the drink on the table. The bottle was retrieved an hour later. He’d just finished dinner, and taken a seat to continue his daily activity, trying to untangle his predicament when the Latina strolled in.

His heart picked up. He didn’t need to wonder about what was to happen. It was crystal clear from her previous behavior. Their history.

The second night, it was the same.

She had done it after all. Turned him into a mere body slave. Taken him from his lab and his work, using him to simply please herself.

Night after night, he waited for her in the chair. He dare not try to sleep. The anxiety he felt at just the thought of being caught on his back was enough to prevent it. Sometimes she came during the day. The lack of rest began to take its toll, and soon a hint of darkness spread under his eyes. He didn’t know how long he could continue the routine, and keep his sanity. Not with the constant infighting with his wolf, more prevalent day after day in his cell, even when she wasn’t around. Especially since her scent permeated his space, and she dropped in whenever she felt like it.

It was always the same. If he wasn’t in the chair, she positioned him in it. Of course not before disrobing him, an act that he found far too erotic. Why she preferred the seated position, he could only guess. The thoughts of her mind were far too obfuscated and impenetrable for him to understand.

Madness neared its peak, a rising itch to which he was sorely tempted to succumb.

The full moon always did pull at his sanity.