The face of Botwin Botanicals was Joaquin Ruiz-Martinez, but the brains belonged to Malcolm Book. Botwin Botanicals was a household name, making all-natural, carbon-neutral products such as towels, soap, and medicine. The name used to be Pharmaceuticals before Botanicals, but Botanicals was voted in unanimously once they branched off into household items. Still, Botwin was the world’s number one provider of aspirin, Xanax, and heroin. The latter production was mostly due in part to Joaquin’s influence from south of the border.

The heroin was shipped and sold by the Guadalajara Cartel, the true owners of Botwin Botanicals, and by proxy, Malcolm Book. After all, werewolves were property, and property couldn't own property. The company, however, could use their genius with extraordinary results, such as the newest innovation of the C-ES00729, soon to replace the C-MB13703 model collar for shifter control. The device boasted a thin band of technologically advanced titanium alloy with patent-pending silver veinwork. 

The brilliance behind it all was Dr. Malcolm Book, a werewolf with a genius mind. His human accomplishments, such as his multiple PhDs and veritable work history, added to his value but didn’t change his status. The infection changed the trajectory of his life, but Malcolm ensured that his inevitable owner, whomever he allowed to claim him as a prize to add to their assets, understood him. Not only understand, but be open-minded enough to see his value outside of the disease in his veins. He'd been prepared for infection, and when he was ready, he carefully arranged for Joaquin’s success in his ‘capture.’ Only, he didn’t know everything he thought he did.

The good doctor lived a monotonous existence. He worked. Slept. Ate. Worked again. The loop seemed endless from the outside, but Dr. Book rarely cared about the opinions of others. His research spoke for itself, and those who managed to gain his attention did so with competency and a lack of annoying behaviors. He was rewarded for his accomplishments with a Penthouse suite he never utilized, and relative autonomy to focus on his work. As long as he was useful, he could almost convince himself he was a free man.

Ruby, Malcolm’s handler(as far as the Guadalajara was concerned), had informed him of an impending visit. According to her, several owners planned to drop by, and would be scrutinizing operations. It wasn’t going to be Mr. Ruíz, but one of his associates, or family members. It didn't matter, really. They'd pop in, give him a pat on the head, and move on.

The disturbance to his left drew Malcolm away from the microscope, his glacial blue eyes settling on the security team that had shouldered in. At the forefront stood the head of the entire sector, a rather imposing black man with the letters C-O-B-R-A tattooed on his knuckles. Malcolm's hackles rose at the sight of the quick injector in his hand, and he straightened slowly. It was one of the few tools that made him wary. He couldn't help a small sense of pride that Micheal “Cobra” Rhames knew the drug was far more effective than the Siaga-12 auto shotgun each of his four men carried. The stench of the silver ammunition burned his nose, irritation simmering at the inconvenience.

"Your presence is requested upstairs," Cobra said. He had a gravelly depth to his voice that sounded like tumbling earth, and it brokered no argument. 

Malcolm nodded, mentally chiding himself for leaving his collar next to his bed. They were early. He should have put the bloody thing on as soon as he’d spoken to Ruby.

A careful turn as he concentrated on moving at a sloth’s pace. His actions were deliberate; he removed his lab coat and replaced it with the jacket that completed the look of his three piece suit. Cobra took up the rear while the other four guards surrounded the dangerous animal among them. If he were to make a false move, he would be unconscious in an instant with the quick injector. 

Malcolm just wanted to get it over with, so he could get back to work. The floor kept his attention as he walked, shuffling to stay within the confines of the much larger men, all former members of the military. A new aroma touched his nose when they stepped off the lift, and Malcolm dared a quick glance to see where it was coming from. The closer they got to his office, the stronger the scent. It was teasing at him, something he could no longer ignore. His dark passenger flowed into his gaze, curious. It was a novel reaction, one he'd not experienced while his wolf was in its soporific state. Surprise at the surge of power nearly made him falter. The men around him tensed up, their hearts picking up in pace.

"My apologies gentlemen, I misstepped..." The baritone of Malcolm’s British lilt held a sincerity and carried into the quiet space. 

Cobra alone remained calm, reasonable due to the weapon he held. Malcolm couldn't see around the men, only smell the acrid tang of their anxiety at the fact he was uncollared. He kept his hands in front of him, knowing any movement while he spoke could be misconstrued. Their fear put him ill-at-ease, yet he was distracted, trying to nail down that savory sweet that haunted his nose. Curiosity nearly had him forget their distress.

The first thing he saw when they stepped aside was the collar on the desk. It wasn’t his. It was new, and one with which he wasn't familiar.

Then she caught his eye, the ebon-haired Aphrodite sitting in his chair, and nothing else could hold his interest. He couldn't help but stare. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He blinked, and the verdant streaks of bronze pushed the glacial blue into molten streaks of lightning. Heat that rivaled creation entered his gaze, and he found himself waging a war of control against his beast; he wanted to act upon iniquitous urges that had never been so forceful.

She wore a lacy black affair that was like a second skin. The fabric wrapped around her throat and the full length of her arms in an absolute mockery of modesty. It had a dangerously low neckline that barely covered her nipples. The nearly sheer material blatantly revealed that the mysterious woman wasn’t wearing any undergarments, a tantalizing fact that stoked the fire in his blood. It was amber and cedarwood. And musk, a musk of arousal that intensified as she stood, revealing the thigh length of the outfit. There was cunning in the cocoa of her gaze, their beautiful shape accentuated by the barest touch of mascara. Not that she needed anything to draw attention to the lovely curve of her cheeks.

The muscle in his jaw clenched as he tried to reconcile what was happening, both appalled and fascinated at his reaction. Never had a woman caused such a response in him or riled his dark passenger to such activity. When his wolf became restless, he visited Divinity to satisfy the creature and then return to work. Malcolm had patronized the club three days ago, and he should not be struggling for control. Nor fantasizing about all the little bits of sun-kissed skin that he couldn’t see.

The shock of the revelation made it easier for the guards to shove him down to his knees. Rage flared that nearly launched him back to his feet, but he stilled when the plastic tip pressed against the back of his neck, dropping his gaze in a show of subservience.

He should've worn his bloody collar.