"Magnus, I understand your position, but this crosses every conceivable boundary," the director said, lacing his thick fingers together atop the desk.
Magnus sat in the dimly lit office, the air heavy with a thick cloud of smoke. Opposite him sat a powerfully built man clad in a tailored suit. They stared at each other like two apex predators poised to tear out each other’s throats at the slightest provocation. The atmospheric pressure in the room was suffocating—viscous, dense, and laced with unfiltered dominance.
A young secretary stepped into the office on trembling legs, approaching the desk to set down a gleaming tray with two cups of steaming coffee. She shook uncontrollably; in all her years of service, she had only seen the director in such a lethal state a handful of times. And the young Alpha seated across from him was nothing short of a monster—a living, breathing nightmare wrapped in human flesh.
"May I be excused, sir?" she whispered, keeping her eyes glued to the floorboards.
Without casting a glance in her direction, the director gave a curt nod. She bolted from the room as if the forces of hell were pursuing her.
Silence settled over the room as the door clicked shut.
Magnus drew slowly on his cigarette, venting a plume of grey smoke through his nostrils as he fixed the director with a frigid, detached stare.
"I was protecting what belongs to me," he said, flicking the ash onto the desk.
"That unawakened little breeder doesn’t belong to anyone," the older man replied smoothly, leaning back against the leather rest of his chair. It was glaringly obvious that he harbored no fear of Magnus—none whatsoever.
"At least, you haven’t formally laid claim to her. As far as the pack law is concerned, you’re hardly a paragon of virtue. By that logic, one out of every five breeders on this campus could claim to bear your scent."
Magnus’s jaw clenched so hard his molars creaked. A volatile surge of violent instinct boiled within his chest, demanding he lung over the desk and rip the throat out of the arrogant man before him, but he held his inner beast on a tight leash.
For now.
"That breeder is mine. Even if the formal blood rites haven’t been completed," Magnus gritted out, taking another slow drag, his tone dripping with sheer steel.
"Then damn it all, claim her officially so I don’t have to clean up these catastrophic messes!" The director slammed his fist down, sending a web of sharp fractures spiderwebbing across the polished mahogany surface. "A faculty member and two students are currently hospitalized—all facing a month of intensive care! I agree the professor had it coming. But why in the hell did you send two young classmates to the ICU?"
"Those two bastards installed a hidden camera in the women’s locker room at the gym," Magnus stated coldly, leveling an executioner’s gaze at the man. "They were blackmailing the female students, extorting money and forcing them into compliance. Any more stupid questions?"
The director froze. Rising slowly from his chair, he paced toward the floor-to-ceiling window and clasped his hands behind his back. He remained silent for a long moment, processing the revelation.
"How did you come across this information?" he asked without turning around. "Why didn’t you bring it to my attention?"
"I have a counter-question," Magnus rumbled, standing up to his full, towering height. "Why were you oblivious to it in your own territory? That wretched professor was buying the photographs directly from those students. He was ready to film him raping my mate too."
The director spun around, an ancient, dangerous fury igniting in his eyes.
"Let’s step outside for a smoke," he exhaled heavily, shoving open the door to the private balcony.
Magnus offered a cold, indifferent smirk and followed him out into the brisk air.
They stood side-by-side against the stone railing, lighting up in silence. The director unfastened his cufflinks, shoving them carelessly into his pocket before rolling his sleeves up his forearms. As he did, a striking detail caught Magnus’s sharp eye. Wrapped around the director’s wrist was a broad, pitch-black band.
It looked like a permanent mark, yet the pigment was visibly flaking and cracking away—a decay that no ordinary tattoo could ever display.
"It’s a mark," the director said quietly, catching Magnus’s lingering gaze.
Magnus instinctively glided his glance down toward his own sleeve, beneath which his mark lay concealed—vibrant, sharp, and pristine. He couldn’t fathom how a fated bond could ever decay into something so blackened and grotesque.
"What happened to it?" Magnus asked, venting a plume of smoke into the crisp air.
The older Alpha let out a hollow laugh. "You’re the first one with the balls to ask. I respect that," he murmured, tracing his calloused fingers over the fractured black band. "My mate died. A heavy truck broadsided the car taking her to the maternity ward. I knew the exact second her heart stopped—my mark began to flake and crumble right off my flesh."
Magnus remained silent, digesting the heavy revelation. An icy dread coiled in his chest, serving as a stark reminder of how fragile his mate truly was. She was mortal. Delicate. One single moment of negligence, and he could lose her forever.
"I’ve never heard of a mark crumbling upon death," Magnus remarked evenly.
"It doesn’t happen to everyone. The bond only shatters like this if you both are entangled in absolute, codependent shock during the tragedy," the director explained, taking a deep drag that burned his cigarette down to the filter in a single breath. "To put it simply: the deeper your souls are entwined, the more violent the backlash when the tether snaps. Even with lesser bonds, the mark suffers. It loses its color. It turns black, dead, and scarred."
Magnus let out a low grunt.
"Once that fucker’s body is pulled down from the bridge," he said, flicking his spent cigarette over the railing, "I’ll go ahead and fund the complete renovation of that lecture hall."
"Do me that small favor, would you?" the director replied sarcastically, sparking another cigarette.
Without another word, Magnus turned on his heel and strode out of the office. His mind was consumed by a single name––Jane Lang.
Today, he was finally taking her home from the medical wing. Back to his sanctuary. To the one place where he could guarantee her safety.
The world was crawling with filth waiting for a chance to break her—especially now, when her unawakened state left her so terribly vulnerable. It wasn’t just other wolves he had to shield her from; the council and the state were watching, too.
The mere thought of another male laying a hand on her made his inner beast roar with apocalyptic fury. Especially that dead professor. The sick bastard had bought up every single private photo of her he could find, and had even put out a bounty for more.
He was going to tear every remaining piece of that fucker to bloody shreds.
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