Chapter 5
The Mercer Financial tower was a monument to glass and steel, a physical manifestation of Julian’s ambition.
It stood in the heart of the financial district, a cold, imposing structure that promised efficiency and power.
For five years, Julian had ruled this building with an iron fist, his presence enough to silence boardrooms and send junior analysts scurrying for cover.
Today, however, the tower felt like a minefield.
Julian stepped out of the private elevator on the executive floor, his suit perfectly tailored, his expression carved from ice.
He had spent the weekend scrubbing his skin until it was raw, dousing himself in neutralizing sprays, and popping suppressants like candy.
He had memorized his agenda, reviewed the quarterly projections, and prepared a scathing rebuttal for any board member who dared question his authority.
He was ready. He was in control.
He was also lying to himself.
The moment the elevator doors slid open, the air in the reception area shifted. It was a subtle thing—a sudden hush in the conversation of the secretaries, a stiffening in the posture of the security guard by the door. But it was the scent that hit Julian first, or rather, the reaction to it.
He smelled different.
To his own nose, he smelled like expensive cologne and chemical neutralizers.
But to the Alphas on the floor, he must have smelled like a walking invitation.
The suppressants were fighting a losing battle against the biological fallout of the False Heat and the marathon session in Damien’s penthouse.
His body had been fundamentally changed, his scent glands hyperactive, pumping out pheromones that screamed claimed and available simultaneously—a paradox that was driving the dominant demographic of the office wild.
"Good morning, Mr. Mercer," his executive assistant, Sarah, said as he approached his office. She was a Beta, immune to the pheromonal chaos, but her eyes widened slightly as she looked at him. "You... you look rested."
"I'm fine," Julian clipped out, ignoring the way her gaze lingered on the scarf he had knotted high around his neck to hide the bruising. "Hold my calls until the ten o'clock meeting."
"Actually, sir," Sarah said, her voice dropping. "Mr. Henderson from Legal asked to see you. He said it was urgent."
Julian’s jaw tightened. Marcus Henderson was a Senior Partner, a bulky Alpha in his fifties with a reputation for being a shark in the courtroom and a pig in the breakroom. Usually, Julian could handle him with a cold stare and a cutting remark.
"Send him in," Julian said, pushing open the heavy oak doors to his office.
He had barely made it to his desk when the door opened behind him. Marcus Henderson entered, his bulk filling the frame. The Alpha’s nostrils flared immediately, his eyes darkening with a predatory gleam that made Julian’s skin crawl.
"Julian," Marcus rumbled, stepping closer than professional courtesy dictated. "You’ve been... elusive lately."
"I've been working," Julian said, moving behind his desk to put a barrier between them. He kept his voice steady, channeling every ounce of arrogance he possessed. "What do you want, Marcus?"
Marcus didn't sit. He drifted toward the desk, inhaling deeply, his chest puffing out.
"The rumor mill is spinning. They say Wolfe Industries is circling.
People are... nervous. And you, coming in today, smelling.
.." He trailed off, licking his lips. "You smell different, Julian. Sweet. Like something ripe."
Julian’s hand curled into a fist on the desk. "Watch yourself, Marcus. I am still your boss."
"For now," Marcus said, a low growl threading his voice. "But if you're losing your grip, the pack dynamic shifts. An unclaimed Omega in the corner office? It’s a liability. Or an opportunity."
He rounded the desk, moving into Julian’s personal space. The scent of Marcus—stale tobacco and aggressive musk—assaulted Julian’s senses, making his stomach turn. It was nothing like Damien’s clean, oceanic storm. It was dirty. Wrong.
"I could help you," Marcus murmured, reaching out as if to touch Julian’s arm. "Protect your position. If you were properly claimed by someone inside the firm..."
Julian recoiled, slamming his hand down on the desk. "Touch me and you’ll be filing for unemployment before you can blink. Get out."
Marcus froze, his expression shifting from predatory to offended. "You think you're too good for me? You’re just a bitch in a suit, Mercer. You might have Wolfe fooled, but I can smell the weakness on you."
"I said get out!" Julian snarled, letting his own Alpha-commanding presence flare, the one he had cultivated over years of pretending.
Marcus hesitated, his instincts warring with his ego. Before he could push further, the intercom on Julian’s desk buzzed sharply.
"Mr. Mercer?" Sarah’s voice was breathless, tinged with panic. "Damien Wolfe is here. He just walked in. He’s... he’s on his way to your office."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Marcus stepped back, the color draining from his face. "Wolfe?"
The double doors didn't open; they were thrust open, banging against the stops with a violence that made the windows rattle.
Damien Wolfe stood in the threshold. He was wearing a charcoal suit that fit his broad shoulders like armor, his tie perfectly straight, his hair slicked back.
But his eyes were not the eyes of a civilized businessman.
They were molten gold, burning with a feral intensity that sucked the oxygen out of the room.
The scent that rolled off him was a physical force. It wasn't just cedar and ozone anymore; it was rage. Pure, unadulterated Alpha rage, spiked with a possessiveness that made Julian’s knees tremble.
Damien’s gaze swept the room, landing on Marcus with a weight that nearly crushed the man.
"Out," Damien said. The word was quiet, barely a whisper, but it carried the force of a thunderclap.
Marcus didn't argue. He didn't posture. He paled, mumbled an apology, and practically fled the room, brushing past Damien as if he were fleeing a fire.
Damien stepped inside and kicked the door shut. The lock clicked with a finality that echoed in the sudden silence.
He turned his attention to Julian.
"Explain," Damien said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in Julian’s chest.
Julian straightened his spine, refusing to cower even though every instinct in his body was screaming at him to bare his neck. "That was a business meeting. Which you interrupted."
"That was a pig sniffing around my mate," Damien corrected. He moved into the room, shedding his jacket and tossing it onto a chair. "I could smell him on you from the lobby. His stench is all over this room."
"He didn't touch me," Julian said, though his voice wavered as Damien rounded the desk.
"But he wanted to," Damien snarled. "And you smell like you haven't been touched in weeks. You reek of neutralizer and fear. It’s confusing the entire floor. Every Alpha in this building is on edge because you are walking around smelling like an unclaimed territory."
Julian took a step back, his hips hitting the edge of his desk. "I am not a territory. I am the CEO of this company. I will wear whatever scent I please."
Damien stopped inches from him, looming over him. The heat radiating from his body was intense. "You are mine, Julian. And if you won't mark yourself, I will do it for you."
"You wouldn't dare," Julian whispered, though the defiance in his eyes was belied by the rapid pulse in his throat.
"Turn around," Damien commanded.
Julian’s breath hitched. "Damien, I have a meeting in twenty minutes."
"Then I suggest you be quiet and quick," Damien said, his hands coming up to loosen his tie. "Turn around. Face the window."
Julian’s heart hammered against his ribs. He should fight. He should scream for security. But the look in Damien’s eyes—the raw, consuming fire—made his blood run hot. The memory of the shower, the gentleness mixed with possession, made his body clench with sudden, desperate need.
Slowly, trembling, Julian turned. He faced the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the city. The sprawling metropolis of Chicago was laid out below, thousands of lives playing out in miniature, oblivious to the drama unfolding in the penthouse office.
"Hands on the glass," Damien ordered.
Julian placed his palms flat against the cold window. He watched his own reflection in the glass—pale, wide-eyed, his lips parted.
He heard the rustle of fabric behind him, the clink of a belt buckle. Then large hands were on his hips, yanking him back until his ass was pressed against Damien’s hard thighs.
"You have no idea what you do to me," Damien growled into his ear. "Walking into this building, smelling like you do. Driving me insane. I spent the whole weekend trying to focus on work, but all I could think about was you in my shower. You in my bed."
Julian gasped as Damien’s hand slid around to the front of his trousers, palming his rapidly hardening length through the fine wool. "We can't... someone might hear."
"Then you’ll have to be quiet," Damien said, nipping at the shell of Julian’s ear. "Unless you want the whole floor to know who you belong to."
With a deft movement, Damien undid Julian’s belt and zipper. He didn't bother pulling the trousers down; he simply shoved his hand inside, wrapping his fingers around Julian’s cock.
Julian bit his lip to stifle a moan. The sensation of the rough hand against his sensitive skin was overwhelming.
"Wet," Damien murmured, his thumb swiping over the head. "Already leaking for me. You pretend to hate this, but your body knows the truth."
"Stop talking," Julian panted, pushing his hips into Damien’s grip.
Damien chuckled darkly. He released Julian’s cock, earning a whimper of protest, and spun Julian around to face him. The movement was fast, dizzying.
"On the desk," Damien said.