Blaidd
One guard held the door open while the other stepped inside to check the bathroom. A middle-aged man stood at the sink, washing his hands. He glanced up—and froze.
His eyes widened at the sight of both men. Then recognition set in, and his mouth fell open.
Fenrir sniffed the air.
Owen Sidwell, he murmured.
He didn’t bother turning off the tap or drying his hands. I stepped aside as he rushed past us.
The guard reached back to twist the tap shut, and I moved inside.
The building was old, steeped in the kind of prestige that clung to places built to impress. I stopped at the urinal as my guard closed the door behind him. The other scanned the cubicles. Empty.
I finished and washed my hands thoroughly, from wrists to fingertips. The oud-scented soap was a welcome change from the usual citrus or pine.
The guard passed me paper towels.
I checked my reflection. Cold blue eyes, edged with green around the rims—almost turquoise in the light. If only humans knew what lay beneath them. Feral red when Fenrir surfaced.
I handed the used towel back and lifted my chin, adjusting my black tie. My gold watch caught the overhead lights.
Under the guise of sponsoring the event, I was here for a quiet conversation with the Secretary of State for Business and Trade.
Liam Brannigan.
He’d been a very naughty boy.
Which worked in my favour.
The guard hurried to open the door for me.
?
?
?
The noise and mingled scents made me sigh. I picked up the programme as a waiter set my drink down. I’d asked for a seat in the corner—far enough to remain in shadow, close enough to see everything.
I inhaled the contents of the glass first. Poisoning attempts weren’t uncommon at events like this.
The winner was already decided.
It was the company I’d read about three months ago.
Her Glow.
Not an industry I dabbled in. I had bigger fish to fry.
There he was—Brannigan. Tall. Thin. Frameless glasses, not unlike Gerald Whitaker’s. Few people knew about his particular taste for underage boys.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
Appointment confirmed for tonight. Sasha.
Efficient. As always.
I slipped the phone away and skimmed my emails as the first speaker stepped up to the microphone.
I didn’t get past the second email.
A scent hit me so hard my head began to pound. Fenrir stretched—and froze.
I hadn’t had headaches like this since childhood.
My head snapped toward the main doors.
Another wave rolled through me as I inhaled the group entering the hall. Too many scents at once. The strongest were jasmine and vetiver, threaded with a hint of oakmoss. Beneath it all—herbs, flowers, and… spices?
What the fuck is going on? I snapped at Fenrir, slamming my phone onto the table.
My guards twitched, but my focus didn’t leave the doorway.
Something was wrong inside me.
The woman.
Dressed bright as the sun, slashed through with midnight blue, she dragged my gaze across flawless, smooth skin. I could hear her heartbeat. My head tilted—caught between fascination and revulsion at my own weakness. My eyes traced the bare curve of her shoulder to the pulse beating at her throat.
I grabbed a napkin, clamping it over my mouth as saliva pooled and threatened to spill from the corner of my lips.
What is she? I demanded.
Fenrir paced. Sniffed. Said nothing.
Stop forcing me to inhale her—fucking perfume, I snapped.
I tore my gaze from the swell of her breasts as my cock stirred, only for it to land on the sway of her hips as she moved through the room like royalty. Her black hair was partially braided, the rest rising tall and proud around her head.
I pressed the napkin over my nose as she reached her table. At least three metres away—and still the scent clung, thick and invasive.
People gathered around her.
Fenrir growled. My men shifted back.
He cut off mid-growl as he forced me to inhale again.
They are her kin, he said at last.
What was wrong with me? Of course they were.
At least two generations of them.
“What is she, Fenrir?” I muttered aloud, uncaring of the cretins nearby.
Different, he said—and before I could snap, he continued. Old. Her blood carries an old enemy. Almost as old as me.
His next words sent a cold wave through my blood.
Possibly older, Fenrir murmured, thoughtful.
Older. Did that mean stronger? Fenrir was part god. What spawn could be older—let alone stronger—than a giantess and a shapeshifting magician like Loki?
Fenrir eased, just a fraction.
“What?” I snapped, ignoring the heads that turned toward me.
I don’t sense her beast, he said.
No. She feels like a threat, I insisted.
I swallow gods.
I snapped my fingers. One guard leaned in.
“Find out who that woman in the yellow dress is. Now.”
I watched him thread through the tables, then tuned back to her heartbeat. Steady. Ordinary. Nothing unusual—until she laughed. The soft, tinkling sound grated on my nerves.
“Lielit Tolera,” the guard said quietly. “Owner of Her Glow.”
“Call the driver. We’re leaving,” I said, glancing at the programme to confirm her name. I folded it into four neat quarters and slipped it into my pocket.
Fenrir was eager to leave. To recalibrate.
As we moved toward the exit, it took every ounce of my will not to look back—not to inhale that scent again. Outside, I shoved past people and braced a hand against the wall, drawing in the cool evening air.
It didn’t help. Her scent remained, etched into our memory.
The car pulled up. I walked to it stiffly.
Sleeping adversary or not, no one stood above us.
I needed leverage.
?
?
?
I was searching everything I could find on the woman until the car came to a stop. I rushed inside, tossed my keys into the wooden bowl, and bolted upstairs for my laptop. I paused outside my office and decided to change out of the tux first.
The moment I opened the bedroom door, the stench hit me.
It turned my stomach.
I stared at the woman Sasha had sent.
“How many times did you bathe?”
Her head lifted slowly from the floor.
“Three times as requested, sir,” she murmured.
I grimaced as the smell intensified.
“Leave. You’ll be paid. Open the window on your way out,” I said, already striding toward the dressing room.
As soon as I was inside, I slammed the door shut.
Fenrir remained silent—bemused.
“She’s done something to us,” I muttered, yanking the stupid bow tie loose and flinging it across the room.
I owned people. They danced to my tune.
Politicians. Military. Media. Leaders who shaped an entire country. I fucking owned them all.
Wait.
She had African blood.
“What is she?” I hissed. “Don’t piss me about. Take a guess. African continent.”
I don’t know every nation or their tribal legends, Fenrir snapped back.
I tore my jacket off, ready to throw it—then stopped. Drew a slow breath through my nose.
She would not control me.
I hung the jacket with deliberate care and flicked my wrist, unclasping my watch. The ritual steadied me. My mind surged ahead regardless, already dismantling what I knew of her company. Supply chains. Registrations. Names.
Her grandparents’ names would be the key. Heritage always left a trail.
Her blood.
I had heard it in her veins. That thick pulse at her throat, beating beneath sun-warmed skin. That alone wasn’t unusual—only possible in silence, in proximity.
Never like this.
Never across a room.
Never like a warning.
Like a silent threat.
The cold calm returned by the time I finished in the dressing room. The frigid breeze pouring through the open window was a relief. The stench had reduced—vastly.
I accessed everything tied to her online, a courtesy of my data-surveillance company.
Darius Fletcher.
The recent ex-boyfriend.
Bastard.
I would ruin him. Stab him in the chest. Slit his belly open and play with his insides, I would—
I blinked at the screen.
Why did you stop? Fenrir growled. We need to find him. I want to taste his blood as it drips from my fur and clamp down on his bones until they snap like twigs.
“Why?” I asked quietly. “Why should we care about that insignificant human?”
He didn’t reply.
The simple fact was, neither of us knew.