Chapter 4 Ambrose
Ambrose
RULES, MANNERS, STRUCTURE.
The trifecta that defines any man who’s worth a damn.
Rules are the foundation—without them, chaos is free to roam. Structure rises from rules, solid and unwavering. And then… manners.
Manners are everything.
They are what separate the men from the boys, the wolves from the sheep. Rich or poor, human or otherwise, how one treats their partner speaks volumes.
And yet, here I was—watching myself dismantle each of those pillars, one by one, as I swallowed another tasteless blue pill with distaste. The cold, sterile sensation of it sliding down my throat.
I stared out of my office window, watching as the sun rose over the city. So full of life. A natural balance that feels foreign to me now.
The pills—of course—were a temporary fix. A bandage, barely holding back the inevitable.
I could almost feel my pheromones stirring beneath my skin, restless and clawing, only contained for the moment by the blockers I’ve been forced to take. The same kind they give to younglings at the cusp of their first heat.
A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
I’ve been taking stolen pheromone pills that I found at my sister’s house. Lucky for me, she seems to believe she is a rabbit, as evident by how many younglings she has decided to spawn. They have so many of these bottles around the house she would not miss one.
Still, I was on borrowed time.
What I needed was a partner. A woman.
A mate.
No.
Not a mate. A partner. Someone to have as an outlet. Else, everything I’ve worked for, every hour, every sacrifice—everything—will have been for nothing.
I could already see the reporters, their mouths watering as they prepare the headline: Billionaire Perfume CEO Arrested for Illegal Pheromone Spreading.
Essence would be finished before the ink had dried and someone’s grandma picked up the morning paper to read while she sipped on an overpriced cup of coffee.
Fuck.
As if summoned by my hell-borne mother, the doors to my office burst open.
Harper.
Her scent hit me before her voice did—tequila, salt, but not enough to hide her floral scent. Like walking into a greenhouse. Only this time, the flowers smelled bruised. She’d been crying, maybe drinking. Maybe both. But she was on time.
That’s all that mattered.
Her personal life?
Not my concern.
At least, that’s what I told myself every morning as I pretended to read quarterly reports, listening to her muttering to herself while rifling through the chaos of her sticky notes.
Normally, I would tell her to keep her desk in order, but then I wouldn’t get to hear her soft curses in the mornings as she rummages through her mess.
Harper walked into my office, her tight white button-down shirt straining against her chest with every twist of her torso. Her pencil skirt clinging to her hips, ending just shy of professional. It would be too easy to take my claws and rake them up her legs—no.
I turned away, trying to find glimpses of her reflection in the glass as her heels clicked behind me, as if dancing on the marble floor that separated restraint from ruin.
“Morning, Sir,” she said softly, her voice low and cool like a silk ribbon sliding over skin. She placed a neat stack of files on my desk. “I’m sure you already know, but you’ve got a meeting with Scent Magazine in thirty minutes. The reporter—Patrick James—is already waiting in Boardroom A.”
I didn’t turn. Didn’t answer right away.
“And?” I said eventually, voice low and deliberate.
“Let him wait,” she replied with such nonchalance in her voice I didn’t need to look at her to see her shrug. “They’ve already tried smearing your name three times. Four if you count the fundraiser ball your foundation threw six months ago.”
“And we’re counting that, are we?”
“Of course. It was a fundraiser for sick children and somehow, they still spoke as though you were spreading your demonic influence.”
“Influence, yes. Demonic—well,” I paused, my tone deadpan, “comes with my nature, I suppose.”
“And look who came crawling back the second you were named ‘Most Eligible Bachelor.’ Suddenly he wants a seat at the demon’s table. Let him sweat. Grab a coffee. Be late. Let him know you don’t chase.”
A chuckle unfurled from my chest as I finally turned toward her. I caught her gaze—direct, unflinching—and arch a brow.
I don’t chase… normally that assessment would be correct. But if she were to run, especially now, would I chase? Would I hunt her?
“And they say I’m the demon,” I murmured.
She smiled. Just a little.
Just when I thought I was able to maintain my principles, she lifted her left hand to push her glasses up and that’s when I saw it. Her small engagement ring was gone. And Underworld help me, I felt something unravel.
“I learned from the best.”
Her eyes flicked down for just a second.
Mine did not.
They trailed the curve of her hips, up to her lips—plump, parted, unknowingly inviting.
“Anyway,” she said quickly, dragging me back from the edge. “He’s waiting. Is there anything I can do for you before your meeting?”
Yes.
So many things.
None of which I’m allowed to say.
All of which would have my ass in HR, before the board of directors, and on the front page before a gasp could leave those lips.
Fuck.
“That will be all, Harper,” I barely managed to say over the tightness in my chest. These blockers better work. I took enough for about five younglings.
She nods, turning with that subtle sway that was anything but accidental. She walked away like sin in motion. And if she wished to live in sin, as a Hellborne I feel like it would be my responsibility to punish her.
The glass door shut quietly as she returned to her desk just outside, her back to me. Unintentional, surely. But every time she bent over that disaster of paperwork, I get a front-row seat to temptation.
She had no idea how close she walked to the edge.
How easy it would be to reach out, just once, and—
No.
My pheromones itched to escape me as her scent coiled through the room, lingering.
Perhaps my pheromones were already sneaking past the blockers.
Still, she was human. Even if they were, she would never know.
She would react, yes. But she would think it was her own will.
A flutter, a momentary weakness to her own forged desires, perhaps.
That’s why I couldn’t.
Why I would not.
Because I’d never know if her desire was real… or just a product of me. Of my body betraying both of us—besides the obvious tidal wave of HR violations.
Still, I couldn’t help the curl of satisfaction at the thought of her fiancé—ex-fiancé—finally gone. His scent was always wrong on her. Rotten. Like vermin nesting in my garden.
Now?
Now, the flowers might finally bloom.
And perhaps I could finally enjoy my garden.
Fuck. This wouldn’t work. I fished around my jacket pocket before finding my phone, pulling it out and loading up After Hours.
My lips curled at the loading screen before the questionnaire popped up.
It was fine. This was just to find a therapist to help expel my pheromones. Then, my life could return to the very structure I had built brick by brick.
Therapy.
That is all this was.