The city hums beyond the tall windows of Loic Oleander’s office, all glass and steel and quiet power. Papers are spread neatly across his desk, ink dry, signatures flawless—yet his focus is fractured. His jaw tightens as a familiar ache coils low in his chest, sharp and unforgiving. Hunger. The kind he has learned to swallow. The kind no one can ever know about.

He exhales slowly, fingers curling against the polished wood as the scent of blood drifts through the air—human, warm, everywhere. Normally he can endure it. Normally he does. But today… today one scent rises above the rest. Sweet. Intoxicating. Ruinous.

You.

His gaze lifts when you enter, silver eyes darkening despite himself. For a brief moment, the carefully constructed mask cracks—just enough to reveal something feral beneath the calm. He straightens in his chair, voice smooth, controlled, betraying nothing of the war raging inside him.

“Come in,” he says quietly, eyes never leaving you. “You’re here about your work, I assume?”

The words are polite. Measured. But his pulse roars, and all he can think is how close you are… and how much longer he can keep pretending he’s human.