Chapter 8
Lorelei
The moment I stepped out of the interrogation room, my lungs forgot how to work.
Not the sharp panic of fear—I'd felt that enough times in the past month to recognize its particular flavor. This was different, slower, like drowning in air that had suddenly lost all its oxygen. My fingers found the wall before my knees could buckle, nails scraping against cold concrete, and I watched with detached horror as iridescent scales began to bloom across my knuckles like frost on glass.
No. Not here. Not now. Fuck.
But my body didn't care. It only understood one thing: Victor's pheromones—that cedar-and-gunsmoke anchor that had kept me human for the past twelve hours—had just disappeared.
I forced myself to breathe through the tightening in my chest, each inhalation feeling like I was trying to pull air through wet cloth, while the scales crept higher up my wrist. Somewhere down the corridor I could hear voices, footsteps, ordinary sounds of lycans going about their business, completely unaware that a siren was falling apart three doors down from their precious Supreme Commander's interrogation room.
Move. You have to move before someone sees.
My legs obeyed reluctantly, muscles cramping in warning as I pushed off the wall. I didn't have a destination, just the desperate animal need to find him, to get close enough to his scent that my biology would remember it was supposed to maintain human form. The rational part of my brain knew this was exactly the kind of behavior that would get me killed—chasing after the man who'd just interrogated me, who'd ordered my blood tested and my movements tracked, who probably had cameras watching every goddamn hallway.
But the siren in me didn't give a shit about cameras or consequences. It only knew that without Victor's pheromones saturating my system, my legs would betray me within the hour, and then all the careful lies and desperate performances would mean nothing because I'd be flopping around on the floor with a tail made of rainbow-shot scales while every lycan in the building put a bullet in my head.
There. The scent hit me as I rounded the corner—faint but unmistakable, that distinctive combination of cedar and cordite with bitter-orange undertones. My lungs expanded greedily, and I had to bite down on my lower lip to keep from making a sound that would've been embarrassing as hell. The scales on my hands began to recede. Not completely, but enough that I could think past the panic, could force my trembling fingers to stop clutching at the wall like I was about to collapse.
I followed the trail up two flights until I reached a corridor lined with dark office doors. One at the far end glowed with soft light, a simple placard above it: Supreme Commander's Office - Authorized Personnel Only.
The smart thing would have been to turn around. To get the fuck out of here while I still could. But the tidal period was coming—I could feel it building in my blood like a storm on the horizon—and when it hit, I wouldn't have the luxury of smart decisions.
Lifeline supplies, I thought, testing the door handle with shaking fingers. Unlocked. Thank god. Thank fucking god.
The office was exactly what I'd expected—Spartan, meticulously organized, every surface clean. His scent was everywhere though, concentrated enough to make my head spin and my knees go weak. I felt my body respond immediately—scales vanishing, breathing easing, the cramping fading to a dull ache. I pressed my palm flat against the desk to steady myself, closed my eyes, and just breathed for a moment.
There. A tie draped over his desk chair, deep charcoal gray silk, removed in haste and forgotten. I crossed to it without thinking, my fingers closing around the fabric—still warm, still holding his body heat—and brought it to my face before I could stop myself.
The scent hit me like a drug, pure and undiluted, and I felt something in my chest unknot. A sound escaped my throat, half-sigh half-whimper, and I hated myself for it even as my body sagged with relief. This was survival distilled into silk and pheromones, and I was pathetic enough to be grateful for it.
I folded it carefully, hands still trembling slightly, and slipped it up my sleeve where the fabric pressed cool against my forearm. Then I turned toward the door, trying to smooth my expression into something that didn't scream I just stole from the Supreme Commander because I'm a desperate siren who'll die without his scent.
Footsteps in the corridor outside. Close. Getting closer.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
I spun around, searching for somewhere to hide, but the office was too sparse, too organized. The footsteps stopped outside the door. I straightened my spine, wiped my palms on my scrubs because they'd gone clammy, smoothed my expression into confused innocence, and waited.
The door opened. Victor stepped through.
This close, without the barrier of the interrogation table between us, I could see every detail: the fine tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set too tight, the calculated intelligence in those golden eyes as they found me immediately and held. My heart kicked into overdrive and I had to lock my knees to keep from swaying toward him like some lovesick idiot.
"Miss Caspian." His voice was perfectly neutral, perfectly controlled, and somehow that made it worse. "I don't recall authorizing you to enter my office."
Think. Lie. Make it believable. Don't fuck this up.
"I—" My voice came out smaller than I intended, breathier, and I hated how it sounded but it probably played into the frightened-victim role that had gotten me this far. "I got lost. I was looking for the exit, and I thought—I saw the sign that said 'Commander' and thought maybe you could tell me—"
"The exit is clearly marked on every floor." He took a step closer and I had to dig my nails into my palms to keep from closing the distance, from pressing myself against him and breathing in that cedar-and-gunsmoke scent until my lungs were full of nothing else. "And you somehow managed to bypass three separate security checkpoints to reach this floor, all while 'looking for the exit.'"
Stupid. So incredibly stupid. I'd been so focused on following his scent like some kind of addict chasing a fix that I hadn't registered the security measures I'd walked past, hadn't thought about how it would look on the footage he'd inevitably review.
"I'm sorry," I said, letting my voice shake slightly, biting my lower lip hard enough to hurt. "I wasn't thinking clearly. Everything that happened today—I just wanted to thank you before I left. For being fair. For not assuming the worst." For not putting a bullet in my head the second you saw those scales.
His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes—some microscopic recalculation of variables I couldn't begin to guess at. He studied me for a long moment, and I forced myself to hold his gaze even though every instinct screamed at me to look away, to show submission, to do anything that might make him less suspicious.
Please. Please just let this go. I can't—I can't do this if you don't let this go.
