Chapter 4

• Raven's POV:
• As soon as we entered the A.D. Group headquarters, I caught a whiff of a smell that made my heart skip a beat—sandalwood and crisp pine, a rugged, masculine scent that stirred something primal within me. I kept my composure in front of Mirabelle, who was busy rambling on and on about how handsome this CEO was supposed to be.
• As we were escorted to the meeting room, the intoxicating aroma intensified, and a sense of dread washed over me. What in the name of the Moon Goddess...another mate? Did the Goddess hate me that much to give me a fourth mate, a fourth inevitable rejection?
• I could feel my heart pounding rapidly in my chest as we took our seats at the sleek conference table, my palms growing clammy. Whoever walked through that door was going to be my mate. I still never understood why I could sense the mate bond, despite having no wolf of my own, but it didn't matter. I would reject this stranger before they even thought about rejecting me—I refused to go through that gut-wrenching pain again.
• "Are you okay?" Mirabelle asked with a concerned frown, no doubt noticing my unease.
• I forced a tight smile. "Yes, just nervous, that's all."
• Mirabelle's expression softened. "Come on, you've sat in meetings with many men before."
• I rolled my eyes, trying my best to appear nonchalant despite the rising tide of anxiety gripping me. "But not to the caliber of A.D. Group."
• She nodded in understanding. "Okay, take deep breaths. You'll be fine, okay?"
• I drew in a slow, steadying breath, focusing on steeling my nerves before whoever this new mate was arrived. My fingers fidgeted with the hem of my skirt as I waited with bated breath, bracing myself for the inevitable onslaught of unwanted emotions. The rich, woodsy scent only grew stronger with each passing second, making my skin prickle with unbidden awareness.
• Damn the Moon Goddess and Her incessant meddling in my life! Just when I thought I had permanently closed that chapter, moving on from the rejection and heartbreak of the Novilian Pack, She saw fit to rip open those old wounds. Anger began to intermingle with the dread coiling in my gut—anger at myself for the fleeting part of me that still craved the fantasy of a fated mate despite my staunch denial of supernatural ways.
• Why couldn't the Goddess just let me live my life in peace, as nothing more than an ordinary human?
• The creak of the heavy oak door being pushed open shattered my turbulent reverie. I snapped my head up, tensing as two distinctly male silhouettes emerged from the shadows of the hallway. One was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with an unmistakable air of rugged dominance that had my pulse kicking into overdrive.
• The other man, shorter and slim, moved with a measured prowess befitting that of an elite bodyguard. My gaze was drawn inexplicably to the larger figure, even though I could not yet make out his face in the dimly lit room.
• Mirabelle shot me a giddy look from the corner of my eye, leaning in to whisper, "Oh lord, he is gorgeous! Do you think he's—?"
• But her words fell on deaf ears as the man stepped fully into the light—and that impossibly alluring scent slammed into me with staggering force. I forgot how to breathe, let alone speak, as I finally drank in the striking features of who could only be the CEO of A.D. Group...and undoubtedly, my new fated mate.
• He was devastatingly, inhumanly handsome—all razor-sharp angles, from the sculpted slant of his chiseled jaw to those burning emerald eyes that seemed to stare straight through me. His dark hair was cropped short in an artfully mussed style that somehow made him appear both polished and deliciously unkempt at the same time. Those strong, masculine features were offset by pillowy lips that instantly had me flushing, my mind drifting to thoughts no proper woman should ever entertain...
• "You're Raven Wildheart, I presume?" His voice was rich and smooth as aged whiskey, instantly snapping me out of my dazed devouring of his otherworldly beauty.
• I clenched my teeth and gave him a curt nod, determined not to let my inner turmoil show. He kept gazing at me with an intensity that made me shift uncomfortably, as if he were searching for something, already knowing we were fated mates. But I refused to let on that I was aware of the bond between us—one advantage of being a half-breed was that even other werewolves couldn't easily detect my supernatural nature. I didn't smell quite like them, I supposed.
• "Yes, I am Raven Wildheart. Pleasure meeting you, Mr..." I trailed off, realizing I didn't actually know his name yet.
• "Azrael Draconis," he supplied in that devastatingly smooth baritone, the syllables rolling off his tongue in a way that made me suppress a shiver.
• I squared my shoulders, projecting an air of unruffled professionalism. "Very well then, Mr. Draconis, let's get this meeting started, shall we?"
• He gave a slight nod, though I could tell he seemed...distracted, his intense emerald stare boring into me as if I were a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out. Brushing it off, I refused to allow myself even a flicker of hope that this could be a perfect love story. I had faced too many heartbreaks to entertain such fanciful notions.
• Throughout the entire meeting, I acted as nonchalant and unfazed as I could manage, all while studiously ignoring the dizzying energy that seemed to spark and crackle between us. One aspect that unnerved me was the undeniable sense of alpha dominance I could feel rolling off Azrael in waves—something all omegas, even a cursed half-breed like me, instinctively submitted to.
• But I would applaud myself for holding my own, speaking directly to him without flinching from his penetrating gaze even once. My voice remained steady and self-assured as I outlined the business proposal that had piqued his company's interest in the first place—a collaborative fashion line that would merge Ezhara Design's renowned artistry with A.D. Group's manufacturing and distribution prowess.
• All the while, I could sense Mirabelle's curious, sidelong glances flicking between Azrael and me, no doubt picking up on the inexplicable charge that thrummed through the air. But she knew better than to comment on it, especially in such a professional setting.
• For his part, Azrael listened intently, those burning emerald eyes never leaving my face as I laid out the finer details of my pitch. A few times I caught his nostrils flaring ever-so-slightly, as if he were scenting the air—or more specifically, scenting me. The thought made my stomach perform somersaults, though I couldn't fathom why.
• When I finally concluded my well-rehearsed presentation, I leveled him with my most measured look, arching one eyebrow in silent challenge. "Well, Mr. Draconis? What are your thoughts?"
• A pregnant pause stretched between us, the weight of it seeming to press down on the room. Then, a slow, predatory smile curved those full lips, and I felt an unmistakable jolt of molten heat flash through me.
• "I think..." he began in that rumbly timbre, holding my stare hostage with his smoldering gaze. "I think this collaboration could be extremely...mutually beneficial for both our enterprises, Miss Wildheart."
• His emphasis on the word "mutually" made me stiffen imperceptibly. Did he know? Could he sense the depth of the cosmic forces at play drawing us together, even if I denied that part of myself?
• Steeling my expression into an inscrutable mask, I replied with a crisp nod. "Excellent. Then I believe we have a deal to negotiate further."
• Azrael's smile didn't falter, but I could have sworn I glimpsed...something flickering in those emerald depths. Something I couldn't decipher, but felt all the way down to my core nonetheless.
• "Indeed we do, Miss Wildheart. Let the negotiations begin."
• As I sat through the ensuing discussions, my mind couldn't help but wander, contemplating what games the insufferable Moon Goddess could possibly be playing this time.
• Because one thing was certain—my life was about to be upended irrevocably. And Azrael Draconis, with his unsettling dominance and that bewitchingly masculine presence, was going to be at the dead center of the storm.
• Whether I was ready for it or not.