I bit my lip as I stared back down at the new app on my home screen.
Here goes nothing, I guess.
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 areeverything.
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.
