The weight of seven centuries
The night air was heavy with rain as it swept over Manhattan, smearing the city’s lights into hazy streaks of gold and red. Matheo Wolfe stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse office, his reflection superimposed against the storm. A tall man, impeccably dressed in black, with silver threaded through his dark hair, and eyes the color of ancient amber — eyes that had seen more lifetimes than any human ever would.
Seven hundred years.
He exhaled slowly, watching the fog bloom against the glass. The storm’s scent drifted in from a cracked window: wet stone, lightning, the sharpness of ozone. Beneath that, he could sense the city — the pulse of its millions, the hunger, the fear, the dreams. He had seen empires rise and crumble, watched plagues come and go, stood witness as the world remade itself again and again.
And through it all, he remained. Immortal. Cursed.
Matheo’s only hope of release — of death — lay in what had eluded him for seven centuries: true love. Not fleeting passion. Not comfort. Not lust. But the kind of love that burned bright and pure, capable of breaking the chains of his existence.
But that hope had long since become a torment. He no longer believed he would ever find it.
A soft chime broke the quiet. The elevator.
He didn’t need to turn. He knew who it was by the sound of her heartbeat — steady, sure, a rhythm that had come to mean more to him than the thrum of the city itself.
Lois Dane
She entered carrying a slim folder and a tablet, her dark hair damp from the rain, her cheeks flushed with the cold. The scent of her — warm vanilla, jasmine, rain — reached him, stirring something deep inside that he could barely name.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Mr. Wolfe,” she said, her voice gentle but confident.
“Matheo ,” he corrected, turning to face her at last. A faint smile touched his lips — a rare thing.
“Matheo,” she said, as though testing the name on her tongue.
Lois crossed the room, her heels soft against the polished floor. She set the folder on his desk, glancing briefly at the storm outside. “The final contracts for the West Side redevelopment. I thought you’d want to see them tonight.”
He nodded but barely looked at the folder. His gaze stayed on her, drawn to the way the lamplight played in her eyes, to the gentle curve of her mouth.
“You work too hard,” he said quietly.
She smiled, brushing damp hair behind her ear. “So do you.”
Lightning forked across the sky, the rumble of thunder following a breath later. Sophia jumped slightly..Matheo’s protective instincts surged — it took everything in him not to cross the room, not to gather her in his arms.
“You should go home,” he said. His voice was soft but firm. “It’s late. The storm’s getting worse.”
Lois hesitated. “I’m fine. I like storms. They remind me that there are still wild things in the world.”
Matheo’s expression darkened, though he kept it hidden. *If only you knew how wild the world truly is.*
“At least let me have the car brought around,” he insisted.
She smiled at his concern, touched by it in a way she couldn’t explain. “Alright. Thank you, Matheo.”
As she turned for the elevator, he spoke again.
“Lois?”
She paused, looking back at him.
“Be careful,” he said. His voice was low, rough with an emotion he couldn’t quite control.
Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them — something fragile, dangerous, and inevitable.
“I will,” she promised.
And then the doors closed, and she was gone.
Matheo remained at the window long after. The storm raged on. And far below, in the dark alleys and forgotten corners of the city, the pack was watching.
Waiting.
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