The adrenaline of a sealed deal is a potent d**g, but it has a nasty side effect: it burns calories like a blast furnace.
Victor Corvinus stood in the ruin of his drawing room, the half-million Hell Gold bond folded against his ribs—a paper shield that felt heavier than plate armor. The air smelled of burnt pumpkin, expensive sherry, and the ozone tang of the sonic siege tower parking outside.
He should have been terrified. He should have been planning a defense. But as the adrenaline faded, it left behind a void that only one thing could fill.
Hunger.
It wasn't just an appetite; it was a biological imperative. His stomach gave a growl that rivaled Fenrir’s warning rumble.
"Iron-Jaw," Victor said, not turning around.
Fenrir was curled up on the remains of the Persian rug, wearing a p
