Howl for Justice

A Mask of Control Part 3

The lock clicks behind me as I slip into the office. I am the wolf, even in tailored business attire. Even with it all wrapped up so tight. The edge of my existence cuts deep.

The aftertaste of the night clings to my senses, a raw, metallic tang that I cannot swallow away. My steps falter, then resume with stubborn resolve, my heels striking the polished wood in relentless cadence. There is safety in rhythm. There is safety in routine. I force myself to focus on the familiar, on the trappings of power and success that I have gathered like talismans against the primal chaos lurking beneath the surface.

But the wolf is still there, closer than ever. I feel it in the sweat cooling on my skin, in the shiver of muscles not yet under my command. I am frayed, unraveled, so close to losing everything I have spent a lifetime trying to contain. It is a new kind of terror, exhilarating and obscene, and I am uncertain how long I can withstand its thrall.

The office is empty, silent except for the low hum of the heating system as it struggles to match the warmth of my pulse. I left the place in chaos the night before, too preoccupied to impose the strict order that usually governs my environment. Now it feels alien to me, a world turned hostile by my own inability to control it.

The air smells of ink and burnt coffee, the ghost of last night's desperation still lingering in the corners of the room. The unfiled paperwork and unread briefs are an accusation in every direction I turn, and I am too restless, too unhinged to ignore the indictment. This is what happens when you let go, when you lose yourself in the seductive promise of the wild.

The suit jacket is stifling, the wool constricting my movements with every shrug of my shoulders. I tear it off and toss it across the chair, my hands trembling with the effort of restraint. The blouse beneath clings damply to my skin, and I pull it away with a soft, wet sound that is too visceral, too intimate to be heard in this place.

But there is no one else here to hear. There is no one else to see.

I close my eyes, standing perfectly still in the middle of the room. The papers are scattered around me like the aftermath of a cyclone, the trail of my own reckless hunger. My breathing is ragged, harsh in the quiet, and I fight to slow it, to calm the frantic rush of adrenaline that still claws at my insides.

Breathe. Focus. Get back on top of it.

I pull my hair back, winding it into a tight knot at the nape of my neck, feeling the strands catch against the slick heat of my fingers. A loose curl falls forward, grazing my temple, and I will it to stay still, to remain in place with the rest of me. I will not allow even this small defiance.

I retrieve the jacket from where it lies in a crumpled heap, straightening the fabric and forcing myself into its confines once more. The sleeves are too long, the shoulders too wide, but I know the dimensions will return to normal if I can just hold on long enough, if I can just force my bones to comply with the limitations of this form.

The sheer weight of it bears down on me, heavy as the scent of my own sweat. My hands are a blur of activity, sorting, organizing, arranging the chaos into something that resembles order. I move with a desperation that is foreign to me, frantic and unfocused, but unable to stop.

It is an impossible task, and I know it. There is too much. Too much work, too much pressure, too much of me. It spills over the edges of my control, trickling like quicksilver through my fingers until all that remains is a dull, frantic ache where certainty used to be.

I give in to it. I let myself work through the mess, let myself be as feral and uncontained as the job demands. For a moment, I almost believe the illusion. For a moment, I almost believe I am in control.

Then a new scent pierces through the cacophony: the bright, acrid note of cheap cologne, underscored by the warmth of something dangerously familiar.

Derek.

I stiffen, a snarl forming at the back of my throat, before I manage to smooth it into something more civil, more human. This is not what I expected, not what I am prepared for. I should have known. I should have known he'd come.

"Mara," his voice drawls, easy and confident, but I hear the challenge in it. The gleam in his eye is brighter than I remember, sharper. "I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."

He leans against the doorframe, a study in casual elegance, his suit unrumpled and perfectly tailored. It chafes at me, this calculated display of calm, of control, when I feel my own slipping away like sand beneath a rising tide.

"Should I be?" I ask, injecting just enough amusement into the words to make them sting.

He smiles, and it is both a promise and a threat. "We need to talk," he says, echoing the message that has haunted me all morning. The one I thought I could ignore, at least for a while longer. "It's important."

I fold my arms across my chest, feeling the prick of my own nails through the thin silk. "I’m listening."

He steps inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. The scent of him fills the room, mingling with the restless urgency that already lingers there. I taste it on my tongue, an aftershock of desire and distrust that sends a sharp jolt through my veins.

"You’re slipping," he says, gesturing at the disarray that surrounds me. "This isn't like you, Mara."

"I've been busy," I snap, but it is a weak defense, one he sees through with the same perceptiveness that drew me to him in the first place.

"We’ve all been busy." He leans forward, fixing me with a steady, penetrating gaze. "It's the full moon tomorrow, you know. I thought you might appreciate a little help."

The words are innocent enough, but they land with the precision of a hunter's arrow, striking at the heart of what I refuse to admit.

"I don’t need your help," I tell him, but I can hear the fray in my own voice. Can feel it in the way my heart stutters, then races to catch up.

His smile widens, and I see victory in the curl of his lips. "That so? Look around, Mara. Even you can't do it all."

My pulse beats an erratic tempo against the collar of my shirt, each note vibrating with indignation and doubt. He is right, and I hate him for it.

"What do you want?" The question comes out more brittle than I intend, more desperate.

His eyes gleam with the satisfaction of a man who knows exactly how far he can push. "Your attention, for starters," he says. "I'm working on something. Something big. But I need you to focus, Mara. I need you with me on this."

There is more than one kind of hunger. Derek understands this as well as I do. I want to say no, to turn him away and watch his easy confidence unravel. But we are not so different, Derek and I. He knows my weakness. He knows I cannot resist the thrill of a new challenge, of something to prove.

"We'll see," I say, softer now. He has thrown me a lifeline, and I reach for it with something like relief, something like desperation. "I'm not making any promises."

"You never do." He stands, straightening his cuffs, his watch, the tiny details of his immaculate facade. "But you will. I know you, Mara. You'll be back on top of this in no time."

He leaves me there, surrounded by the chaos I have wrought, by the chaos I cannot bring myself to fix. I hear the door click shut, and the sound of it sends a shiver down my spine, a reminder of the fragility of all I have built.

I am the wolf, I tell myself, even now. Especially now. I am the wolf, and I will not lose.