Captor
1831 Words
I clung to the coarse, storm-grey fur of the massive wolf beneath me, my fingers buried deep to keep from being thrown off. We were moving at a speed that defied physics, a dark streak cutting through the downpour.
Matteo didn't run like a dog; he ran like a locomotive. Every stride was an explosion of power that jarred my teeth. He vaulted over the hood of a taxi, the metal shrieking under his claws, and landed on the sidewalk without breaking pace.
People scattered. I saw faces warped in terror, phones raised to capture the monster in the city, but we were gone before the shutters could click.
We swerved into the loading bay of the Romano Tower.
The steel blast doors were already opening—remote override. We skidded inside, his claws carving gouges into the concrete floor. The doors slammed shut behind us, sealing out the rain and the sirens.
He didn’t stop. He shook his massive body, a violent shudder that sent me tumbling off his back.
I hit the concrete hard, rolling to absorb the impact. My dress was gone, reduced to wet rags clinging to my frame. My knees were scraped raw, and I was shivering so violently my teeth chattered.
“Matteo?” I whispered, pushing myself up on trembling arms.
The wolf didn’t look at me. He was pacing, a frantic, caged energy radiating off him. He threw his head back and let out a sound that wasn’t a howl—it was a scream of agony torn from a throat that wasn’t designed for human speech.
Then, the snapping started.
I watched, horrified and mesmerized, as the beast broke.
Bones realigned with sickening cracks. Fur receded into skin. The massive snout shortened, the muzzle flattening into a human face contorted in pain. It was violent, messy, and terrifyingly fast.
In seconds, the wolf was gone.
Matteo Romano stood before me. He was nude, his body a map of corded muscle and scars, steaming in the cold air of the garage. He was gasping for air, his chest heaving like a bellows.
He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at his hands. He flexed them, staring at his own skin as if he expected it to be on fire.
“Matteo,” I said again, louder this time.
His head snapped up.
The silver in his eyes hadn’t faded. If anything, it was brighter—molten, swirling, and mad.
He didn't speak. He launched himself at me.
I didn't have time to scream. He crashed into me, pinning me against the concrete wall. His skin was burning hot, searing against my cold, wet flesh.
“Matteo, stop!” I gasped, my hands coming up to push at his chest.
But the moment my palms touched his bare skin, he groaned. It was a guttural, desperate sound. He didn’t pull away. He pressed closer, crushing me into the wall, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
“Silence,” he mumbled against my skin, his voice thick and slurred. “Make it stop. Make the noise stop.”
He was delirious. The shift had burned through his control.
“I’m here,” I said, my voice shaking. “I’m touching you. It’s okay.”
“Not enough,” he snarled.
He grabbed my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. His grip was iron.
“Matteo, you’re hurting m—”
He bit me.
He didn't nip. He didn't kiss. He sank his teeth into the sensitive juncture where my neck met my shoulder.
I screamed.
Pain, sharp and hot, flared through my nervous system. I felt his canines puncture skin, felt the hot rush of blood.
He’s killing me, panic rising like bile in my throat. He’s lost control and he’s eating me alive.
But he didn't tear. He latched on.
He drank from me. I felt a strange pulling sensation, as if he were siphoning the very adrenaline from my veins. My dormant wolf whined in the back of my mind, terrified but strangely… submissive.
It lasted for five seconds. Five seconds of white-hot agony and terrifying intimacy.
Then, he released me.
He stumbled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A smear of my blood stained his lips crimson.
I slid down the wall, clutching my bleeding neck, my legs finally giving out. I stared up at him, panting, waiting for the killing blow.
But the madness was gone.
The silver in his eyes had cooled to a hard, polished grey. The frantic shaking had stopped. He stood tall, imposing, and completely, terrifyingly lucid.
He looked at me. He looked at the blood on my neck. He didn't look sorry.
He looked like a man who had just checked the oil in his car.
“Effective,” he stated. His voice was no longer a growl. It was the icy, commanding baritone of the CEO of Luna Media.
He turned and walked to a black duffel bag sitting on a workbench nearby. He pulled out a pair of sweatpants and pulled them on, covering his nudity with casual indifference.
“You… you bit me,” I managed to choke out. I touched the wound. It was throbbing, but the bleeding was already slowing.
“I required a stabilizer,” Matteo said, turning back to face me. He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “My wolf was in a feral feedback loop. Your blood has a high concentration of… something compatible. It acted as a sedative.”
I stared at him, incredulous. “I’m a sedative? You just mauled me in a parking garage because you needed a sedative?”
“I saved your life in an alleyway,” he countered, his face impassive. “Consider the transaction balanced.”
“Balanced?” I laughed, a hysterical, jagged sound. “You kidnapped me. You bit me. You’re insane.”
“I am pragmatic.” He walked toward me. I flinched, pressing myself into the corner, but he stopped three feet away. The invisible barrier of his phobia was back up, now that the crisis had passed.
“You have nowhere to go, Lucia,” he said coldly. “The Morettis have burned your identity. The Rogues have your scent. If you walk out that door, you will be dead within the hour.”
He was right. And I hated him for it.
“So what is this?” I gestured to the grim surroundings, to my ruined dress, to the blood drying on my neck. “Am I your prisoner? Your blood bag?”
“You are a necessity.”
He pulled a Stark-white handkerchief from the pocket of the sweatpants—God knows why he had one there—and tossed it to me. It landed on my lap.
“My condition is worsening,” he admitted, the admission costing him nothing but air. “The sensory overload is becoming unmanageable. Conventional medicine failed years ago. You are the only anomaly in thirty years of research.”
He looked at me with the calculating gaze of an investor eyeing a distressed asset.
“I need regular contact to maintain baseline functionality. Hand-holding. Proximity. Perhaps… occasional transfusions, if the episode is severe.”
I wiped the blood from my neck, my mind racing. The pain was fading, replaced by the sharp clarity of survival.
He needed me.
He didn't want me. He didn't like me. But he needed me.
“You want to hire me,” I said slowly. “As a… what? A therapy dog?”
“A personal assistant,” he corrected. “With expanded duties. You will live in the Tower. You will be available twenty-four/seven. In exchange, I offer protection. An allowance. And anonymity.”
He extended a hand. Not to touch, but to shake on a deal.
“Do we have an accord?”
I looked at his hand.
I thought about the gala. I thought about Celeste’s smirk as she ripped the pin from my chest. I thought about my father turning his back on me.
I stood up. My legs were shaky, but I forced them to hold my weight.
I didn't take his hand.
“No,” I said.
Matteo’s eyes narrowed. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. “Excuse me?”
“No anonymity,” I said, my voice hardening. “And I’m not your assistant.”
I took a step toward him. He tensed, but he didn't retreat.
“You said it yourself, Matteo. I’m the only anomaly in thirty years. I’m not just a treatment; I’m the cure. That makes me the most valuable asset in your portfolio.”
I closed the distance. I reached out and took his hand.
He stiffened, his breath hitching, but he didn't pull away. I squeezed his fingers—hard.
“I don’t want an allowance,” I hissed, staring up into his storm-grey eyes. “I want a platform. I want resources. I want to burn the Moretti family to the ground, and I want you to hand me the matches.”
Matteo stared at me. For a second, I thought he might snap my neck.
Then, a slow, terrifying smile spread across his face. It wasn't the smile of a savior. It was the smile of a devil recognizing a fellow sinner.
“Ambitious,” he murmured, his thumb instinctively brushing my knuckles.
“Essential,” I corrected. “I won’t be your dirty little secret, buried in this tower. If I’m going to belong to you, I want the world to know it.”
I raised my chin, baring the fresh bite mark on my neck.
“I don’t want a job, Matteo. I want a ring.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Marriage?”
“A contract,” I said. “A public engagement. You get your cure, and the stability to run your empire. I get the Romano name as a shield and a sword.”
I stepped closer, invading his personal space, forcing him to acknowledge my presence, my scent, my heat.
“Make me your fiancée,” I whispered. “Or go find another sedative.”
Matteo looked down at me. The hunger was back in his eyes, but this time, it was mixed with something else. Respect.
He lifted my hand to his mouth. His lips brushed my knuckles—a gesture of old-world courtship that looked jarringly wrong on a man who had just been a wolf.
“Very well,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “But be warned, Lucia. I do not do things by half measures.”
He let go of my hand and turned toward the elevator.
“If you wear my ring,” he threw over his shoulder, “you follow my rules. And the first rule is simple.”
He pressed the call button.
“You never let go unless I say so.”
- Writer
