SCRATCHES IN THE DARK

The Blackwood Tower didn’t have windows on the 60th floor. That should’ve been my first red flag. Second red flag: The receptionist didn’t blink when she said, “Mr. Blackwood will see you now. Don’t keep him waiting.” Like I was a dog. Like I was late. Third red flag: My paycheck for this “2 week audit” was $250,000. Paid upfront. Wire transfer. No questions. My mom’s hospital bill was $2,100,000. Stage 4. Experimental treatment. Insurance said no. So I took the elevator. The doors opened to black marble, cold air, and silence. Like a tomb. Like a bank vault. No plants. No art. No people. Just a hallway and one door at the end. His office. I smoothed my thrift-store blazer. Clutched the 400-page audit to my chest like a shield. I was 26. CPA. Top of my class. I’d audited corrupt CEOs, drug companies, politicians. I was not scared. That was a lie. The door opened before I knocked. Cade Blackwood. Six-three. Black suit that probably cost more than my car. Black hair. Sharp jaw. And eyes. Gold. Like melted metal. Like something not human. He wasn’t looking at the audit. He was looking at me. Like I was a problem he hadn’t solved yet. “Ms. Vance.” His voice was low. Rough. Like he didn’t use it much. “Come in.” I walked in. The winter hit me first. Pine. Snow. And under it, something wild. Something that made my teeth ache and my heart speed up. His office was all glass and steel and power. Floor to ceiling windows showing all of Lagos beneath us. I felt small. I hated that. He closed the door behind me. The sound was final. “Have a seat.” I didn’t. “I’m here for the quarterly audit, Mr. Blackwood.” I held up the folder. “Everything is in order. Except” “Page 397.” He cut me off. He walked to his desk. Didn’t look at the folder. Pulled out a different folder. Black. No logo. Opened it. “I’m not here for the audit,” he said. My stomach dropped. “Then why did you pay me $250,000?” “Because I needed someone who wouldn’t ask questions.” He looked up. Those gold eyes pinned me. “And you’re desperate enough not to.” I flinched. “Excuse me?” He tapped the black folder. “Clause 16. Read it.” I didn’t want to. I did anyway. “In the event the Alpha fails to take a mate and produce an heir before the Blood Moon, all assets, holdings, and pack authority shall transfer to the next blood relative. Victor Blackwood.” I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Blood Moon? Mate? Pack? Is this a LARP group or a Fortune 500 company?” His jaw ticked. “Pack,” he said again. Like I was dumb. “The Blood Moon is in 30 days.” “Cool. Good luck with that.” I reached for the folder. He didn’t let go. “What I’m offering,” he said, voice dropping, “isn’t marriage. It’s a contract.” He let go. I almost stumbled. He slid the black folder across the desk. One page. $5,000,000 USD For 30 days of public engagement to Cade Blackwood. The number blurred. That was triple what my mom needed. That was her treatment. Her nurses. Her home care. That was debt gone. “That’s...” My voice cracked. “That’s insane.” “That’s necessary.” He stood. Came around the desk. Close. Too close. That winter scent got stronger. “I need a fiancé until the blood moon passes. You need money. Sign here.” “No kissing?” I asked before I could stop myself. God. Why did I say that. “No touching.” His eyes dragged down to my mouth and back up. “No bond.” Bond. Right. Like this was a fairytale. I picked up the pen. My hand was shaking. $5M. Mom’s surgery. 30 days. I could do 30 days. “One question,” I said. “Why me? You could have any model, any actress, any” “Because you were chosen 20 years ago,” he cut in. The room went cold. He leaned in. Close enough that I could see flecks of amber in the gold. Close enough that I swore I saw his canines. “The moon doesn’t care if you say no, Lyra.” He said my name like he’d been saying it for years. The pen hit paper. Lyra Vance. The second I signed, the air in the room changed. Pressure. Heat. Static. His eyes flashed. Just for a second. Gold swallowed all the black. “Good,” he said quietly. “You just saved us both.” He took the contract. And I realized something with a cold drop in my stomach. I wasn’t marked by teeth. I was marked by paperwork. And somehow, that felt worse. OUTSIDE. 10 MINUTES LATER. I made it to the elevator before my hands stopped shaking. $5M. Signed. For 30 days. My phone buzzed. Hospital. “Mrs. Vance’s treatment has been approved. First payment received. Thank you, Ms. Vance.” I sagged against the wall. I did it. I saved her. The elevator dinged. Doors opened. And he was there. Cade. Holding my coat. I’d left it in his office. “You forgot this,” he said. I took it. Our fingers brushed. Electricity. Not static. Something else. Like my blood jumped. He didn’t react. But his eyes went darker. “Driver will take you home,” he said. “We start tomorrow. Public appearance. 6 PM.” “Okay.” He turned to go. Stopped. “Lyra.” “Yeah?” “Don’t wear perfume tomorrow.” A pause. “It makes it harder.” “Harder to what?” He didn’t answ er. The elevator doors closed. I stood there. Heart pounding. And I could still smell him on my fingers. Winter. Pine. And something I didn’t have a name for yet. 30 days. I could do 30 days. Right?