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Except I hadn’t stopped it then.

Not properly.

Just a warning.

Just a low-voiced threat under gritted teeth. A smile that bared a hint of fang. A false claim that she’s mine.

I thought it was enough.

But now that his scent is here, in my office? On a gift meant to follow Blake from her past into her bed?

Now that I know he’s not going to stop?

That soft growl spills from my throat like the crack of a snapped bone.

She’s mine.

The thought echoes, low and instinctive, rising from some primitive corner of me that I thought I’d long since buried. My hand tightens on the scraps of fabric. The wolf’s scent still clings to it, a signature left like he wanted me to know he’d been here. Like he wanted to taunt me. And it works.

But it shouldn’t. The possessiveness crawling under my skin is irrational. Dangerous.

I’m not Kasar or Ashe. I don’t get emotionally involved with humans. I don’t “mate.” I don’t bond. That’s not how I work.

She’s part of my business now. That’s all. She’s under my protection because she’s mine—under my employ.

That’s different.

This rage curling warm and cruel in my chest has nothing to do with Blake personally. It’s territorial. A power assertion, if anything.

That’s what I tell myself.

Kit stepped into my territory. I’m merely responding—as any Nightshade would.

My nails don’t threaten to lengthen because I care. My blood doesn’t simmer because the thought of her being with any other male makes my fangs ache in ways they never have. I’m just… I’m making sure no one threatens the success of The Place. That’s logical. Practical.

I push the vile piece of paper between two pages of the ledger and slam it shut. The boom rocks through me, my pulse rattling in tune.

Blake.

She’s been pulling away since that night.

Too polite. Too professional.

Like her boundaries need re-cementing after I crossed them—and then left her splayed on her couch without so much as a pillow under her head afterward.

Gods, I’m such a fucking idiot.

I never should’ve touched her.

Because now every part of me is wired to want more. To crave it.

I pull out my phone, thumb tight on the screen as I dial.

“Perry,” I snap. He answers on the second ring.

“Mal—”

I cut off his greeting, barking out more harshly than my manager deserves. “I’m concerned about Ms. Taylor’s safety. I want you to hire another two security officers. If any other packages arrive for her, they’re to be delivered to me first. Understood?”