The scent hit me before I saw her. Jasmine and vanilla. The exact combination that haunted my dreams for ten years. My wolf surged forward, clawing against my control, and I gripped the edge of my mahogany desk hard enough that the wood cracked beneath my fingers. "Mr. Blackwood?" My assistant's voice crackled through the intercom. "Your ten o'clock is here. Emma Hartley from—" "Send her in." The words came out rougher than intended, more growl than speech. I had sixty seconds to compose myself. Sixty seconds to bury the eighteen-year-old boy who'd stood in the rain outside Hartley Manor, scholarship acceptance letter clutched in one hand, a promise ring in the other. The boy who'd actually believed Emma Hartley loved him back. The boy she'd destroyed with four words: "You're not my level." The door opened. Emma Hartley stepped into my office, and my wolf went absolutely feral. She was more beautiful than I remembered, which I hadn't thought possible. Her honey-blonde hair was longer now, falling in waves past her shoulders. Those green eyes—the ones I used to write terrible poetry about—were wider, more uncertain than the confident girl who'd ruled our high school like a queen. She wore a simple black dress, designer but understated. Her hands twisted together, and I caught the slight tremor in her fingers. Good. She should be nervous. "Dante." My name on her lips sent electricity down my spine. The mate bond flared, golden and insistent, trying to pull me toward her. "Thank you for seeing me." I leaned back in my chair, forcing my expression into cold neutrality. "Miss Hartley. Please, sit." I saw her flinch at the formality. Saw the way her eyes traced over me, taking in the custom Tom Ford suit, the corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, the original Rothko on the wall worth more than her father's annual salary. Not the scholarship kid anymore, am I, Emma? She sat, perching on the edge of the leather chair like she might bolt at any moment. Her scent wrapped around me, and my wolf whined. Mate. Ours. Claim. Not yet, I told him. Not on her terms. "I assume this isn't a social call," I said, steepling my fingers. "We haven't spoken in... what? Ten years?" "Ten years, three months." The words tumbled out, then she caught herself, color rising in her cheeks. "I... I need your help." "My help." I let the words hang in the air between us. "That's interesting. The last time we spoke, you made it quite clear that someone like me couldn't possibly help someone like you." She flinched again, harder this time. "Dante, I—" "It's Mr. Blackwood in a professional setting, Miss Hartley." The formal address hit its mark. I watched her swallow hard, watched the way her throat worked, and had to fight the urge to cross the room and mark that pale skin. The mate bond was a living thing now, crackling between us like lightning before a storm. She couldn't feel it. Humans never did, not unless they were claimed. But I felt it with every breath, every heartbeat. My fated mate, sitting three feet away, asking for my help. The universe had a twisted sense of humor. "Mr. Blackwood," she said carefully, "I know I have no right to ask you for anything. I know that I... that we..." She took a shaky breath. "My family's company is in trouble. My father made some bad investments, and now we're drowning in debt. The only way out is a merger with Castellan Industries." I knew where this was going. I'd made it my business to know everything about the Hartleys the moment Emma's name appeared on my schedule. "Marcus Castellan," I said flatly. She nodded, misery written across her face. "He's offered to absorb our debt in exchange for..." She couldn't finish. "In exchange for you." I finished for her, keeping my voice clinical even as my wolf snarled in rage. Another male claiming our mate? Never. "The engagement announcement is scheduled for next week." Her voice cracked. "Dante—Mr. Blackwood—I heard that you've been acquiring companies in our sector. I thought... I hoped..." "You hoped I'd buy out your father's company instead." I stood, moving to the window. Manhattan spread out below me, my territory, my hunting ground. "Rescue you from an unwanted marriage." "Yes." I turned to face her. "Why should I?" The question hung between us. I watched her struggle with it, watched the play of emotions across her face. Pride. Desperation. Something else I couldn't quite name. "Because you're a good person," she said finally. "You always were. Even when I—" She stopped, looked down at her hands. "Even when I didn't deserve your goodness." A good person. If she only knew. If she knew about the wolf beneath my skin, the pack I commanded, the blood I'd spilled to build my empire. If she knew that every acquisition, every billion, every step up the ladder had been fueled by one thing: becoming worthy of the girl who'd rejected me. Becoming powerful enough to make her regret it. "I'll do it," I said. Hope flared in her eyes, so bright it hurt to look at. "But I have conditions." The hope dimmed slightly. "What conditions?" I moved closer, deliberately invading her space. Her scent intensified, and I saw her pupils dilate. The mate bond pulled taut between us, even if she couldn't name what she was feeling. "You'll work for me. Directly. As my personal assistant." "I... what?" "Your father's company will be absorbed into Blackwood Industries. The debt, cleared. The Castellan marriage, canceled. But you, Emma, belong to me for the next six months. You'll work in this office, at my side, following my every instruction." I saw her mind racing, saw the moment she understood the trap. Six months in close proximity. Six months of watching me, working with me, remembering what she'd thrown away. Six months for me to break her the way she'd broken me. Or claim her the way my wolf demanded. "That's..." She stood, bringing us nearly chest to chest. "That's blackmail." "That's business." I smiled, showing too many teeth. "You came here asking for help, Emma. I'm offering it. The question is: are you desperate enough to accept?"