FANGS AND FILES

The communal refrigerator on the fourth floor of the Hive Co-Working Space was governed by a fragile, unspoken treaty. Everyone knew the rules: you do not touch the artisanal hot sauce unless it has a green sticker, you throw away your milk before it mutates into a solid state, and under no circumstances do you touch the Tupperware in the back right corner. That corner belonged to Somya.

Somya was a freelance forensic accountant, a profession that required a terrifying amount of patience, an eye for microscopic detail, and a reliance on high-octane caffeine. It was 11:42 PM on a rainy Tuesday, and she had spent the last seven hours untangling a shell company’s tax receipts that looked less like financial accounting and more like a Jackson Pollock painting. Her eyes were bloodshot, her knuckles were stained with blue ink, and the only thing keeping her from experiencing a total psychological collapse was the thought of her mother’s leftover slow-cooked brisket waiting for her in that fridge.

She pushed open the heavy glass door of the breakroom, her flats clicking softly against the linoleum. The room was dark, save for the harsh, fluorescent glow spilling out from the wide-open refrigerator door.

Standing in front of the fridge was a man.

He didn’t look like the usual late-night tech freelancers who frequented the Hive. He was massive—easily six-foot-four—with shoulders that threatened to rip the seams of his charcoal-grey bespoke suit. His hair was a thick, unruly mane of dark silver-grey, and he was currently hunched over the bottom shelf.

With his bare hands, he was aggressively shoveling large, dripping chunks of beef into his mouth.

Somya froze. She stared at the side of his face, watching his jaw work with terrifying, feral speed. He wasn’t even using a fork. He was treating a three-day-old container of home-cooked brisket like an apex predator treats a fresh carcass on the Serengeti.

“What,” Somya said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register, “do you think you are doing?”

The man stiffened. He didn’t drop the food. Instead, he slowly turned his head to look at her. His eyes were wide, and for a split second, Somya could have sworn they flashed a brilliant, unnatural amber under the fluorescent lights. He had a smudge of barbecue sauce right on his chiseled cheekbone.

“This was in the communal area,” the man said. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrated right through the linoleum and rattled Somya’s sneakers. He sounded incredibly defensive for someone caught red-handed in a felony food theft.

“The communal area implies shared appliances, not shared property,” Somya said, crossing her arms and stepping fully into the breakroom. She didn’t care if he looked like he could lift a compact car over his head. She was hungry. “That is a glass container with a lid. It has my name written on it in permanent marker. Somya. Does your name happen to be Somya?”

The man swallowed hard, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. He stood up to his full height, towering over her, attempting to project an aura of absolute, terrifying authority. “Do you know who I am?”

“A thief,” Somya shot back instantly. “And a messy one. You’re dripping marinade on your fancy cufflink.”

Kevin—Alpha of the Ridgecrest Pack, CEO of Silverback Logistics, and a man accustomed to having entire rooms of literal wolves bow their heads in submission—was completely disoriented. The moment this tiny, fierce woman had walked into the breakroom, a scent had hit him like a physical blow. It was vanilla, dark espresso, and a sharp spike of pure irritation. His inner wolf was currently doing backflips in his chest, howling MATE, MATE, FOOD-GIVER, MATE at the top of its lungs.

And he had just eaten her dinner.

Trying to salvage his dignity and quiet the chaotic barking in his own mind, Kevin lowered his chin, let his shoulders broaden, and let a hint of his Alpha aura bleed into the room. He tapped into the ancient, hypnotic power used by his ancestors to command obedience.

“You will forget this happened,” Kevin rumbled, his voice dropping an octave into a low, resonant command that usually made humans blink vaguely and walk away. “You will return to your desk, and you will feel a sudden desire to order takeout.”

Somya stared at him. She blinked once. Then, she raised an eyebrow.

“Are you having a stroke?” she asked, genuinely concerned. “Or are you trying to audition for a low-budget vampire movie? Because whatever that voice thing was, it sounded like you need a cough drop.”

Kevin choked on his own breath. The command didn’t work. She was completely immune. His wolf whined piteously, deeply embarrassed by the failure.

“Look,” Somya sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t have the emotional bandwidth for whatever corporate power trip you’re on. That brisket cost fifteen dollars in ingredients and three hours of my life. Put the container down, step away from the appliance, and give me twenty bucks.”

“Twenty dollars?” Kevin repeated, his brain struggling to process the concept of currency while his soul was trying to tether itself to hers.

“Twenty dollars,” Somya confirmed, holding out a pale, ink-stained hand. “And five extra for the emotional distress of watching a grown man eat like a golden retriever who broke into the pantry.”

Wordlessly, Kevin reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a sleek leather wallet, and extracted a crisp fifty-dollar bill. He placed it in her hand, his large, warm fingers brushing against hers. A jolt of static electricity snapped between them, making them both flinch.

Somya looked at the fifty, then at Kevin’s face, which had gone pale beneath the barbecue sauce.

“Keep the change,” Kevin growled softly, though the edge was entirely gone from his voice. He grabbed a paper towel, wiped his face with aggressive dignity, and strode past her out of the breakroom, his long legs clearing the distance in three strides.

Somya watched him go, then looked down at her empty glass container. She sighed, pocketed the fifty, and pulled out her phone to order a mediocre pizza.

Question for Readers: If someone ate your carefully prepped leftovers, would you demand cash on the spot like Somya, or would you be too intimidated by Kevin’s dramatic “Alpha voice”?