When the Wolf Claims His Mate

EMMA'S POV

The red ink covered my design like blood.

I stared at the pages spread across my desk, my hands shaking. Every single page had corrections. Harsh words written in Dorian Blackwood's perfect handwriting slashed through my work. "Unacceptable." "Redo this completely." "Are you even trying?"

Three weeks of work. Three weeks of late nights and skipped meals. Three weeks of pouring my heart into designs I thought were brilliant. And he destroyed it all with his stupid red pen.

"Emma, are you crying?" Sophia's voice cut through my thoughts.

I blinked hard. "No."

"Yes, you are." My best friend sat on the edge of my desk. "Don't let him see. He feeds on tears."

I laughed, but it came out broken. "I can't do this anymore, Soph. I can't work for someone who hates me."

"He doesn't hate you." Sophia picked up one of the marked pages. "He's just... impossible. With everyone."

"Not like this." I gestured at the massacre of red ink. "You've worked here five years. Has he ever been this cruel to you?"

Sophia looked away. We both knew the answer.

For three years, Dorian Blackwood had made my life miserable. He gave me the hardest projects with the shortest deadlines. He criticized every single thing I did, even when other architects praised my work. He made me stay late almost every night while everyone else went home. And he never, ever smiled at me.

I didn't understand what I'd done to make him hate me so much.

"Maybe you should quit," Sophia said softly.

"I can't." The words tasted bitter. "Oliver's tuition is due next month. And I need the reference if I ever want to work at another firm."

My phone buzzed. A text from my little brother: "Pizza tonight? I aced my computer science exam!"

Guilt stabbed through me. I'd canceled our last three dinners because of work. Oliver was nineteen and in college, but he still needed his big sister. Especially since our parents died four years ago, leaving me to take care of everything.

I texted back: "Definitely! I'll be home by seven."

It was a lie. I'd be lucky to leave by midnight.

"Miss Sinclair." Dorian's voice crackled through the intercom on my desk. Cold. Sharp. "My office. Now."

My stomach dropped. Sophia squeezed my shoulder. "Good luck. Try not to cry in front of him."

I grabbed a notebook and walked through the office. Other architects kept their heads down as I passed. Nobody wanted to be associated with the girl who made the boss angry.

Dorian's office had glass walls so everyone could see inside. I hated that. Whatever humiliation he had planned, the whole office would witness it.

I knocked on the doorframe. "You wanted to see me, Mr. Blackwood?"

He stood at the window with his back to me. Tall. Dark hair perfectly styled. Expensive suit that probably cost more than my rent. He looked like he belonged on a magazine cover, not in an architecture firm.

Which made hating him even more annoying. Why did terrible people get to be attractive?

"Come in. Close the door."

I obeyed, my heart pounding. Closed doors meant bad news.

Dorian turned to face me. His eyes were gray—a strange, striking gray that sometimes looked almost silver in certain light. Cold and distant. He studied me for a long moment, and I forced myself not to fidget.

"The Morrison Project," he finally said.

I nodded. The biggest contract our firm had landed this year. A luxury apartment building that would define Seattle's skyline. Every architect in the office wanted to work on it.

"Sophia was supposed to be lead architect," I said carefully.

"Plans change." Dorian walked to his desk and pulled out a file. "You're lead architect now. Effective immediately."

The room tilted. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Sir, I don't think—"

"I don't pay you to think about what you're ready for." His voice was ice. "I pay you to do your job. The client presentation is in two weeks. Don't embarrass me."

Two weeks. My brain couldn't process it. Projects like this took months of planning. Teams of architects working together. I'd never led something this big before, and he was giving me two weeks?

"That's not enough time," I whispered.

"Then work faster." He opened the file and pulled out papers. "Here are the client requirements. The budget. The timeline. Everything you need."

I took the papers with numb fingers. "Why me?"

The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Dorian's eyes flashed with something I couldn't read. For just a second, they looked lighter—almost golden in the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. Then he blinked and they were gray again.

Must have been a trick of the light.

"Because despite your many flaws, you have potential," he said. Each word felt like an insult wrapped in a compliment. "Now get out of my office and start working."

I stood there, stunned. He just sort of complimented me. In three years, he'd never said anything positive about my work.

"Was there something else, Miss Sinclair?" Sarcasm dripped from his words.

"No, sir." I turned to leave.

"And Miss Sinclair?"

I looked back. Dorian was watching me with those strange gray eyes, and something in his expression made my skin prickle. Not fear exactly. Something else I didn't understand.

"Don't fail," he said softly. "The Morrison Project could make or break this firm. And you."

I walked out on shaking legs. Through the glass walls, I saw Dorian return to the window. His shoulders were tense. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

Why did he look angry? He just gave me a huge opportunity. Shouldn't he be satisfied that he'd probably guaranteed my failure?

Back at my desk, Sophia rushed over. "What happened? Why did he close the door?"

"I'm lead architect on the Morrison Project."

"What?" Sophia's eyes went huge. "That's... that's amazing! Emma, that's the biggest project of the year!"

"I have two weeks to prepare."

Her excitement died. "Two weeks? That's impossible."

"I know." I looked down at the file in my hands. My ticket to success or my guarantee of failure. I couldn't tell which.

"I'll help you," Sophia said immediately. "We'll work together—"

"Miss Hayes." Dorian's voice came through Sophia's desk intercom. "My office. I'm reassigning you to the Greenfield Project."

Sophia's face fell. "No. He can't—"

"Go," I said quietly. "It's fine."

"It's not fine." But she walked toward Dorian's office anyway.

I sat at my desk and opened the Morrison file. Pages and pages of requirements. Complex designs. Tight budget. Impossible timeline. And I had to do it alone.

My phone buzzed again. Oliver: "Can't wait for pizza! I have so much to tell you!"

I typed slowly: "Actually, something came up at work. Rain check?"

Three dots appeared as he typed back. Then they disappeared. Then appeared again. Finally: "Okay. Love you, sis."

The guilt was crushing. But what choice did I have?

I pulled out my design tablet and started sketching. If I worked eighteen hours a day for two weeks straight, I might finish. Might. If I was lucky. If nothing went wrong.

Around six o'clock, the office started emptying. People called out goodbyes. Laughed about dinner plans and weekend trips. Normal things normal people did.

I kept working.

At eight o'clock, Sophia stopped by my desk. "Emma, you need to eat something."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine." She set down a sandwich. "At least take a break."

"Can't. Too much to do."

Sophia sighed. "He's doing this on purpose, you know. Setting you up to fail so he can fire you."

"Maybe." I looked at my sketches. "Or maybe he actually thinks I can do this."

"After three years of treating you like garbage?" Sophia shook her head. "Don't trust him, Emma. Whatever game he's playing, it's not going to end well for you."

She left, and I was alone in the office. Just me and my impossible deadline.

At eleven o'clock, my eyes started blurring. The designs on my screen turned into meaningless lines. I blinked hard, trying to focus.

The office lights flickered. Or did they? Maybe I was just exhausted.