Mated by Contract to the Alpha
<b>Chapter </b><b><i>55 </i></b>
The woman’s eyes swept over me, assessing my clothes, my hair, my posture. “One moment,” she said, picking up a phone and speaking quietly into it.
A minuteter, a door at the back of the store opened, and a middle–aged man emerged. Steve Johnson was balding, with a round face and a protruding belly poorly concealed by an expensive suit. His eyes, small and dark, studied <b>me </b>with an intensity that made the hair on my arms stand up.
“Miss Brown,” he said, extending a hand. His palm was damp with sweat. “Right on time. Please<b>, </be to my office.<b>” </b>
I followed him through the store, ufortably aware of the way his gaze asionally dropped to my legs or lingered on my chest. I resisted the urge to cross my arms over my body. In his office–a small butvishly decorated room–he gestured for me to sit.
“So, Miss Brown,” he began, settling behind his desk. “Tell me a little bit about you.”
Iunched into my prepared response. My voice grew steadier as I spoke. As <b>I </b>spoke, Steve’s eyes never left my <b>face</b><b>, </b>but there was something in his expression that seemed off–as if he was listening to my words but evaluating something entirely different.
“And you have design experience?” he asked when I finished.
I nodded, opening my portfolio on my tablet. My fingers trembled slightly with nervousness<b>. </b>“Yes, <b>I </b>studied fashion design before personal circumstances forced me to pause my education.”
Steve nced at my designs with surprising speed, barely seeming to register them. “Very talented, he murmured, though I doubted he’d looked long enough to form any real opinion. “But I’m more interested in your… presence.”
I shifted ufortably in my seat. “My presence?”
“You have <b>a </b>certain quality,” he said, leaning forward. I could smell his cologne<b>, </b>too strong and slightly cloying. A grace that our clientele would appreciate.”
The interview continued with surprisingly few questions about my actual qualifications, Steve asked about my avability, whether I had reliable transportation, and if I had any issues working weekends. The entire process felt strangely perfunctory, as if the decision to hire me had already been made before I walked through the door.
Then, abruptly, his nose twitched, and he leaned closer, inhaling deeply. I froze, my body tensing as I suddenly remembered that werewolves could smell things humans couldn’t.
“You have an interesting scent,” he said, his voice dropping. “You smell like… Do you have werewolf friends, Miss Brown?‘
My heart skipped a beat. My mouth went dry. “I know some werewolves,” I admitted cautiously. <b>“</b><b>Is </b>that a <b>problem</b><b>?</b><b>* </b>
<b>12:07 </b><b>Mon</b><b>, </b><b>Sep </b>22
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Steve smiled, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes, which remained cold and calcting. “Not at all. In fact, it might be an advantage. Many of our best clients are from the city’s wolf packs.”
He closed my portfolio and slid it back across the desk. “Well, Miss Brown, I think we’ve seen enough. The job is yours if you want it.”
1 blinked, surprised by the abrupt offer. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” he confirmed. “In fact, I can offer you even better terms than advertised. Thirty dors an hour, plus five percentmission on all sales. We can start you tomorrow.”
The sry was incredible–far more than I’d expected. It would allow me to help my family and save for my design courses. Yet something felt off about the whole situation. My instincts were screaming at me that something wasn’t
right.
“That’s very generous,” I said carefully<b>, </b>studying his face for any clue to his true intentions. “May I ask why you’re offering me more than the advertised rate?”
Steve’s smile widened, showing too many teeth. “Let’s just say I have a good feeling about you. I think you’ll be… exactly what we’re looking for.”
Despite my misgivings, I couldn’t afford to turn down such an opportunity. My father’s recovery, my brother’s debt, my mother’s needs–all of it required money. “Then I ept. Thank you.”
“Excellent!” Steve stood, going to a cab where he retrieved a garment bag. “This is your uniform. We require all staff to wear our signature silver and ck attire. Be here at eight tomorrow morning, and Melissa will show you the
ropes.”
As I left his office, uniform in hand, I heard Steve on the phone behind me.
“Yes, it’s her,” he was saying, his voice low but still audible. “She has his scent all over her…”
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