Author's Note:

Hey hey Chapelites, it's been a while since we've dived into Whitechapel, right? Have you missed our girl, Megan? Well, the time has come for me to upload one of those much in-demand bonus chapters I've been talking about for so long and unfortunately I'm probably going to start with the one Team Harper and Team Garrick are not going to like very much. In fact, I have no doubt this chapter might not be the most popular among you Chapelites, but if you want someone to blame, then look no further than the Queens of Team Brandon themselves ScarletteDrake and RachelWatson4 who have literally held me to ransom to write this, so yeah, ALL letters of complaint can go squarely to their door (enjoy that ladies!). Haha!

Actually, in truth, this is probably the chapter I was most intrigued to write, having developed a bit of a fascination for Bran and Megs 'lost' relationship starting with when he abducted her from the asylum, partway through The Lost, a fascination that only seemed to grow during Savage Wings when it became clear to me that dear ol' Bran was undoubtedly the most tragic character in the whole of the series. Their love was a doomed love, but a love nevertheless, and I was drawn into this fantasy of seeing them together again - even if only for a bonus chapter.

Just a couple of things to remember before reading the chapter - and anyone who skips the author's note, reads the chapter and then leaves a non-too complimentary comment on our girl Megs will be banished to Lucifer's realm and spend the rest of their life living in a painting prison - probably that one which was really popular back in the 90's where the dogs wore hats and played pool or poker ;-)

So here we go:

1) This is a FANTASY chapter. Don't dwell too much on where it fits into the plot, because it doesn't. It's just the twisted fantasy of Team Brandon. It's a bit of fun, nothing else so don't worry about Harper (or even Garrick and Lucifer) getting all hurt etc etc, because....THIS DIDN'T ACTUALLY HAPPEN.

2) Yeah, there's smut. So just in case anyone wants to ask me, like someone did on the Playing Dead Garrick bonus chapter 'Smut? For the bonus chapter? Seriously?' YES SERIOUSLY. SMUT AND LOTS OF IT TOO *waggles eyebrows*

Now the pleasantries are out of the way, here we go... thank you dear ones, please do hit the vote button and leave a comment if you enjoy. Btw I miss you all!

***

"Another flashing chance at bliss,

Another kiss, another kiss."

― Jim Morrison

"I am troubled, immeasurably

by your eyes.

I am struck by the feather

of your soft reply.

The sound of glass

speaks quick, disdain

and conceals

what your eyes fight

to explain."

― Jim Morrison, Wilderness: The Lost Writings, Vol. 1

***

The building rose like a sleek, glass column, surrounded by a sea of old, grey brick.

Its cutting-edge design, with tinted glass and sharp angles, would have had a futuristic feel if it wasn't for the fact it was flanked on one side by one of those supermarket chain express stores that had erupted over the face of the city like a rash and on the other, by a retro clothing boutique for the hip, affluent ladies-that-lunched.

I'd always felt intimidated by it. Even in the daylight it seemed to glint menacingly, like a War of the World's type spacecraft implanted here by a malevolent alien race, now rising from the depths, ready to decimate London.

Of course, the towering office block did house a malevolent race, however not one that came from the far reaches of space, but one that came from here, one that had always been here, just as we vampires had always been here.

The offices of Walter & Noble Associates encompassed the whole thirteenth floor. How apt, I thought, as I stood across the road from the entrance to the basement car park, flipping the security pass over and over between my thumb and fingers. I'd been standing here too long already. I knew that if I didn't make my move soon, then I'd miss my chance. There'd be other nights, other opportunities, but if I didn't do it now, when I'd finally managed to build up enough courage to come here, then I knew I wouldn't come back again.

There were too many ghosts here and not the kind that waited beyond the Gates. Those ones I could cope with. Just being here made me feel haunted, but it was time to lay the ghosts of my marriage to rest, once and for all.

I waited until I saw the harsh beam of headlights coming up the ramp inside the car park and the gated shutters whirred into life, slowing rolling upwards. Crossing quickly to the other side, I walked close to the side of the building, wishing there was more shadows in which to conceal myself, even though I knew this mission was going to be more about speed than stealth.

Despite the fact it was way after hours, a building containing this many offices meant there was a likelihood there would still be people working late on some of the floors. The chances of getting up to the thirteenth level without meeting someone on their way down was slim to none, so I had to look like I belonged here. Be quick, but don't arouse suspicion. That was the key. Unless of course those people on their way down happened to be Varúlfur, in which case, the key would be to run for my life and stab any of them that got too close.

The only bonus was that this place was all part of their human façade. This is where they came to pretend they were anything but the monsters they really were. This is where they wore their human masks, did human things, where they masqueraded as normal when they were anything but. And I knew just how much this masquerade meant to them. They'd spent hundreds of years building their human image after all, how far would they go to destroy that if they found a vampire in their midst, slap bang in the middle of Varúlfur headquarters? I desperately hoped that I wouldn't have to find out, but the tension that coiled tight in the pit of my stomach told me I was probably living in a fantasy world if I thought this was all going to go without a single hitch.

As the car pulled out of the car park, I slipped inside just before the shutters started their slow descent, walking briskly down the ramp and into the cavernous car park itself. It was promisingly empty, save for a few cars, but I knew that didn't necessarily mean the building itself was mostly devoid of life. Only the wealthy tended to drive in central London every day, everyone else shoved their faces into people's armpits on the Tube or braved the manic driving of London bus drivers.

I spotted his car almost immediately, nestled rather comfortably in the space that had once been reserved for one of the former Walter & Noble partner's, Grayson Walter, also the former Varúlfur clan leader together with Richard Noble, both since slaughtered by their most promising, bright young Alpha. The plaque on the wall proudly displayed a new name, engraved in neat capital letters.

BRANDON WALDEN, DIRECTOR.

Arcing a brow in disdain, I passed it by, not giving it another glance as I headed straight for the lift, hesitating before the closed doors, my fingers feeling slick with sweat as I continued to roll the security pass card in my hand. Stolen during my nocturnal raid to my former marital home, this pass had been issued to me, specifically for those evenings when Brandon worked late and wanted me to drop by. It had been fun, exciting, fuelled by that exhilarating fear of getting caught bent over his desk or inside the photocopier room where the constant thrum of the machines masked our heated cries.

Even touching the security pass now made me feel sick. The thought of doing it here, never knowing what horrors lurked around me, but knowing now that they must have smelt me afterwards, must have caught the lingering scent of sex in the air. Those smiles, all those damn arrogant smiles and all the time they must have known what we'd been doing and I'd never realised. I'd been oblivious to it all. Blind and oblivious.

Gritting my teeth, I sliced the card through the reader on the wall, watching with trepidation as the small round light turned from red to green and the lift door swished open. I'd half-hoped that it wouldn't work, that Brandon had made sure the card had been rendered inactive since my 'death' but the tiny green light, as foreboding as it seemed, made my mind up immediately.

I stepped into the brightly-lit lift and hit the button for floor thirteen.

***

The floor numbers above the lift doors lit up one by one, agonisingly slowly, each one punctuated by a too-loud ding that made me wince each time.

When it reached floor seven, the lift came to a juddering halt and I pressed my back against the mirrored wall and slipped a hand inside my jacket where my knife was holstered. Holding my breath as the doors opened, I was met by the expectant face of a twenty-something woman, probably impeccably dressed when she'd first started her day and now looking slightly dishevelled with her pinstripe shirt half-untucked from her pencil skirt and slight sheen on her forehead which was thick with foundation.

"Oh," she said, her face falling with disappointment and exhaustion. "Sorry, I want down."

I tried to offer an apologetic smile, but all I could think was not Varúlfur, not Varúlfur, and exhaled long and slow as the doors closed and the lift continued its ascent.

When the lift reached the thirteenth floor, I froze for the second time as the automated voice told me very politely, but robotically, that this was level thirteen and the doors hissed open.

The stench of Varúlfur drifted in together with the all too familiar smell of the giant vase of lilies that always graced the grand mahogany table in the foyer. I'd always loved that smell of the flowers, lingering often to touch my hands to the soft velvety petals and breathe in the scent, but now, with my vampire senses picking up that one odour my human nose never could, the scent of the lilies coupled with the stench of the beasts seemed a pungent sickly mix that made my head feel fuzzy and my stomach churn with nausea.

Willing myself to move and yet tempted to hit the button to go back down to the basement, I edged closer to the open doors, stopping just short of them and peering out into the foyer. I knew it was far too late for the receptionist to still be here, but I had a feeling that the stern old stalwart from the days of Walter and Noble might never have made the cut anyway once her bosses were despatched to their graves. I'd never liked her much, with her disapproving glare over the top of half-moon spectacles, her salt and pepper hair scraped back severely into a tight, high bun, Marks & Sparks suits and sensible shoes, but I did wonder who Brandon might have installed to take her place. Someone younger no doubt, someone more befitting of the contemporary image he'd always talked about wanting when we'd discussed his future as possible partner. He'd definitely have picked some beautiful model-type who'd have all the Alphas salivating every time she greeted them good morning. After all, they did so love pretty, young things to drool over.

Stepping out into the foyer, I hesitated, listening for any sound of them close by and almost jumped out of my skin when the lift doors clicked shut behind me and I heard the whir of the mechanism inside the lift shaft. Taking deep breaths, I eyed the security camera positioned in the corner of the ceiling and wondered whether the building security were already on their way, or worse, whether Brandon was entombed in his office right now, watching his supposedly-dead wife standing inside the foyer. Maybe he had his own security team now, his own personal bodyguards, ready to defend the Great Wolf. Maybe they were waiting on the other side of the door. Maybe this was the maddest, craziest bloody thing I'd ever done in my life. Maybe.

Swallowing hard, I headed straight for the main entrance, past the front desk where a few new pink stationary additions told me that Walter and Noble's harridan of a receptionist had most definitely been replaced, and again swiped my pass through the card reader on the wall. The tiny green light flashed and the door buzzed my arrival, making me curse under my breath as the sound seemed to resound ominously through the foyer.

On the other side, the corridor stretched out ahead of me. The walls were lined with those expensive framed prints you always saw in independent galleries where price was upon request only. The carpets were thick and plush. More lilies in huge, antique-looking vases. Everything practically screamed money and why not, because the Varúlfur had more than enough of it to splash around. I'd never felt more out of place than I did then. Never felt more like an imposter, a trespasser. I half-expected an alarm to start resounding loud and clear, alerting everyone to the fact their enemy was here, walking among them.

I strained to listen to sounds coming from the adjoining offices, the tapping of keyboards, the whir of printers in action, the sound of telephones and the excited buzz of a busy solicitors' office, but everything was quiet - too damn quiet and the unease grew, creeping up my back and clinging onto my shoulders, tightening muscle and freezing bone. Reaching into my jacket, I withdrew the blade. There was no point concealing it any longer. I was in the beasts' lair now. There could be no pretending. No hiding what I was. If found here, the knife was my only possible way out.

Padding along the spongey carpet, I quickly and silently followed the path of the corridor, hesitating just briefly outside Brandon's old office, knowing that he wouldn't be there but feeling the need to look in anyway, to see those old ghosts haunting the space he'd once been so proud of. His first office. I flushed as I looked at the desk, remembering too many times laid over it, behind it on the floor, on the sofa. Too many memories and too many ghosts.

Rounding the corner at the end, the corridor flipped a right angle into a larger, social area where the coffee machines hummed and the smell of roasted beans lingered heavily in the air. I could still smell them though and now I could hear something else too, a voice that made the hair on my neck prickle, a voice deep and low, followed by a cackle of laughter from somewhere close by.

Gripping the hilt of the blade tighter, I advanced slowly, tracing the source of the voice to an office nearby, the door partially open. Inside, with the office chair swivelled so its high back faced the door, I could just see the crown of someone's head, a shock of blonde hair just poking up over the top as whoever it was spoke on the phone, carrying that cocky self-assured tone so familiar to the Varúlfur alphas, all vying for a chance to climb that corporate clan ladder. No chance of that now, I thought, not now Vánagandr has taken over the throne.

I had a brief, satisfying image of creeping in there, of slitting his throat, of watching his putrid blood spilling out onto the luxurious carpet, but as much as I didn't want to leave him alive in case he came back to haunt me, I couldn't risk the confrontation. Not yet. Brandon first, then the rest could fall. Or maybe even I would. By then, with Vánagandr dead, what did it matter what happened to me?

The Varúlfur didn't turn, didn't seem to be aware of my presence, even my scent seemed to be masked, not that I was surprised considering all the bloody lilies, so I carried on, slipping past the half-open door. Many of the other offices lining the corridor were nothing but darkened rooms, clearly empty, until finally it opened up at the end where a solitary desk sat outside a large office, the largest of them all, and at the desk stood a young woman, her head bowed as she carefully flicked through files in the cabinet beside her.

I stopped, stunned to see her there and simultaneously cursing myself for not remembering the PA's desk outside the Grayson Walter's old office. I was even more stunned to realise instantly that she was human, and something dark and unwanted crept into the base of my stomach, something ugly and unbidden, because all at once I hated her. I hated that she was here, supporting Brandon, working for him. I hated that he'd put a human here, one that probably made him his coffee, one that dutifully did everything he asked of her. One that worked after hours, way after hours, when she should have been anywhere but here. And I hated that she was his type; slim, immaculately dressed in a simple but flattering black dress, salon-ready glossy dark hair, not too much make-up but enough to show just how pretty she was, enough to turn his head.

And God knows how human women could turn his head.

I'd been that woman once after all and I'd turned his head enough for him to defy his whole clan. He'd almost given it all up for me, for a human, and seeing another here, one that got to see him every day sent a wave of fury raging through me at the unfairness of it all, a wave of fury that I didn't understand because I shouldn't have felt like this. I shouldn't have cared and yet I did.

Quickly, feeling the shame burn my cheeks, I holstered the knife once more, banishing the thoughts of slashing her right across the throat with it, because I knew it wasn't her fault - it was his, it was mine - and I hesitated, unsure as to whether I should turn around and walk away now, while I still could, while I didn't have her blood on my hands as well as his.

But it was too late for that.

As if sensing my presence, she glanced up, her eyes widening as she saw me standing there, her gaze giving me the once over. I shouldn't have been here and she knew it instantly. She stiffened as she looked at me and I looked back at her, stumped as to what to say.

"Can I help you?" she said, her clipped private schooled tones putting my back up immediately. Not only was she bloody gorgeous, but she was clearly of some breeding. "Mr. Walden doesn't have any more appointments this evening. How did you get in here?"

My hand twitched for the knife. In fact, my gums itched, my incisors desperate to descend. I wondered what she'd do if I bared them at her right then. The thought of her wetting herself in fright or passing out suddenly seemed an amusing prospect, but I couldn't let myself get distracted. I had a choice. Either run or keep going.

"Oh, I don't have an appointment," I said, mocking her posh voice. "Would you mind awfully letting Mr. Walden know that his wife is here to see him?"

I finished it off with the sweetest, sickliest smile I could muster, enjoying the look on her face as her mouth dropped open and her pallor paled noticeably. She might have been another new addition to the Walter and Noble office, but she clearly knew, like everyone did, that Brandon Walden's wife was very much dead, having been abducted and probably slaughtered, her body never found.

"Well, go on then," I said, waving my hand at her. "Be a good girl and let him know, why don't you?"

With a mouse-like squeak, she scuttled around the desk, her long shapely legs struggling in her heels as she ran to the closed door of his office, barely knocking on it as she slipped inside, closing the door behind her again. From inside the room, I heard her muffled, but alarmed tone and then silence, and after what seemed like a torturous few seconds, she re-appeared, wringing her hands as she fought not to meet my questioning gaze. Not that I could blame her, having a dead person walking around the office was bound to be unsettling for anyone.

"Mr. Walden said he will see you now," she said, before reaching over for her coat and bag, almost dropping them in her haste to get away. I watched her as she hobbled past me, giving me a wide berth as she headed quickly up the corridor, only turning once to glance back before she disappeared from view.

I turned slowly, eyeing the open door to Brandon's office, soft light emanating from within.

It seemed I didn't have a choice after all. I'd come too far to turn back now.

Withdrawing the blade once more, I approached the door and stepped inside, stopping instantly as my eyes found his.

Seated behind the biggest desk I had ever seen, Brandon sat leaning back in his plush leather chair, hands clasped in front of him in an oh-so relaxed way, dark curls slicked back from his forehead.

If he saw the blade brandished by my side, it didn't seem to bother him one bit, instead he smiled, that damn carefree Brandon smile that once upon a time made the butterflies careen around my stomach.

"Hello darling," he said casually. "Do come in. Oh, and shut the door behind you, will you? I'd hate for us to be interrupted."

***

The door clicked shut behind me as I pushed my back up against it.

Brandon didn't move, didn't get up, he just remained exactly where he was, relaxed, with not one single visible sign of tension or alarm on his face.

He was wearing what he always wore to work, a dark grey Armani suit - although the jacket was on a hanger dangling from one of the arms of the antique coat rack in the corner - and a crisp white Armani shirt, rolled up to the elbows, the sterling silver cuff links I had brought him discarded on the desk. The shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, revealing a triangle of tanned, smooth skin and his tie was neatly rolled up next to the cuff links. A tall cup of coffee with steam still rising from the mug sat on a glass coaster. All at once I was bombarded with images of her hanging up his jacket, rolling up his tie, removing his cuff links one by one and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt as he watched her intently, coveting her face and the cut of her dress, inhaling her human scent.

I gripped the hilt of the blade tighter.

I'd had so many images of what would happen when I got here, I'd played this out in my head so many times, rehearsed it in my mind, gone over what I would say, what I would do and not once had I ever imagined I would end up standing here, struck dumb by an intense, burning jealousy that this was no longer a part of my life, that someone else would belong here when I didn't. It was ridiculous and unwarranted, and even worse, it was ruining everything. I should be on my way out by now, having sliced open his stomach and his throat, having killed the Great Wolf, our greatest enemy.

The Great Wolf himself cocked his head to one side as he looked at me, one eyebrow raised as he studied me.

"Are you just going to stand there all night? Come and sit down." He gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk. "I'd offer you a coffee, but Arabella's gone for the night now and I still haven't worked out how to use that bloody new-fangled Tassimo thing."

Arabella. Of course, she had to be called fucking Arabella. She probably had some prissy double-barrelled surname too, a Cambridge university degree and spent summers at her family's country estate shooting bloody grouse.

"How on earth do you function without her?"

My words were laced with malice and I regretted them instantly when his smile widened, instinctively picking up on the sharpness of my tone. Sometimes it was easy to forget how well he knew me, how easily he could read me. I'd loved that intuitiveness of his once, loved that he seemed to know me so well, because it made me feel protected, cared for, but now it just made me feel exposed, like I was already on the back-foot when I'd barely been inside his office for two minutes.

"Well, she certainly serves a purpose."

He was having fun with this, I could see it in his eyes, a faint flicker of amusement dancing in the soft hazel hues of his irises and I hated him for it. Hated that he made me feel so small and pathetic, hated that I'd not been more prepared for this. I should have been. I should have known that my biggest obstacle in coming here was never going to be the Varúlfur who I might meet along the way, but him and the way he always twisted my emotions into knots until I thought I might never be able to unravel them.

"I see you didn't come alone," he remarked wryly, nodding at the blade by my side. "What's the matter, darling? Don't you trust me? Or is it yourself you don't trust?"

"The reason I have this has got nothing to do with trust."

He leaned back slightly, pushing his foot against the edge of the desk, the smile fading a little, replaced by something harder, a tension in his cheek muscles, the slight wrinkle of his brow.

"Oh, have you come to kill me, Megs? I was wondering whether this unannounced visit was business or pleasure, sadly I'm guessing it's not the latter? Pity."

I snorted derisively as I looked around the office. "You know, there's some irony in killing you here, in the office of the man you killed so you could wear his crown."

As casually as my legs would allow, I sauntered over to the shelves that lined the entire back wall of the office, running one finger along a shelf and noting not one whisper of dust. The shelves were immaculately organised, with far less clutter than I remembered when I'd visited once when Grayson Walter had been in residence here. I half-wondered whether this was Arabella's doing and had the childish urge to knock a few things to the floor and disturb the display.

"I wonder what he would think if he could see you here now? I'm pretty sure I know what he'd think to see you lying dead in that chair you stole from him."

He laughed, raking his fingers through his dark curls and smoothing them back from his forehead. "Come off it, Megs, as if you really care about what happened to Grayson! You never bloody liked him anyway. Besides, he always knew this was destined to be my chair. Just as he knew I would always kill him eventually. It's part of the natural order of things. The young always conquer the old. The future destroys the past."

It was my turn to laugh then, and I almost choked on the bitterness in my tone.

"My goodness Bran, I never thought I'd end up agreeing with you about anything these days, but that I can say, with absolute certainty, is true. In fact, that might just be the truest thing you've ever said in your whole, miserable life."

His smile faded, and he blinked, swallowing hard. "I beg to differ," he said, his voice softer and thicker this time. "I would say the truest thing I've ever said was when I told you that I loved you on our wedding day and when I've told you the same countless times ever since. Not that it means much to you anymore."

I stared at him, knowing that I shouldn't have been horrified by his words and yet I was. How was it he could talk about killing in one breath and love in the next? How was it that I even cared that he thought our love had meant nothing to me? I didn't even want to have this conversation. I didn't want to talk about us or our marriage, I didn't want to speak of love and how he had been my whole world once, of how I never could have imagined a life without him in it. How he saved me and then destroyed me.

"Yeah well," I finally said, somehow forcing out the words and realising the voice really didn't sound like mine. It was robotic, emotionless, a bit like the automated voice in the lift. "Things change. Like you say, the future destroys the past, right?"

He sighed as he stood up, pushing the chair away from behind him as he circled the desk, stopping in front of it and perching on the edge, his legs crossed at the ankles, hands in his pockets. His stance was still so casual, still so Bran, while I stood as firm as marble, feeling the heat rise on the back of my neck and the sweat trickle down my back. It was only a desk and yet I needed that barrier, and now there was nothing but empty space between us, space that could easily be breached.

"You know that might not be such a bad thing?" He paused, his eyes raking over me, a sudden anxiety in his expression that made him look younger than his years, like a nervous schoolboy afraid to put his hand up in class and answer the question. "We both got things wrong, both made mistakes. Maybe this is our chance to put things right again?"

"I can put things right."

Brandon chuckled. "Then why do I get the impression that you don't really want to?"

"You don't know anything about me anymore," I said stiffly.

He pushed away from the desk and began to walk towards the window which stretched from one side of the office to the other, stopping to look out at the city that crawled far below. "You're wrong, you know? You might think you've changed, but you haven't really. You're still the same Megs underneath it all, my Megs. Still the same orphan kid who just wanted someone to love her. Still the woman that I married. And I know more about you than you think I do. I know that you hated it when I chose your clothes, but you wore them anyway just to please me. I know you hated those restaurants I took you to, but you went anyway because you thought it would upset me if you said you didn't want to go. I know that you did a lot of things just to make me happy."

He seemed lost in a daze as he spoke, fixating on something out there amongst the bright lights and dirty streets, embroiled in the realities of our marriage that I had never thought he was even aware of. When he turned, and looked at me, I took an instinctive step back to see the blistering heat in his gaze. It was like the humid heat of summer days, heavy and suffocating, the kind that made it difficult to breathe.

"I know that you like it when I kiss your neck. Down your back. Along your collarbone. I know how to make you scream my name and beg for more. I doubt that's changed very much."

"All that is over with now."

He raised a brow. "Is it? Are you really sure about that?" Wandering closer until he reached the bookshelves, he absent-mindedly ran his thumb down the spine of a large hardback book, gently tracing over the gold font as he took surreptitious glances at me. "I'm willing to bet that I can still make you beg for more."

My jaw dropped open, followed by an unwelcome rush of heat to my cheeks and too many images whirling around inside my head.

"God, you really have let this power of yours send you insane," I said, my voice trembling with anger and something else, something I didn't want to feel. "That's not who we are anymore."

"Really? And who are we exactly?" He stepped closer. And closer still and yet I couldn't move an inch.

"Not who. What. We're enemies. You're a Varúlfur and I'm a vampire."

"Are you though?" he murmured, tilting his head quizzically to one side, his gaze burning into me as if he was stripping back the skin, delving deep into muscle and bone, fervently searching.

I swallowed, wishing my mouth didn't feel so bloody dry, but raised my chin defiantly. "You know I am."

His eyes narrowed to slits instantly, a flicker of irritation sparking under his dark lashes.

"No," he insisted. "No, you're not. I don't know what you are, but you're different. You smell like one of them, but there's something about you, something I can't work out. You're not like them. You're not like any vampire I've ever met before. If you were, I wouldn't feel..." He trailed off, inching nearer until I could feel the hot whisper of his breath dance delicately on my face.

"What?"

He was so close now, too close and I couldn't bear it. He looked so like him, so like the man I had once shared a life with, so like the man I had once shared a bed with, that it sent a stab of pain into my heart and a thrill of goose-bumps rippling over my skin.

The years since I'd met Brandon had been generous to him. He'd always been double-take handsome, but he was leaner now, more toned, and there was a confidence in the way he dressed, in the way he moved, that his younger self had lacked. Boyish arrogance and mischievousness had been replaced by a self-assured sophistication that was compelling, hypnotic almost. I knew that underneath his mask lay something raw and vicious, something wild and untameable and the thought of that just made that tension in the base of my stomach tighten even more, igniting a fierce heat that surprised and dismayed me.

If I closed my eyes, I could be back there, back to when it had all seemed so simple. I could reach out and touch him, brush my fingers over his full lips, let them trail down into his beard, find the warmth of his throat, the hard lines of his chest...

He moved so that his hands were either side of my head supporting his weight and he leaned in closer, his lips almost touching mine and it was then that I saw them, the tiny venomous sparks exploding in his irises. Those little warning signs that told me he wasn't quite as in control as he was trying to make out he was. I shrank back instinctively, pushing against the bookcase even though I had nowhere to go. I hadn't meant to. I hadn't meant to show my fear, but whatever he saw mirrored in my own eyes forced a small, strangled cry from his throat and he turned abruptly and walked away, stalking across the room, his fists clenched.

I remained where I was, practically clinging onto the shelf in fear that if I let go, that my trembling legs would finally give way and I would fall to my knees. I felt adrift with confusion that clouded my head and a disappointment that ran deep through my veins. I hadn't wanted him anywhere near me and yet I hadn't wanted him to walk away and I didn't understand any of this.

Reaching his desk, his leant against it, gripping the edge, his back and shoulders juddering as he took deep, laboured breaths.

"You shouldn't have come here," he said finally, his voice tense and hard as if he was struggling to speak. "Why did you come here?"

For a moment, I couldn't get the words out. Why had I come here? Why had I risked everything to see him? I'd came here wanting to kill him, I'd come here to finish it once and for all but now, being here, being this close to him, I was drowning in things I didn't want to feel, things I shouldn't have felt.

"You know why. I came to kill..."

He whirled around, his face full of thunderous anger. "Then why haven't you done it already? Why not, Megs? Come on, do it!" He thumped a fist against his chest. "Come on then! I won't fight you, you want to kill me then do it now. Right here, plunge that knife of yours right into my heart and be done with it. What the fuck are you waiting for?" He held out his arms either side, offering himself.

I stared at him incredulously. What the Hell was he doing? He didn't mean it. I knew he didn't. He couldn't possibly want me to actually kill him.

I shook my head. "Stop it. What are you doing?"

"You came here to kill me, then kill me, Megs. I'm not going to stop you. Why are you still just standing there? For once in your life, do something that matters. Do it now!"

Stumbling away from the bookcase, I gripped the knife tighter, hearing the roar of blood in my ears, feeling the rush of anger and frustration coursing through me, driving me forward and then I was there, in front of him, pressing the blade against his throat. He didn't move, didn't try to stop me and my hand shook as the steel glinted against his skin. The acrid smell of Varúlfur blood hit my senses and I watched horrified as a thin trickle snaked down his neck. Gasping, I drew back, seeing the thin red line where the edge of the blade had caught him.

He touched a hand to his throat, staring at the blood on his fingertips before looking back at me.

"Is that it?" he hissed. "Is that all you've got?"

I took a step backwards and his face twisted with rage, his lip curling up into sneer.

"No, you don't," he snarled. "You're going to do it and you're going to do it properly."

I gawped as he began to furiously unbutton his shirt, tugging it free from the waistband of his trousers and practically tearing it from his arms, before balling it up and hurling it across the room. When his hand whipped out and grabbed my wrist, I cried out and tried to yank out of his grasp, but he just pulled me towards him and turned my hand so the tip of the knife was pointing at his chest.

"Like this," he said, his breath ragged. "Right here. Come on, Megs, you can do it. If you really are a vampire, if you're really one of them like you say you are, you shouldn't even think twice about it. You should want to do it!"

I fought against him, trying to pull back while bracing my other hand against his chest as he tried to guide the knife closer and closer, and I knew any second the deadly tip would sink easily into his flesh. The sob bubbled up in my throat, tears stinging my eyes.

"Don't," I said. "Don't make me do this."

"You wanted this," he spat. "You came here for this. I'm just helping you out. Isn't that what a good husband is meant to do? For better, for worse, till death do us part?"

"Stop," I begged. "Stop, please Bran."

"What the matter, darling? This death not to your liking? You want me to turn around so you can stab me in the back? Would that be better for you?"

Abruptly, he turned, baring his back to me, the muscles tensed in his shoulders and arms as he gripped the edge of the desk. There was a faint sheen of perspiration glistening on his skin and he was breathing hard, shaking with fury.

I was lost. Completely and utterly lost.

The knife slipped from my grasp and dropped to the carpet at my feet.

His head dropped as he heard the dull thud of the blade hitting the floor, his dark curls falling over his face, but he didn't turn to face me, didn't take the opportunity to attack now that I was unarmed. For a moment, I didn't move. I couldn't. I just stood there, my gaze drifting hopelessly over his toned form, from his broad smooth shoulders, down to the small perfect dip at the base of his spine.

My hand trembled as I reached out, almost disbelieving that it could be my hand reaching for him, my fingertips brushing the skin at the small of his back. He gave a sharp intake of breath and flinched, the muscles flexing in his arms at that first touch of my hand.

I edged closer, watching hypnotised as my fingers traced the line of his spine, as my palm flattened against his back and moved upwards, smoothing over the curve of his shoulder. He'd always had such beautiful skin, soft and warm, only tonight he was burning up, like a fire raged just under the surface. Incandescent and still so fucking beautiful.

With my heart pounding in my ears, I leant forward and touched my lips to his skin, hearing him moan as I did so and unable to suppress my own. I'd missed this. I'd missed how his body felt against my mouth. Missed how he felt under my hands. I held still, savouring the moment, with my eyes closed and my open mouth gently pressed against his back.

I knew this was wrong. I knew I shouldn't want this, shouldn't want him, but standing there in his office, with my mouth and hands on his skin, with the fierce rush of heat enveloping my whole body, I felt like I'd slipped back in time. Everything we had become, everything that had happened was all gone and it was just us again, just Bran and Megs and everything that we had once been. It had been good once. In fact, it had been everything.

My hands slid down his back and around his waist, over the taut muscles of his stomach as the butterflies whirled and eddied in my own, a nervous excitement that felt strangely exhilarating. When I reached for the waistband of his trousers, he grabbed my hand and emitted a low growl that rumbled right through his body and the butterflies crashed together in flight and made my insides flip in dismay. He didn't want this. Not really. He didn't want me. How could I think he would? It was shame and humiliation that burned strongly in my cheeks then, a shame and humiliation that struck me hard in the chest because all at once I felt the loss of what we'd once had more than ever.

When he turned to face me, however, it wasn't ridicule and arrogant triumph I saw in his eyes, nor was it the venomous glare of the beast within. Instead I saw him, and an innate sadness that seemed to echo everything I was feeling, something that bordered on grief and loss. He reached out and brushed the backs of his fingers down my cheek, a small frown marring his forehead as those same fingers traced my jaw-line and caressed my neck. His touch was so gentle, so agonisingly delicate, that it sent tingling pinpricks of pleasure cascading over my skin, until I couldn't hold back any longer.

With a force that seemed to surprised us both, I reached up and grabbed the back of his head, pulling his face towards mine and crushing my mouth hard against his as my hands knotted into his hair. Somewhere inside I knew he tasted different now, as my vampire senses fought against what I was doing, but I buried that thought as deep as it could go and lost myself in his arms and in the hard lines of his body pressed against mine. He groaned against my mouth, sliding his tongue over mine while his hand found my throat once again, quickly moving down to unbutton my shirt, deftly, and with some desperation as he tugged at one troublesome button. With a cry of frustration, he wrenched my jacket back off my shoulders, taking the shirt with it, pulling both free until I was standing there almost topless save for my bra and he pulled back to look at me, his mouth open in stunned silence apart from the ragged breaths that still reigned hot and heavy.

I felt strangely empowered by the way he was looking at me, a look that was filled with so much desperate need, so much desire, that I never knew until that point just how much I'd wanted him to still want me. I liked that he wanted me. I craved it. Because despite how domineering he'd been during our marriage, despite how much he'd tried to maintain control, when it came to this, I could be the one in charge. And even now, after all this time and all that had happened, his desire for me was stronger than ever.

With a hand that trembled noticeably, he traced a line along the lacy cup of my bra, before sliding the strap free from my shoulder and encircling my now-exposed nipple with his thumb, teasing the puckered skin. I moaned and pushed my hips against him, feeling his arousal through his trousers against my stomach, as I ran my fingers up his toned arms, over his shoulders and down his chest.

The heat radiated from his skin, and his heart beat furious and strong beneath the palm of my hand. Enthralled by the intoxicating power of his heartbeat, I let my hands travel further down once more, unhooking the waistband of his trousers before he could stop me this time and slipping my hand easily inside. He gasped at my touch and growled again, only this time his lip curled up into a little snarl which only excited me even more, because it felt like a direct challenge to the beast inside him, the one that wanted me not because it wanted to fuck me, but because it wanted to tear me apart.

Dropping to my knees, I smiled as I tugged on his trousers and boxers, pulling both down over his hips before guiding him into my mouth, sliding my tongue and lips down his length, just the way I knew he liked it. He leaned back onto the desk, using his arms to brace himself against the edge so he could watch me, his hazel eyes wide with awe, his breath hitching every now and then when my tongue found his most sensitive points. There was amazement in his expression, like he couldn't believe this was actually happening and I couldn't help but feel a sense of elation in that I'd taken him by surprise, that he seemed hypnotised as he watched me work him over.

Fuck you, Arabella. Fuck you and your perfect salon-styled hair, I thought with satisfaction, as his hips involuntarily jerked every time I took him fully into my mouth, and as his breathing grew quicker and more frantic. Just when I thought he was close, when the heavy breaths had become audible groans and gasps, he suddenly snaked a hand into my hair and pulled hard, forcing my head away as he looked down at me. Little flecks of golden amber had crept into his eyes and this time, instead of feeling trepidation at the sight of them, it just made the heat pool between my thighs and my mouth water with anticipation. I wanted him to fuck me when his eyes were like that. I wanted to see the animal lurking just under the surface as he thrust hard inside me.

As if reading my thoughts, he hauled me to my feet, a small, dangerous smile playing on his lips as he lifted me up so my legs were wrapped around his waist and my arms hooked around his neck. Placing me, not particularly gently onto the desk, he tugged at my boots and threw them halfway across the room, before wrenching at my jeans and underwear, making me fall back and knocking the coffee cup flying, the now-cold drink seeping off the desk onto the carpet.

Before I even had a chance to register that I was now fully naked, he pulled me to my feet again and flipped me around, holding me against him and cupping my breasts in his hands as he nuzzled my neck, nipping at my earlobe and throat, sucking hard on the sensitive skin. I groaned and braced my hands against the desk, which only seemed to spur him on, and he thrust a leg between mine, forcing them apart as he pushed me down. The momentary coldness of the desk against my body made me gasp, but not as much as when it was replaced by heat of his hand between my legs, when he slid two fingers easily inside. Slowly, languidly, he teased me there, fucking me with just his hand. I didn't need to turn my head to know he was watching as he did it, watching the movement of his hand as he pushed his fingers inside, sometimes just a short way, sometimes as far as he could go. And each time he did, I just wanted more, I wanted him. This wasn't going to be enough.

"Please," I begged. "Please, Bran."

He leant down, pressing himself against my back, pressing my hips harder against the edge of the desk.

"No," he whispered close to my ear.

I stiffened. "W-what?"

"Not like this," he said gruffly. "I want you so I can see you. So I can see all of you."

He turned me over, moving between my legs and lifting one thigh, hesitating as he nudged against me so he could look at me lying helpless and completely exposed in front of him. His gaze seemed to drift over every inch of my body and everywhere it touched I felt it on my skin, burning me, a delicious searing fire that branded me, that made me his. And where before I had always rejected his claim upon me since I'd been made a vampire, this time I welcomed it and wanted it. Even if it was just for this one night, I wanted to be his again. I wanted to be his wife, his Megs.

The venom in his eyes was spreading outwards, fighting to take control, and as if he too knew instinctively that time was running out for us, the desperation returned, and with a force that made me cry out, he thrust hard and deep into me, grasping my hips firmly as he pulled me against him. He held me there for a moment, exhaling, before leaning down to capture a nipple hungrily in his mouth, which he sucked hard, making me dig my nails into his shoulders, eliciting another growl from him which vibrated deliciously against my breast.

"Tell me you've been thinking about this," he murmured against my skin.

"Y-yes."

"Tell me you've not stopped thinking about this."

"No, I haven't... oh god, please Bran..."

"Tell me you miss me, that you want me, that you love me." He sucked again and seemed to grow and swell inside me, making me buck my hips up.

"Yes, yes, yes, I do..." I was losing it now, so completely consumed by my need for him that I think I would have agreed to just about anything to make him fuck me. His face darkened as he looked up and our eyes met.

"You have to say it, Megs. You have to say it, just this once, just make me believe it just this once, yeah?"

I caressed his cheek with my fingertips, brushed my thumb lightly over his full, beautiful lips. I remembered this face. Remembered it from when we'd first met. The first time we'd made love. Remembered it from when he'd proposed and on our wedding day. I remembered it from every time he'd told me he loved me and from every time I'd told him. I loved this face. I loved him. The husband I remembered.

"I love you. You know I do."

With a gasp of anguish, he let go of whatever was holding him back and holding my hips firmly in place, he thrust into me again and again, each thrust punctuated by a low snarl that sent shivers rippling over my skin. I hooked my legs around him, locking my ankles together behind his back and using them to pull him against me, urging him to go deeper, harder. The desk was unforgiving against my back but I relished the feel of the hard surface as Brandon pushed into me, the impetus of each thrust almost knocking the breath from my body. His eyes flared with something deeply feral, a perfect mix of man and beast that made my stomach flip with a desire for something I never knew I could ever want.

For all our differences now, despite this whole violent mess we had ended up in, looking up into his animal eyes as he clenched his teeth, as his dark curls fell over his beautiful face, I realised that I loved seeing him like this. It felt dark and sordid and completely wrong, and yet I'd never wanted him so much in my life. I was turned on by what he was, I was turned on by my desire for him, for this, for feeling completely and utterly at his mercy as he fucked me harder than he ever had.

It had never been as intense as this. Never felt so completely and utterly fulfilling. The pace was unrelenting, frantic, as we both clutched at each other, our eyes locked together, perspiration slick between our bodies. I arched my back into each thrust, feeling the tingling sensation building, the heat spreading out from the base of my stomach. My whole body ached with arousal, like I'd been holding off for too long and in his eyes, where the beast reigned, I saw the same. He was there, waiting and ready, and as if something unspoken passed between us, I relaxed into it and let it happen, calling out his name again and again as I came. Spurred on by my release, his final thrusts were the most powerful yet and he came hard, the growl that emanated from his throat lasting as long as his climax did, his whole body juddering hard as he spilled into me, his fingers digging hard into my hips.

Finally, our heavy, exhausted breaths in sync with each other, we remained there for a moment, clinging on to the last remnants of our desire. He hadn't withdrawn and I felt the hot burn of him still inside me as he nuzzled at my throat, before finding my lips with his own and pressing them softly against mine.

I brushed the damp curls back off his face, noting the amber sparks as they receded, leaving me with nothing but the perfect hazel hues of the man I had married and an ache in my chest that felt as if I had plunged the knife deep into my own heart.

***

We dressed in silence, the tense distance between us now back in play as we retrieved our clothes. I felt his eyes on me though as he stole glances every now and then, the prickly of his gaze upon my skin.

I pulled on my boots and stood up, feeling awkward and unsure of what I was meant to say next, but it was he that spoke first, his voice raw and hoarse as if the human side of him was struggling to master the art of speech after letting the beast take over.

"It's done then," he said, standing in front of his desk, the frown crinkling his brow.

"Yes," I replied. "Yes, I suppose it is."

There didn't seem to be anything left to say, nor any reason for me to linger here where the air was infused with the heady scent of coffee and sex. The smell seemed stifling all of a sudden, this room felt stifling and I knew I had to get out of here, out into the cool air of the streets below where I could breathe again.

Without another word, I headed towards the door, freezing just before it as his voice brought me to a halt, feeling the air shift and undulate as he moved towards me.

"You forgot something."

I turned stiffly to see him holding out the knife, the one that I would have killed him with, the one I was meant to use to open up his veins and spill his guts and his blood out into the floor.

I half-expected to see that dangerous glint in his eyes once again, goading me, mocking me as he'd done when I'd first walked in here and he'd spied the blade gripped in my hand, but instead I saw an endless sadness, an aching well of regret that seemed fathoms deep.

Reaching out, I took the knife from him, spinning it slowly in my hands before emitting a long sigh and re-holstering it.

"Will I see you again?" he said softly as I opened the door, glancing out into the empty corridor outside. There was a dull acceptance in his tone, as if he already knew the answer. I think we both did.

"On the battlefield, maybe. Not here."

He stared hard at me, before slicking a tongue across his teeth and nodding and flashing me a very Bran smile.

"Until then."

"Yeah," I whispered, swallowing hard. "Until then. Goodbye, Bran."

"Bye, Megs."

I closed the door behind me, traversing the long, winding corridor as quickly as could, cursing as the lift seemed to take forever to reach the basement level and hitting the street at a run, feeling my heart pounding like an incessant, maddening drum beat against my rib cage, making me feel dizzy and nauseous. I ran until I reached the canal, leaning over the barrier as if my stomach was about to betray me and send everything I was feeling spewing like a torrent into the thick, sluggish waters below. Closing my eyes, I slid to the ground, pulling my knees in tight to my chest as I hugged them tight. I was trembling again, only this time it was nothing to do with arousal and exhilaration, but a terrible chill that was attacking every inch of me, leaving its icy touch on my veins and wrapping a cold hand around my heart.

I'd come here tonight to lay the ghosts of my marriage to rest for once and for all. I'd hope to bury whatever was left of us in blood and death, finally ridding myself of the ghouls that were intent on never letting me go and yet all I'd done was let them sink their claws into me even deeper. And the worst thing was, that even as I'd walked in there so full of determination and anger, even as I'd thought about everything he had ever done to hurt me and how he had helped to destroy everything I had once held sacred, I had known, deep down that I wasn't going to be able to go through with it. I would never be free of him, and I would never be free from us.

The Great Wolf was a ghost that was destined to haunt me forever.

Until death do us part.