Act of Surrender

Chapter One

Dr. James Hagen sat up fast, surprised he'd dozed off at his workstation. It wasn't as if the lab area was exactly brimming over with comfort. There were counters, higher than average due to the fact most of the people who worked in the building were very tall. A row of stools, reinforced to withstand the weight of shifter males, dotted the area just beneath the counter. They were fairly plain—metal bottoms with black leather tops. Not to mention, the counters themselves were stocked with various items of lab equipment.

James rubbed his forehead, pretty sure he had a mark from his head pressing against the centrifuge machine. As he felt it more, he realized the manufacturer's plate had left an impression as well. He'd have looked in a mirror had one been close. Best it wasn't. Seeing himself with letters in his forehead wouldn't do anything to help his mood. The indents would thankfully go away within a minute or two. He didn't want to explain it to his fellow teammates. They'd tease him about it for weeks.

Maybe more.

His office, which was off the main lab and clinic area, was much more conducive to resting. It had an oversized, expensive, leather sofa in it along with a huge desk, state-of-the-art computers, and even high-end artwork on the walls. The people in charge had gone out of their way to redo it upon his return to the position of head physician. Within two days of his return to work, the office had been revamped. Whichever decorator they used had captured his style without even bothering to see or question him. He was sure his teammates had a long talk with the woman when James was in recovery, telling her about his likes and dislikes. It was really the only explanation.

Yawning, he took a moment and stretched, his body sore from the position in which he'd fallen asleep. It cracked, creaked and then popped quite loudly.

"Shit. I'm getting old."

Who was he kidding? He was old. Maybe not in appearances, but in human years he was ancient, even if he wasn't exactly that old as far as supernaturals went.

His night-owl ways had caught up to him. He didn't regret spending his nights chatting online with a woman who made his groin stir to life by doing nothing more than talking to him. She was the only thing keeping him sane. He counted the seconds until they were able to talk, sometimes while playing an online game. He wasn't really a gamer, per se, but he'd learned to hold his own when mentoring young adults. He found he didn't dislike the games either, though he suspected the online company he was keeping had something to do with that.

Still, finding some sound sleep, even for a few hours, would have been welcome. Didn't help that what little sleep he did manage to get was plagued by nightmares. Though, what had woken him with a jolt from his nap hadn't been a nightmare like the others he'd been having since he'd been freed from captivity. Those were basically reliving the torture he'd suffered at the hands of mad men.

This was different.

Much different.

One of his natural-born gifts was having visions. He didn't relish possessing the ability to see the future, and he still couldn't control it, even after all his centuries. His limited control had even wavered more since his time in captivity. It was so far gone now that he was having trouble separating his nightmares from his visions.

Reality from fiction.

The one he'd just had still shook him to his core. The woman in his vision had long black hair with bright purple streaks in it. While it was a strange combination, it worked for her. Her creamy white skin was so pale he'd have thought her a vampire had he not seen her in the sunlight in his vision. The image of her, the sun at her back, her smile wide, her gaze on him, was now burned into his brain. She was quite possibly the single most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes upon. Her features were captivating. Her deep, chocolate brown eyes were so dark they bordered on black, and her thick lashes had his attention returning to her gaze in the vision—again and again.

He'd probably conjure that image of the woman in his mind whenever he stroked himself to get off. Stroking himself while thinking of her wouldn't be a hardship by any means.

"Pervert."

His cock stirred to life, and he had to adjust himself through his tan designer slacks. It felt good to be back in the clothing he preferred. He'd spent nearly a decade in faded, worn jeans and ratty shirts in an effort to blend in with the street element he'd been trying to assist. Since his return, he'd not been able to fly out to Seattle and check in on the street kids he'd taken under his wing. Over the years, he'd gotten many back on the straight and narrow, some getting degrees, and many were productive citizens.

Some never assimilated.

He couldn't blame them. All the kids he'd mentored were supernatural in some regard, though most were ignorant of the fact. James had enough Fae in his DNA makeup that he could sense a fellow magik. The shifter side of him allowed him to sniff out weres with ease. It saddened him to leave that world behind, but he'd not totally abandoned it. Years ago, he'd set up safety nets, a system that, should something happen to him, would ensure the supernatural youths on the streets would still be looked out for. That was a good thing since James had been taken captive and tortured for nearly a year.

One of the street kids he'd personally taken under his wing, Inara, had recently mated to a former PSI-Op (Paranormal Security and Intelligence Operative) who now worked for the Immortal Ops Branch. Eadan Daly was a good guy. James had known for years that Inara was destined for Eadan. James's gift of foresight had told him as much. Inara had also taken to drawing pictures of Eadan before she'd ever met him, so there was no room for misinterpretation. They were supposed to be together.

He couldn't help but feel a tiny bit jealous, even when he was elated for them. He'd always longed for a connection like they shared—a mate of his own. There was no use hoping. With as old as he was, the odds were stacked against him that he'd ever cross paths with the woman made for him. He accepted that, even if he didn't like it.

Inara was now safe and mated to a good man. That was what truly mattered. James had seen her in a fatherly light and was pleased she was now off the streets and with a man who could protect her.

"You failed her," he said out loud. James's temper surfaced again, threatening to overtake him, and he kicked one of the stools near him, sending it skidding across the floor of the lab. He hated himself for being such a fool. For being caught off guard and for being captured in an attempt to keep Inara safe. While he'd been successful at that moment in time, keeping her from falling into the enemy's hands, he'd gotten himself captured instead, and Inara had later been taken by the same men who'd held him prisoner. Thankfully, she'd ended up safe and sound.

You should have held on to your rage back then, he thought, remembering the time before he left PSI. A time when he would have never been taken captive with such ease. A time when his temper ruled supreme. He would have fared better when he was ambushed had he allowed himself to simply lose control, but he hated that side of himself.

After the passing of a close friend and fellow teammate, James had changed his ways. He'd carried the label of murderer for a long time. He'd not killed Christopher with his own hands, but he'd allowed his temper to win—and the end result was Christopher's death. A number of higher-ups within PSI had demanded James be tried for murder. The Director, General Jack C. Newman, had come to his rescue, refusing to permit James to be made a scapegoat for the system's failures. Newman had asked James to stay on and return to duty, but James had refused, needing time to clear his head. Time to pay for the wrongs he'd done. To pay for Christopher's death.

Don't return to being that man. No matter how tempting it might be.

He'd spent ten years on his own, soul-searching, making peace with things he could not change, and embracing the here and now. He'd lived a good, simple life. He'd learned to control his darker side—his temper.

His thoughts drifted back to the woman from his most recent nightmarish vision. He certainly did not see this woman in a fatherly light at all. His cock still ached with need just from reflecting on her image. The cruel irony being there was a distinct possibility he'd dreamed her up.

He wasn't sure of anything anymore. His fucking mind was even turning on him. As if he hadn't been through enough as it was. Now, he had to deal with possible hallucinations?

What next?

Asking would only mean he'd get an answer, and the Fates liked to mess with people. He clearly had a target on his back as far as they went. They were having a ton of fun at his expense as of late.

The girl from his bizarre dream had felt real enough. She didn't seem invented. If she was real, she was in danger. His visions weren't to be taken lightly. Destiny was an odd bird. He learned never to take it for granted. It tended to carve out a person's path far in advance. Whenever James was given a vision of what a person had in store for them, it was never as simple as it being spelled out. No. His visions were impressions, fast flashes, a strange sense of knowing, and sometimes cryptic symbols.

Those were the worst.

The more he thought about it all, the more he was sure it wasn't some invented dream. It was real, and she was in serious trouble. He didn't know who or what, but something or someone wanted the girl dead. Panic welled in him, and his hard-on dissipated. The overwhelming urge to find this woman and protect her at all costs swept over him, taking his breath from him. He had to strain to draw in air as he sat there, knowing there was no real way to find her. He didn't have a clue if she was real, let alone who or where she was.

His hands shook, and he had to take a break, closing his eyes, forcing himself to calm down. There wasn't anything he could do for this stranger until he had more information. If there was anything he knew for certain about his supposed gift, it was that it revealed the truth of the matter in its own time. It couldn't be rushed. He'd have to wait until it showed him more. That or he'd need to stumble upon the woman. Unlikely to happen since he rarely left the labs or his office. Finding her would not be easy.

"Talk about a needle in a haystack," he murmured. The sudden, undeniable urge to speak with his newly acquired chatroom friend came over him. "I need to talk to GothGirl."

He stared at his computer screen, desperately wanting the woman he'd come to know only as GothGirl to log in so he could speak to her and hear her sweet voice again. It had been nearly twelve hours since they'd last spoken. Seemed like forever. He was supposed to be gathering information on her for PSI. He'd not been very successful. At least not on finding out anything of importance. He did know all her online gaming preferences, her favorite color, that she loved it when it rained and that she could hack just about anything. He also knew she had a big heart. He'd discovered she liked to look after homeless veterans in her area. She'd only specifically mentioned one of them, but he knew from the way she spoke that she cared for many.

He could relate to that burning drive to help the less fortunate. To see to their needs and expect nothing in return. That was the way it should be. Those who gave their time and money only for photo-shoot opportunities or write-ups in papers were shameless.

GothGirl wasn't like that. He'd had to coax the information from her, and she was understated when telling him bits and pieces of what she did for the homeless near her.

He knew she was a good person. Regardless of what PSI officials suspected. He knew better.

A smile touched his lips. He knew other little things about her. Details he considered special, but his captain would find useless. It had been only a week since he'd been ordered to look more into a hacker an enemy of PSI had a strange interest in. PSI had techs who did that sort of investigation all the time, but even though they operated daily and dedicated their lives to mastering the virtual realm, they'd failed— epically—to make contact with the target.

GothGirl was smart.

Too smart for the computer geeks and the technology analysts on PSI's payroll to catch. They were probably still scratching their heads and dusting off their keyboards, wondering how the hell some girl had managed to leave them chasing their tails. And boy, had she. James had heard all about the digital runaround she'd given the men.

He laughed at the thought of it all.

When James's captain, Corbin Jones, had held a briefing, telling the men that their raid on the facility James had been held prisoner at had yielded intel on several persons of interest, one being a hacker, James had perked up, curious to hear what was happening. But Corbin had glossed over the information on the young woman, moving quickly to the next order of business. The captain hadn't had much in the way of details, and seemed more interested in other people they'd found information on within The Corporation's files than the hacker. James's body had different ideas, though, building and driving a powerful need for him to learn more about the hacker.

Unable to let the moment pass him, James had forced Corbin to return to the previous topic —the hacker who had caught the eye of PSI. His teammates had groaned as if he were that guy— the one who made the teacher return to a boring topic they didn't want to hear any more about.

In a way, that was exactly what he'd done.

Something deep inside him wouldn't let this pass by. When he'd learned that PSI's very own tech squad had failed to gather much beyond the hacker's screen name and that the person was indeed a she, he'd found himself volunteering to do more to track her online. Saying he was intrigued was putting it mildly. James had become obsessed and still was.

Corbin had been skeptical. Rightfully so. Yes, James had more skills with a computer than most of his teammates—especially Duke Marlow, who was a luddite in serious denial—but James wasn't a programmer or anything of the like. With a few questioning glances, the captain had given the assignment to James. And James had spent the last week trying to balance his actual job duties with the mission he'd volunteered for. As head physician at the division branch, he never lacked for something to do. Yes, the facility had other doctors on staff as well, and all were very good and exceptionally qualified, but they all answered to James.

A pang of guilt washed over him as he thought of the person-of-interest. Though, within a few hours of launching his own investigation into her, James had stopped seeing her as that—a POI. She was funny, smart, and he found her incredibly sexy—despite the fact they'd never met in person and he didn't know what she looked like.

"You are hung up on a girl who you don't really know and who doesn't really know you." He grunted, slightly embarrassed by his behavior as of late. "Wait until she finds out you're a wolf- shifter and you work for a secret government agency. Oh yeah, she's going to love you."

In his week on the case he had managed to do what the tech geeks couldn't. He'd not only made contact with her, but he'd been engaging in long, drawn-out, deep discussions with her in private chat rooms. He had a hard time believing she was anything PSI needed to be concerned with, but he'd seen the files. He knew she'd managed to gain the attention of The Corporation, leaving them looking into her, trying to mine for information on her. And if that evil empire had their sights set on her that meant PSI needed to know more about her. Corbin wanted to know if she was friend or foe. If she was working with The Corporation or against them.

It had taken him less than an hour of talking with her to know deep in his bones that she wasn't the enemy. Though, labeling her a friend to PSI would have been a stretch.

Of course, telling the captain he didn't feel like she was a bad guy wouldn't really fly. He needed more to go on.

Proof.

And that was precisely what he planned to gather. Proof. Though, it wasn't going to be a walk in the park. Far from it. GothGirl wasn't the type that warmed up to just anyone. He couldn't blame her.

She seemed to believe the government was out to screw everyone. She probably wasn't entirely wrong. James had been alive enough to see countless administrations come and go. They all had one thing in common—the quest for power. There was a lot to be said for the saying, "If a politician's lips are moving, they're lying."

Most didn't have a fucking clue what was really go on in the world. They were power- hungry figureheads who thought they understood what real power was but had none over what really mattered. A few knew of the existence of supernaturals. Most of those humans who did know thought they were in charge of the situation. That they could manage the supernaturals and keep them leashed. That was laughable. Other politicians were actually supernaturals hiding in the open—maintaining a life in the public eye, hiding what they truly were, and fully understanding what the hell was happening in the world around them.

Chaos.

So, it was difficult to fault GothGirl for being anti-establishment. The jury was still out on whether he was as well. For the last decade, he'd stood against what it all represented. Now he was back and part of it, hopefully, part of the solution, not the problem, but only time would tell for sure.

He wished he had something in the way of control over his Fae side so that he could reach out mystically and will GothGirl online. Being born with small bits of Fae in his pack line, James could normally sense magik on others faster than most shifters. He'd also had limited abilities in the persuasion side of things. He couldn't wipe humans' memories or anything that full Faes were often capable of, but James had been able to push out suggestions that humans felt compelled to take. The gift had come in handy over the years. Even that particular gift seemed off late. Everything with him did. He'd lost trust in himself, and that was a scary thing for a special operative.

Come online, he silently pleaded.

His screen blinked and then chimed, announcing the arrival of GothGirl in the chat room. James didn't believe for a second that he'd really had anything to do with her coming online at that very moment. It was merely a coincidence. Nothing more.

He waited for what felt like forever with as anxious as he was to talk with her, before she finally sent an audio chat request. It wasn't as if he couldn't have issued the request, but he didn't want to appear needy to her. He answered the request and grabbed his wireless earpiece and microphone, excited to be able to speak with her again. His entire body seemed to respond to the idea of getting to hear her once more.

"Hello, gorgeous," she said, her voice sultry yet young sounding. She had moxie—he admired that about her. She was an interesting mix of fire and ice, carefree yet reserved in other aspects. He enjoyed the mystery she presented.

From the way she talked, she'd been on her own for a long time. If he had to hazard a guess, she'd been a street kid, and he knew from experience the streets were not kind to anyone, let alone the young. The kids learned at an early age to avoid putting trust in anyone. The longer they spent on the streets, the harder they were to crack. GothGirl had probably been on them for longer than most.

She'd assured him she was twenty-two, and he had to admit he felt a bit like a dirty old man finding her attractive, since he was over four hundred years old. James wasn't like some supernaturals. He didn't dwell in the past, yearning for a time long ago. He liked progress and embraced new technologies. He didn't cling to old ways or every custom from his motherland. Not that he really had a motherland to speak of. The pack he'd been born into was nomadic and hadn't tended to put down roots for long. Probably why James never grew too attached to anything in his long life.

They hadn't been big fans of showing affection or giving a shit about their younger members. You either survived or you didn't. The weak were weeded out, and the strong remained.

Immortality left him looking like he was in his mid-to-late twenties, but some days, he felt as old as time. Felt like he'd seen and done too much to find joy in anything. GothGirl changed that. She made him feel young again.

Made him feel alive.

Made him laugh.

Made him look forward to whatever interactions, even if only short-term, that they could have.

"You do realize that I may, in fact, be less than pleasant to look at," he said, taking a seat on the stool in his lab. His leg wasn't fully healed from his time as a prisoner of The Corporation, and he had a hard time standing for long periods.

"Oh, you're a hottie. I can feel it," she said.

"Sure," he returned, not really thinking of himself as a catch.

Women found him attractive, but he never understood why. He lacked the arrogance his teammate Duke had. Striker, another of his teammates, also believed himself to be the gods' gift to women. Corbin was more understated in his sexual appeal—like James. Malik, a teammate who was still on forced leave to clear his head, was very secure in his ability to charm the pants off the ladies. Boomer was a different story. There was a certain vulnerability to him that women found irresistible, and Boomer did nothing to discourage the attention.

"I can hear you doubting yourself," she said, her voice light. "I'm telling you, I know I'm right. You're a hottie."

"What about you? Do I get to guess what you look like?" he asked, his mind suddenly trying very hard to make her look like the woman from his vision. He pictured her hair long and dark with purple streaks running through it. Her eyes were nearly as dark as midnight and as captivating as well. Like normal, whenever he spoke to her, his body responded, humming with desire, with the idea of having more than just conversations with her.

"Sure, but I bet you get it wrong," she said with a sharp outtake of air. "Plus, I'm not really bombshell material. Just a heads up."

He doubted that very much. In his mind, she was the sexiest woman alive, and he wanted to shout at her to recognize that.

Slow down there, buddy, your wires are all crossed because of what was done to you. Don't let that mess with your better judgment.

"But I can sense that you're a looker," she said with energy that was infectious.

It took him a second or two to gather his control again. Something he seemed to lose a lot whenever anything to do with GothGirl came up.

"One way to know if you're right or not," he persuaded. Part of his mission involved gathering as much intel on her as possible, and that included a picture. He felt like an ass continuing to pursue the mission in regards to her. James liked the woman. More than liked her. He wanted to get to know her more than he wanted information on her to pass on to others. He wanted to put a face with the voice. "And I'd like to see you."

"Patience, grasshopper," she said. "I'm still considering it from the last time you asked. You know, about thirteen hours ago."

Something baser in him was on the verge of pushing too far to get a glimpse of her, and he worried if he dared let that side of himself out, he'd scare her away for good. She'd go to ground, and if PSI was lucky, they'd find her before The Corporation.

If not…

He didn't want to think about that. He couldn't. He'd spent months held captive by them and knew what sick sons-of-bitches they were. Dynamics Corp—or The Corporation, as they were more commonly known—was about as bad as they came, but by all outward appearances, they were pillars of the community, leaders in the search to help rid mankind of disease.

Bullshit.

They were nothing more than mad scientists bent on creating a super race and ending humans for good. Funny the lies humans believed when money was involved. They thought The Corporation was there to help them. In truth, if The Corporation had their way, humans would be nothing more than food for supernaturals.

Cattle.

"Did I lose you?" GothGirl asked.

"No. Still here, tripping over my own thoughts." He ran his hands over the keyboard before him, wondering again what she looked like. He had real mysteries to solve, yet he found himself obsessing over what some hacker looked like.

"How are the nightmares?" she asked, trepidation in her voice.

James stiffened. He'd not told his teammates that he was suffering from nightmares. They worried enough about him as it was. He didn't want to add to it all. Seemed as if they took turns checking in on him. He wasn't really sure why he'd confided the truth of it all to her. "I managed to get some rest after we finished talking this morning. Then I had to haul my tired ass into work."

"Work blows," she said with a snort. "Or so they tell me. I'm not really one who has what another would call an honest profession."

"You're really a cat burglar, aren't you?" he questioned, already knowing she was a hacker.

"Guilty."

He smiled and realized he did that a lot whenever he spoke to her. She had become something of a lifeline to happiness for him.

You're lying to her to gather intel on her, he reminded himself. When she finds out, she'll drop you in a heartbeat and probably never surface on the grid again.

"Making any headway in your research?" he asked. She'd told him bits and pieces of what she was working on. He'd filled in the blanks on his own. She was painting a huge target on her back as far as The Corporation was concerned.

"Oh yeah. A lot. I accessed another server from the Evil Giant whom I shall not name," she said, making worry lance through him. "I'm running my decryption program on it now. I should have something juicy within twenty-four hours. How is work going for you? Any luck with the samples you were looking more into?"

He'd confessed to being a doctor, but he could sense that she hadn't believed him when he'd told her as much. "Not really. Sort of stuck in a rut with them. I'm thinking I can't see the forest for the trees right now."

"Step back and take a breather then, LabLupus," she said, using his screen name. "I should call you Doc Wolf. Means the same thing, huh?"

He grinned.

If you only knew.

"I feel like I should howl or something," he said, wishing he actually still could. He missed his wolf.

He'd not been able to shift since he'd been captured. The samples that were currently stumping him were his own. He couldn't figure out what The Corporation had done to him. Whatever it was, it changed his genetic make-up, altering him to the point he didn't have a clue what to expect.

"Are you wearing a lab coat?" she asked, a teasing, sexy note in her voice. Her question pulled him from his thoughts.

"Ah, we're going to take the conversation there, are we?" he asked, hopeful. He'd gladly permit the conversation to enter bedroom territory. Hell, it would make his week.

She laughed softly, the sound filling him to the brim with happiness, something he'd sorely lacked for nearly a year. "Hey, I'll admit to finding it sexy when a guy wears a lab coat. I'm a total kink that way."

"Oh yeah. Nothing says hard-core kinkster than a doctor fetish," he mused, making her laugh more.

"Found me out," she said and then huffed. "Honestly, I'm not what anyone would label kinky." She was quiet for a bit. "I don't have a lot of experience when it comes to men."

James paused. Was she saying what he thought she was saying? "You have been with a man before, right?" He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer. The idea of her being touched by another did what nothing else seemed to be able to do: tempt his inner beast. As a natural- born wolf-shifter, he should have been a force to be reckoned with. Of late, he was about as useful as a human.

He shuddered at the thought. Humans were pretty worthless when it came to anything of importance.

"Um, does our chat room teasing banter count?" she asked.

James palmed the counter before him, pleased with her response. She had not been touched by other men. "No."

"Then no."

He smiled wide. The news of her saving herself moved him in a strange way—he shouldn't have cared about her sexual life choices. They were her choices, after all, and he'd seen too many men think they knew what was best for a woman and her body to dare do the same. Yet, he found great pleasure in hearing she'd not let just any ole man touch her. "Good."

"I gotta jet," she said with a tiny moan that turned him on even more. "I just wanted to talk to you quick. Will you be on later?"

"I will," he said, wanting her to remain on the line. Her voice soothed him and helped chase away his overthinking.

"Take care of you, Doc Wolf."

"You too, GothGirl."

She ended the chat, and James suddenly felt very empty without her voice in his ear. He craved every moment he could get with her, even though they were virtual moments. Her voice always seemed to wrap around him, making his body tingle with need and his cock ache for release. He'd not wanted another like this ever. Hell, he hadn't even come close to this level of desire before, and he'd been around a long time.

Get a fucking grip, Jimmy, he said to himself.

Chapter Two

Doctor Bertrand paced before the window of the rather unimpressive apartment he'd been calling home for the past week. How could anyone live this way? At least the smell of the rotting corpse was gone. Had the previous resident of the apartment simply listened and obeyed when Bertrand and his men had ordered him to be silent, he might still be alive.

Bertrand laughed. Who was he kidding? He'd have killed the man regardless. His lip curled as he looked around the apartment, noting the distinct lack of high-end furnishing he was accustomed to. He'd been living the good life, but all that changed. When he'd tried to reach out to The Corporation for help after the raid in France, his calls had gone unanswered. It was days before he had been able to get a response, and it wasn't the one he was expecting. They blamed him for it all. Claimed he had lost sight of the vision and the mission.

That animal had reduced him to this. Had left Bertrand living just shy of the gutters.

"He shall know no mercy," he said with brutal detachment.

Test Subject 87P.

Though, the test subject had a name now to go with the face. He was no longer a number.

Dr. James Hagen.

Bertrand went to the broken mirror, hanging tilted from the wall. Peeling wallpaper that had yellowed with age lay partially over one corner of the mirror's edge. How any could live this way— permitting their surroundings to be as such—was a mystery to him.

Bertrand's lips curved upwards, revealing his now-jagged teeth. They had changed when his anger had overtaken him just over two weeks ago. Prior to that, the injections he'd been giving himself—a mixture of varying strands of supernatural DNA and other ingredients known only to him—had been working, increasing his strength, his stamina, his vision, his hearing. But that had all changed when he found himself enraged. He had become what looked back at him in the mirror now. Some sort of disfigured monster. Worse even than the hybrids he and the others like him had been working so hard on creating.

An abomination.

But a powerful one.

He stared at his reflection, no longer recognizing himself as the man he had been. His skin was gray, his face drawn. A ring of red surrounded his irises. Sores had started to form on his skin, pus-filled and swollen. His hair had been falling out in clumps, leaving it patchy at best. He was something to be feared now, as it should be. He was no longer weak. No longer something less than those he studied and experimented on.

He was a force unto himself.

One they would all learn to respect, as they had not done before. Even his higher-ups had laughed at him, mocking his drive to find ways to turn ordinary humans—those lacking any traces of supernatural in their bloodlines—into something more.

But Bertrand had done it. He was living proof.

Running his tongue out and over his teeth, his eyes lit with excitement as he thought of the look on his immediate supervisor's face when Bertrand had revealed himself and his accomplishments. He'd done so after finally being responded to following the PSI raid on his labs. Right after his favorite test subject managed to get away.

It all came back to Hagen. After all, it had been Hagen's DNA that had made Bertrand's tests upon himself successful after so many failures.

Sharp talon-like claws extended from the ends of his fingers, bringing with them biting pain and torn flesh. Bertrand hissed, spittle dripping from his mouth as he stared down at the ripped ends of his fingers and the twisted claws now there.

He had seen hundreds of shifters do something similar, and their changes had been effortless—without blood, without twisted claws.

He would find Hagen, and he would force the man to fix him. Force him to figure what had gone wrong and make it right. Make him a superior being.

Mother Nature was a bitch who wasn't fit to decide who among those brought into this world should and should not be granted special abilities. Bertrand had beat her—he'd beat the grand system of order.

He was now powerful too.

And soon enough, he would have his answers and his cure to make him just as the others he'd spent so long studying. Hagen would do as Bertrand bid. He'd been so close to breaking Hagen's spirit before, that he knew he could do it. And now he had the perfect way to get the man to fold.

A woman.

Bertrand had found a weakness in the good doctor and would exploit it. He would make Hagen watch as The Corporation's strike teams tore apart the woman Hagen had been so drawn to since his escape.

The hacker.

Bertrand spat and then looked at himself again in the mirror, pleased with the plan he had underway. Gisbert would have to listen to reason once Bertrand showed him that he'd fixed what had gone wrong.

He stiffened, remembering his mentor's harsh words.

"You are a hideous monstrosity," the man had said. "What have you done to yourself ? You were not compatible, not pre-selected. You were merely human."

Merely human.

The words still stung.

Bertrand would fix the problems with his change. He would show the man he had spent years trying to impress with his brilliance that he was a genius. That he too was a leader in the field of genetic manipulation. That he was more than merely human.

He and the men still loyal to him would show them all. They would be welcomed back into The Corporation's fold with open arms and hailed as heroes for unlocking the secrets of making humans into supernaturals and bringing down the very same PSI team that had laid siege to one of their facilities.

Oh yes.

Bertrand would earn their respect, and they would have no choice but to take him back—to stop shunning him as an embarrassment to their master plan.

Rage settled over him as he thought about The Corporation's mission. They wanted a master race of supernaturals to rule the world. They had spent centuries trying to build their dream and see their vision to fruition. They had experimented on natural-born supernaturals, men and women with small traces of supernatural in their bloodlines, and even fetuses still within their mothers' wombs, gaining great success on all fronts, but they had never, as of yet, been able to make an already established human—with no traces of supernatural DNA in their line—into anything more than they started as.

Until now.

Until Bertrand.

He had done the unthinkable. He had managed to make himself more than human. Yes, there were certain issues that needed to be addressed, but he would fix them soon enough. As soon as he broke Hagen's will to live. Then, the man would aid him. He would do as he was told. He would make Bertrand right.

A supernatural so powerful that all others bowed to him.

A knock sounded on his door, and he turned, watching as one of his loyal guards entered. The man cast his gaze downward, and Bertrand knew it was because of how he looked—how disfigured he was since he'd begun the change.

"What is it?" he demanded acidly as his gaze narrowed with contempt.

The man shuffled his feet back and forth. "The computer guy says he has a lock on another conversation happening between the target and the girl."

Bertrand laughed.

The girl was the very same hacker who had drawn the attention of The Corporation months ago when she began prying into them. How ironic that she was the woman Hagen had become so obsessed with. When Bertrand ended her, he would be doing The Corporation a favor.

He'd be ridding them of the tiny buzzing fly they had been swatting at.

The hacker.

And in doing so, Bertrand would bring down Hagen. It was the perfect plan. One PSI would never see coming. They were arrogant, thinking themselves above reproach. Thinking they were safe on their home soil.

They had no idea the strides The Corporation had been making in recent years. Of how figureheads who normally could not be in a room together had set aside their differences and started focusing on the same goals—ridding themselves of Paranormal Security and Intelligence and the Immortal Ops all while building a master race of super soldiers that, when ready, would take over the world and put humans in their place.

The bottom of the food chain.

He looked to the guard. "Report what you find. Be ready to strike. And remind the others that they are to kill the woman and bring me her body. I want to make sure to gift wrap it for a friend of mine."