The Bitter Taste Of Ashes...

Chapter 1

I told you that I'm not very coordinated and trying to negotiate my way past the suit, through the door and maneuver the backpack is just too much and I trip over my own feet. I am saved from falling by two strong hands on my arms. The backpack parts company with my shoulder and slides like a log flume down my arm and lands with a ominous clunk on the floor. At first I think it's the suit has saved me and I look up to thank him and meet eyes that are like shards of green ice. Pale, hard and dancing with amusement.

Oh!

And I realize it's the owner of the eyes holding me up.

"Are you all right?" He's trying to hide his amusement.

His voice reminds me to breathe and I do. A great, gasping gulp of air. Crap! Me and my left feet! I straighten up and...

Oh. My. God!

I've died and gone to heaven. He. Is. Gorgeous... I mean some men are handsome, some are beautiful and a few are GORGEOUS and this guy is stop traffic gorgeous! Not just his face, the whole package.

He's about an inch taller than me, so six foot, slender but solid, with black hair, it's wavy and swept back, probably gelled but it looks so soft. Thick, dark brows, high cheekbones and sensuous lips, a dark fashionably short stubble covers a firm jaw. And those cool mossy green eyes I mentioned. The whole package is one of Satanic masculinity encased in a dark blue suit with a barely there pinstripe, a crisp white shirt, possibly silk and a gray tie and black shiny, Italian shoes. He exudes power, wealth and confidence. Holy cow! He looks so young, although age can be deceiving in werewolves.

He keeps a hold on me until he's certain I have control of my feet and then releases me and steps back.

"I'm Derek Hale. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?" There's concern on his face and I guess it's a learned response, werewolves aren't big on sympathy or empathy. Nevertheless it looks genuine and only serves to make me feel more of a clutz. It takes me a moment to find my voice.

"Thank you, I'm fine." I mutter barely able to take my eyes off him.

"And you would be?" He asks, pushing his right hand toward me.

"Stilinski. Stiles Stilinski." I answer in a daze and place my hand in his and we shake. As we touch an odd shiver rolls through me. I pull my hand back quickly with an apologetic smile.

Damn static!

My heart rate seems to triple and I blink rapidly and imagine his lips quirk up.

"Miss Martin is indisposed and I'm replacing her. I hope you don't mind, Sir?" I mumble.

"I don't mind at all." He answers.

His voice is warm and amused but his expression remains impassive. He seems only mildly interested and above all polite.

"I'm at BHCC with Miss Martin and she asked me to come in her place." I explain quickly.

"I see," he nods, with a quirk of his lips.

The gray and white theme is carried on into the office and he gestures to a white, L-shaped leather sofa with a glass topped conversational table in front of it.

"Shall we sit?"

I take a seat on the sofa and put the backpack beside me. The office is huge, dominated by the biggest desk I've ever seen in a grey wood I presume to be Ash. The walls are an unbroken white and the carpet thick, light gray. One wall is entirely glass, floor to ceiling, covered in open, white, vertical blinds and I can glimpse a panoramic view of LA.

Wow.

The only splash of color in the room comes from a vivid, blood red executive, leather chair behind the desk. A treadmill stands in the far corner, god knows when he gets time to use it.