My hands froze where they rested on his forearm, the antiseptic cloth forgotten. Thorne. The designation echoed in the small room, cold and absolute. Everyone was familiar with that name. The Blackwood Pack was renowned as one of the most powerful organizations in the territory, their corporate interests spanning numerous fields. The name did not just trigger a rush of memories—it triggered a surge of cold, political dread I desperately wanted to keep buried.

With a slight tremor in my voice, I forced the most dangerous name past my lips: "Do you happen to know Kian Blackwood?"

His eyes narrowed instantly, the cerulean depth tightening into an indecipherable flicker of alarm and resentment. "Why are you asking about him?"

The deliberate, sharp way he dodged my question made my heart give a dangerous, nervous lurch. There was undeniable recognition there, a deeply personal pain he was clearly trying to conceal.

"I’m not affiliated with him or anything," I quickly clarified, focusing intensely on applying the final bandage to his worst wounds. "Just idle curiosity, that's all."

His jaw visibly tightened, and when he spoke next, his voice carried a distinct bitter edge. "My family is the exact reason I am currently bleeding on your sofa. Let's simply drop the subject for now."

I nodded once, choosing not to press him further. Whatever link he had to Kian—or the immense pain it brought him—was entirely his own burden. My own history with that powerful family was a battle I’d fought hard to win and forget.

"Why are they hunting you?" I asked instead, shifting the topic entirely. "Why exactly do they want you dead?"

Damon's jaw remained rigid. "Pack internal politics. The Thorne name comes with significant complications."

"That definitely explains the murder attempt," I conceded, reaching for a moonpetal-infused bandage—one of the unique healing wraps that proved exceptionally effective on werewolf injuries. "But it doesn't change the fact that you're gravely hurt."

He offered a grim nod. "When you occupy the highest position, everyone below wants desperately to tear you down—and they truly don't care who they injure in the process."

Finishing the cleaning, I meticulously applied the herb-infused wraps to his most severe cuts. My fingers moved with the detached speed of a trained medic, yet I couldn't ignore the strange, magnetic response of his hot skin to my touch, or how his breathing became profoundly steadier, deepening into a restful rhythm, as my healing pheromones gently enveloped him.

His substantial blood loss and the profound influence of my scent had achieved the inevitable—Damon's heavy eyelids finally surrendered, and within moments, he slipped completely into the darkness of unconsciousness.

Once the cleaning was done, I lowered myself beside him, studying his features in the faint light. He was... breathtaking. Absolutely beautiful, in a dangerous, battle-hardened way.

My eyes lingered shamelessly on the length of his dark lashes, then drifted down to the hard, unyielding line of his lips. I became so utterly engrossed in observing the contours of his face, tracing the raw power in his jaw, that I failed to notice the passage of time—until he softly mumbled something incoherent under his breath, shifting his vast, heavy weight on the couch.

I shot upright, my heart spiking—not out of personal embarrassment, but from genuine, self-directed fury at my lapse in focus. How long had I been sitting there like some infatuated fool? This was precisely the kind of devastating distraction that could get me killed. I swiftly backed away, desperate for immediate distance to regain my battered composure and clear my thoughts. I retreated to the immediate, cool sanctuary of my bedroom.

The air was crisp, and for a fleeting moment, a feeling of absolute, empty peace washed over me—until the brutal memory of the night before slammed back, chilling me like a sudden arctic wave. The stranger. Damon Thorne.

I bolted upright in bed, my heart instantly racing. What on earth was I thinking, bringing a severely wounded Alpha into the only sanctuary I possessed? Even if he had seemed utterly harmless, Alpha behavior was volatile, especially when cornered, desperate, or recovering from deep trauma.

I quickly slipped on my plush slippers and padded silently toward the living room, my pulse thrumming loudly in my throat.

Perhaps he had departed during the night. Perhaps I would awaken to find my couch empty and this entire bizarre encounter would be relegated to nothing more than a weird, vivid dream.

The living room was, in fact, empty—no sign of Damon sprawled across my couch, no scattered bloodstained bandages visible anywhere.

I exhaled slowly, my shoulders slumping with immediate, sharp relief. "This is excellent," I whispered to myself, running a hand through my sleep-tousled hair. But as my gaze fell on the immaculate sofa, on the utter absence of any trace that another person had been there at all, a hollow, sinking feeling settled deep in my chest. "This is exactly how things should have gone."

Even as I articulated the words, that empty sensation intensified, twisting into something dangerously close to disappointment. I barely knew the male, and he had brought nothing but lethal danger to my doorstep. So why did the impeccably clean living room suddenly feel so profoundly, desperately lonely?

I turned to head back to my room when a gentle clatter came from the kitchen, followed immediately by what sounded distinctly like a muffled, controlled grunt of pain.

My heart jumped back into overdrive, but this time it was fueled by a different kind of worry—a protective, undeniable instinct.

"Good morning," a low voice said.

I spun around toward the kitchen doorway as Damon emerged, moving with the slow, agonizing deliberation of someone trying fiercely hard to mask the true extent of his pain. In his hands, he gingerly clutched a bowl, his knuckles stark white with the sheer effort required to keep his grip steady.

He had somehow managed to change out of his shredded, blood-soaked clothes into a clean black t-shirt, but I could clearly see where the damp fabric adhered slightly to his skin—fresh blood was already starting to seep ominously through the bandages beneath.

His dark hair was visibly damp, and the faint pallor in his face spoke volumes about a man who had already pushed far beyond his physical limits.

"Moon Goddess!" I gasped, instantly taking a horrified step toward him. "You shouldn't be up! How are you moving so silently when you're—"

"Apologies about that. Old habits are hard to break," he offered, his mouth attempting what might have been a small, painful smile. He lifted the bowl with visible, controlled effort, the slight, uncontrollable tremor in his arms impossible for him to conceal. "I managed to prepare breakfast. A gesture of thanks for everything last night."