A sliver of moonlight filters through the high windows, illuminating the dust motes drifting through this otherwise shadowy alcove. The air is still, holding its breath as if aware that something fragile unfolds here. It’s a far cry from the grand ceremonial halls or the ominous ritual chambers. Tonight, there’s no audience of robed watchers, no circle of prying eyes—just the quiet thrum of tension that has grown between me and the Alpha.
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Damien stands near a battered wooden table, one hand resting on its edge as though seeking balance. Soft light etches the planes of his face, revealing lines of fatigue I’ve never noticed before. He’s always exuded strength and command, but in this moment, his posture is less rigid, his usual mask of authority slipping. My pulse quickens, unsettled by
