Chapter 8 Take Responsibility For You
1267 Words
Sophia's POV
While Wyatt was on the floor of that bedroom crying like his world had ended, he had no idea there was a second camera in the room. A small one, tucked in a corner he'd never thought to check.
I was sitting in the VIP lounge at the airport, one elbow on the armrest, chin in my hand, watching the live feed on my phone with a small, satisfied smile.
"Sophia, you're genuinely cruel," Aurora said, laughing.
Cry all you want, Wyatt. I have one more gift coming your way — enjoy the delivery.
"Sophia, your gate is boarding."
He would never know that if he hadn't left early this morning, he would have been on the same flight as me. We would have walked onto the same plane. He would have seen me perfectly healthy, pulling my carry-on, very much not dying.
I had planned around every variable.
Or so I thought.
I walked into first class and stopped.
He was already there.
Damian. Dark suit, silver-framed glasses perched on his nose, fingers moving across a laptop keyboard at a pace that suggested he found the concept of leisure offensive. His brow was set into a sharp line. The cold, exacting energy around him was something you felt before you saw it.
He glanced up. His eyes landed on my face.
"Sophia. What a coincidence."
"Why is it him?" Aurora said, startled.
Just looking at that face sent the memory of that night flooding back — which was exactly the kind of thing I did not need at thirty thousand feet. Especially when that face was also producing a low, ambient warmth somewhere in my chest that I chose to pretend wasn't happening.
My seat was right next to his.
I didn't acknowledge him. I flagged down the flight attendant, told her I planned to sleep and should not be disturbed, and began setting up my space with deliberate efficiency.
As I was pulling down my tray table I caught him still watching me.
"Bad luck," I muttered, and pulled the privacy divider shut.
It was a five-hour flight South to the coast. I put on my sleep mask, lowered the window shade, pressed my noise-canceling headphones over my ears, and told myself to sleep.
The plane hit some turbulence about two hours in, just enough to make real rest impossible. I kept drifting and snapping awake. And then the dream came — the one that had never fully left me.
My mother at the edge of the rooftop. The fall. The sound of it.
"Mom —" I sat up gasping, drenched in sweat.
The pain hit immediately after. My stomach, knotting savagely. My gastritis had been quiet for months, but three days of not sleeping and barely eating had finally collected their debt.
"Sophia, is it bad?" Aurora asked, worried.
Bad. Yes.
A knock at the divider.
I assumed it was a flight attendant and opened it halfway.
It was Damian. Standing in the aisle, looking down at me with an expression that wasn't quite neutral — something watchful in it.
"What happened?"
"Nothing. I'm fine."
He reached over and lifted my window shade slightly. Soft light came in, and I knew exactly what it showed him — whatever color I'd had, it was gone.
"Stomach?"
"Yes."
One syllable was all I could manage.
Before I could reach for the call button he was already gone. A minute later he came back with a glass of water and a single pill.
"Prescription painkiller. Works fast."
My whole body was curled around the pain. I had no energy left for pride.
The next moment he was beside me — one knee on the seat edge, his arm coming around my back to ease me upright, steady and sure.
"Open."
"Sophia, his Alpha presence —" Aurora said softly.
I opened my mouth. He placed the pill on my tongue, held the water while I swallowed, then lowered me back against the seat with the same careful efficiency.
"Thank you," I said, my voice barely there.
He reached up and set the window shade back down. Pulled the divider closed behind him as he left.
The painkiller was, as promised, fast. I slept properly for the rest of the flight and woke up twenty minutes before landing with my stomach quiet and my head clear. I put on a layer of makeup before we touched down.
Then I waited an extra twenty minutes before deplaning. Deliberate. He needed to be gone by the time I got off.
What had happened that night was a single impulsive mistake made by someone who was drunk and heartbroken and not thinking clearly. I was about to go home and secure my future through a strategic alliance. I could not be tangled up with a man like him — dangerous in ways I still couldn't fully articulate.
I came around the corner.
And walked directly into him.
He'd taken off his glasses. Without them, his gaze was sharper, completely unfiltered, and it hit me like a hand pressed flat against my sternum.
The collision was my fault. I tried to cover it. "Oh. You're still here."
"I was waiting for you." He said it like it was obvious. "We should talk."
My guard went up instantly. "You know who I am?"
"The Shadowfang Alpha's daughter." His voice was low, unhurried. "Hard to miss. You left quickly the last time we met — I still owe you a proper introduction."
"You don't owe me anything. And I have no interest in who you are."
I drew myself up. "Since you already know my background — I'll be direct. I'm returning home to arrange a formal alliance. I'm sure you understand what that means."
He took a single step forward. The space between us became considerably smaller.
"If you're looking to make an alliance," he said, "why not consider me?"
I looked at him.
He was tall — I already knew that. I already knew more than I wanted to about what was underneath the perfectly cut suit. That night had been — it had been many things. And his face, standing here in broad daylight with that jaw and those eyes and that mouth, was not making any of this easier.
He would have been a fine option. Under other circumstances. Genuinely fine.
But he wasn't Silvermoon. He wasn't —
Wait.
I stopped.
Wyatt's uncle. William had said he was in his forties, at minimum. That he'd been abroad for years. Peculiar personality. Cold toward women. Old-fashioned. A bit of a relic.
That description. And this man. Standing in front of me.
I hadn't connected it. It hadn't even occurred to me to connect it.
"Sophia, what are you thinking?" Aurora asked.
"I'm sorry." I kept my voice level. "We're not compatible. What happened that night — I wasn't in my right mind. You shouldn't take drunk words seriously. And I owe you for the painkiller. That's the full extent of what's between us."
I was very good at this. I had been turning down men my entire life — cleanly, efficiently, without leaving room for argument.
I moved to walk past him.
His hand closed around my wrist.
"Let go," I said, pulling against his grip.
"Sophia, his Alpha strength —" Aurora said, catching her breath.
He didn't budge.
"That night, Sophia — you know as well as I do that we were compatible. You know exactly what I mean."
My face went hot.
"What do you want from me?"
"I want to take responsibility for you."
- Writer
