Chapter Seventeen - A Wolf in Defense of Love
1441 Words
The sunlight crept gently into the bedroom, golden rays pooling across the expensive linens like soft reminders of a night that changed everything. Mara lay still for a moment, her cheek resting against Damien’s bare chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
Safe. That’s what it felt like. Safe and terrifying all at once.
He was still asleep, one arm wrapped protectively around her waist like he wasn’t ready to let go—even in his dreams. She smiled, letting her fingers trail lazily across the plane of his stomach, committing the warmth of his skin to memory.
She’d said it. She’d told him she loved him.
And instead of running—like every part of her conditioned self had wanted to—she stayed. Let herself want him. Let herself imagine more than stolen kisses and passionate nights. She dared to believe this thing between them wasn’t temporary.
Her phone buzzed somewhere on the nightstand, but she ignored it. The world could wait.
For once, there was no war to fight. No Clarissa to appease. No Nolan to politely deflect. Just her, the man beside her, and the afterglow of a choice that felt like freedom.
A low murmur escaped Damien, his arm tightening briefly as he stirred. His eyes blinked open, hazy and soft, until they found her.
"You're still here," he rasped, voice thick with sleep and affection.
She smiled, brushing a kiss over his jaw. "I told you—I’m not running anymore."
He looked at her like she was his entire future wrapped up in messy dark hair and a worn T-shirt. And in that look, she knew: she’d made the right choice.
They stayed in bed longer than either of them probably should have. Mara nestled into Damien’s chest, her leg draped over his as they let the silence settle between them—not awkward, just easy. Comfortable. It felt like a Sunday morning even though she knew it wasn’t.
He eventually coaxed her into the kitchen with the promise of real coffee and something sweet. And somehow, barefoot and in one of Damien’s crisp white shirts, she found herself standing at the stove while he prepped the French press.
“I could get used to this,” she murmured, watching him move with lazy elegance, sleeves pushed up, his dark hair still sleep-mussed.
He handed her a steaming mug. “You better,” he said with a small smile, “because I’m not letting you go.”
She sipped the coffee, pretending not to melt under that look. They were dangerously close to domestic bliss, and she didn’t hate it.
Until her phone buzzed again.
This time she checked it.
And everything shattered.
Mara stared at the screen, pulse skipping. Headlines screamed at her from multiple notifications—gossip sites, social media tags, even an email from a journalist she didn’t recognize. All pointing to the same thing.
Andrew.
He’d done an interview. A full, detailed exposé—spinning their past into something tabloid-worthy. And worse… there were photos. Old ones. Intimate ones. Things that should have stayed private.
Her hands shook.
“Damien.” Her voice broke.
He was beside her in an instant, reading the headlines over her shoulder. His jaw clenched, eyes darkening.
“Son of a—” He stopped himself. “He planned this. Waited until you were happy. Until we were serious.”
Mara swallowed hard. “I can't deal with this. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t even—those photos... I didn’t know he still had them.”
Damien took the phone from her gently and set it on the counter. Then he cupped her face in his hands.
“Look at me,” he said. “This ends now. He doesn’t get to weaponize your past.”
“But everyone’s going to see—”
“I don’t care what they see,” Damien said, voice low and razor-sharp. “I’m going to handle this. I promise you, Mara—by the end of today, Andrew Reinhart won’t have a single piece of you left to exploit.”
Her breath hitched. The words should have scared her. But somehow, the fire in his voice soothed the panic in her chest.
She nodded.
And let him hold her like his arms were the only place she was safe.
Damien didn’t speak again after Mara left the kitchen. She needed space. He needed a target.
He walked into his home office, closed the door, and pulled the shark out of its cage.
He wasn’t just angry. He was surgical. Focused. Andrew Reinhart had declared war—and Damien Blackthorn never lost a war.
His first call was to Sophie. “I want everything you can find on Andrew Reinhart. Financial records. Business affiliations. Personal history. Any NDA he may have signed with former employers. I want every skeleton in his damn closet on my desk by noon.”
“Consider it done,” she answered crisply. She’d never heard him use that tone before. It meant one thing—destruction was coming.
Next, he called a high-profile defamation attorney. Then a PR crisis manager. Then someone even more discreet.
Andrew hadn’t just poked the bear. He’d tried to destroy someone Damien cared about.
That made it personal.
And Damien didn’t do mercy.
While others in his circle used charm or influence, Damien wielded power. He had judges on speed dial. Journalists in his pocket. He knew how to use truth like a scalpel and gossip like a flamethrower.
He would bury Andrew—reputation, career, credibility.
By early afternoon, every major outlet that ran the interview had been contacted. Legal threats. Retractions demanded. Private investigators were already pulling data from Andrew’s devices—any connection, any mistake. It wouldn’t be hard. Men like Andrew always left trails. Sloppy ones.
An hour later, Sophie texted him a photo.
Andrew entering a discreet building in SoHo—one that housed an escort agency. The kind of information Damien didn’t even need to publish. Just the threat of it would unravel whatever fragile image Andrew had left.
Damien stared at the image, then slowly, chillingly, smiled.
Ivy always said he was a shark.
Today, he remembered exactly how sharp his teeth were.
Andrew used Mara as collateral.
Damien would make sure he never had anything left to bargain with again.
Mara hadn’t moved from the couch since Damien left the room hours ago. The weight of what Andrew had done clung to her skin like smoke—ugly, suffocating. She didn’t cry. Couldn’t. She just sat there, frozen, hugging a pillow to her chest like it might keep her from falling apart.
When the elevator chimed, she didn’t look up.
But the sound of heels crossing the floor snapped her out of her trance.
“Mara,” Ivy said softly.
Mara blinked up, startled. “You didn’t have to come.”
“I know,” Ivy replied, slipping off her coat. “But you looked like someone needed to remind you that you’re not alone in this.”
She sat beside Mara and placed a sleek black folder on the coffee table. “I thought you should see what Damien’s doing.”
Mara stared at it. “What is that?”
Ivy opened it without waiting. Inside were printed screenshots of cease-and-desist orders, emails to high-profile media attorneys, a timeline with Andrew’s digital footprint, and—at the very bottom—photos. Photos of Andrew entering a building in SoHo that clearly wasn’t meant for PR-friendly visits.
“He found this already?” Mara whispered, wide-eyed.
Ivy nodded. “That man has built careers, saved reputations, and destroyed legacies with a single sentence. Do you really think he wouldn’t use every ounce of that power when someone tried to humiliate you?”
Mara’s fingers trembled as she flipped through the papers. It was meticulous. Strategic. Cold-blooded. It was Damien in full force—sharp as glass and twice as dangerous.
“He’s doing all of this for me,” she whispered.
“No,” Ivy corrected. “He’s doing it because you’re his. There’s a difference.”
Mara blinked, stunned silent.
Ivy stood. “Don’t let fear cloud what’s real. He’s already made his choice, Mara. You just have to decide if you’re brave enough to believe in it.”
When the door clicked shut behind Ivy, Mara sat motionless.
Then, quietly, she touched the folder and smiled, her heart racing with something bright and sure.
Yes.
She was going to marry Damien Blackthorn.
And this time—she wouldn’t run from what she felt.
- Writer
