Billionaire werewolf

Whispers

Elara stayed up in bed, awake the whole night. Her eyelids would not shut themselves. The howls from Damon's mansion seemed to come up in her mind every minute she wanted to rest. She could not bring herself to understand what was going on. She just could not get his glowing eyes or that weird book she almost touched off her mind. It felt like her mind was playing games on her.

"Get a grip, Elara," she whispered to herself. "He's just a man—a weird, dangerously handsome billionaire—but still just a man."

By morning, she tried to push thoughts of Damon aside as she busied herself at the library. Yet, her mind had a mind of its own. It would not let her be.

That morning in the library was quite the exception, filled with the voices of bricklayers and their hammers, nailing objects on the roof. Damon had sent some bricklayers and carpenters as soon as it was dawn, and by noon, half of the roof was done.

"That Damon Wolfhart is a goodman," Mrs. Hargrove said with a smile on her face. Mrs Hargrove was an elderly woman who volunteered at the library, peering over her reading glasses with half-shelved books on the shelf. "Were I fifty years younger or so—"

"Please, Mrs. Hargrove," Elara broke in, smiling. "Kids are here, ma’am."

The old woman chuckled, but Elara was not at ease. Damon was generous, however, something about him-a layer of danger-she just could not get past.

That evening, when the bell in the library rang, alerting everyone that it was closing, Elara, as her custom was, entered the day’s return into the computer system. The last rays of the departing sun seeped through the windowpanes, varnishing the floor in warm colors of amber. She drifted into a daydream, but a sudden movement behind her snapped her out of it

She turned to find Damon in the doorway, holding a small bunch of wildflowers, their petals drooping like they’d shared his trouble

“I thought these might brighten your evening,” he said, his voice softer than she had heard before.

Elara blinked, she was stunned. “Wildflowers? From you?”

“They grow in the garden near my home,” Damon replied, moving closer. “I thought you’d appreciate them,” he said in hesitation, hoping she was not disappointed or worse, allergic.

“Thank you,” she murmured, spreading both hands while putting them fast sharply, collecting the bouquet. The flowers were simple yet they smelt like lavender. “You didn’t have to come all the way here.”

"I wanted to see how the repairs were going," he said, and his piercing gaze latched onto hers. His eyes had a depth to them that made Elara's heart beat fast. "And… I wanted to ask you out to dinner tomorrow night."

Her heart skipped a beat or two, "Dinner? With you?"

He chuckled, "Yes. Unless you have other plans?

"I-no, I don't," she stammered, a flush working its way up her face. "Dinner sounds… nice."

"Seven o'clock, then." He smiled, his eyes with a flicker of amusement. "I'll pick you up."

He turned and walked away, and the faint scent of pine hung in the air after him. Elara just stood there, frozen, clutching the bouquet tightly against her chest. She was excited, a huge pump of adrenaline filled her veins, but despite that she still felt a little unease, as though this dinner was some sort of huge step toward an unknown destiny.

Damon came in the next evening, riding in a shiny black car that glowed like glass under the streetlights, Damon pulled up to Elara's door. She stood there in a simple navy-blue dress, looking unsure.

"You look stunning," he said as she stepped out, his eyes scanning her so fully that her cheeks turned red.

He led her to an intimate, elegant restaurant secluded from the rest of the world on the outskirts of Moonlit Creek. The soft sounds of light jazz whispered in the air; candlelight danced between them as they spoke.

To her surprise, Damon was charming and surprisingly down-to-earth. He spoke of art, literature, and his travels with an ease that made her feel like they had known each other for years. Yet, occasionally, his words carried an edge of mystery. He was hiding something but she could not place her fingers on it.

“I’ve always felt more at home under the stars than beneath a roof,” he said as he swirled the wine in his glass.

“That’s thrilling,” Elara replied, tilting her head.

He smiled faintly, his gaze distant. "There's a reason for that."

She leaned forward, intrigued. "What reason?"

Before he could answer, a shadow fell over their table. A tall, muscular man stood there, his sharp features marked by a jagged scar that ran down his cheek.

"Damon," the man said curtly, his voice cold. "We need to talk."

Damon's expression hardened, his jaw tightening. "Not now, Victor.

"It's about the pack," Victor said, glancing quickly at Elara before focusing back on Damon.

"Pack?" Elara repeated. Her curiosity had hit a peak.

Damon signed and rose from his seat. "Excuse me for a minute," he told Elara rather apologetically.

As they walked away, Damon and Victor’s voices dropped to hushed, intense tones. The word "pack" lingered in the air, clinging to Elara like a storm about to break.

The rest of the night blurred by, though Damon returned to the table wearing his usual mask of charm. But Elara couldn’t shake the feeling that, for a moment, she had seen through a crack in his perfect facade.

The moon's whispers grew louder in her mind, and Elara knew it wouldn’t be long before Damon’s secret became open.