Through Damian's eyes:

The air in my office feels thick with the weight of everything I've been ignoring. The silence is suffocating, and the questions I've been asking myself are becoming louder, gnawing at me like a hunger I can't satisfy. But the answers are still out of reach. I can't let it go, not now, not after what happened to Ruby.

When I first heard about the string of murders in Pennsylvania, I thought it was just another isolated incident—something human. The reports came in, one after the other. The governor even imposed a curfew, desperate to get a handle on the situation, but there were no suspects. No answers. It was a mess. I told myself it wasn't my problem. I'd heard of some brutal killings in other places before, but I didn't think much of it.

But Ruby.

The moment I found out she was involved, I knew something was wrong. She didn't deserve to be pulled into this, not after everything she's already endured. The attacks weren't random. They were deliberate. And once I started digging into the deaths, I knew—my gut told me this wasn't human. It was something worse. Something... werewolf.

With Henry's help, the pieces started to fall into place. Henry knew the history better than anyone. He explained how Pennsylvania had become a haven for wolves after a pack's Alpha died four years ago. The pack splintered, and some wolves ended up here, but the territory was unclaimed. Most wolves lived in Europe—the US was still considered new ground, new territory. The lone wolves that came here weren't hostile—they didn't claim the land; they just existed.

The werewolf laws were clear: wolves don't harm wolves. And most importantly, wolves don't harm humans. The Supreme Council enforces that. So why? Why were these lone wolves being killed? And why, out of nowhere, did the murders start a year after Timothy's Night Star pack moved in and claimed the major cities?

My instincts told me it was no coincidence. The method of the killings—setting bodies ablaze and using silver bullets—could've easily been attributed to humans. But it didn't add up. No wolf would have done this, not under normal circumstances. It would've caused a ripple through the pack communities, a shift that would've reached the ears of the Supreme Council. They would have stepped in by now.

Three months. Three fucking months of unanswered questions, of bodies piling up, and still—no one had a clue. Even Henry confirmed that the Supreme Council hadn't caught wind of the killings. They hadn't even acted. So it had to be wolves, I thought. It had to be, and there was only one person I could think of who might be behind it.

Timothy.

The scent from one of his pack members was still on Ruby after the attack, and that fucking scent made my blood boil, even after I killed a few of them at the bar. When I sifted through one of their memories, it was like looking into the depths of their last moments. I saw him—one of Timothy's men—standing over a body that had been burnt beyond recognition. The murder was gruesome. Then, before he could finish the job on Ruby, I watched them try to strangle her. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I wasn't there to stop it.

She didn't ask for any of this. She didn't ask to be caught in the middle of werewolf politics and violence. Yet here she was, a victim. And I had done nothing to stop it until it was too late.

I'll fix this. I swear to myself. I'll fix it all.

I can't prove it yet, but I'm convinced Timothy is involved—maybe even orchestrating this chaos. The brutal murders, the message they send, it all points back to him. Maybe he's trying to force the lone wolves into submission, to join his pack, but the methods are too harsh. Too cruel.

What I need is proof. I need to get close. I need to find a way to tie everything together and make sure Ruby stays the hell out of it. She's been through enough, and if anything happens to her again because of my hesitation, I won't be able to forgive myself.

The beast stirs, restive and restless, impatient with the slow unraveling of the mystery. It snarls, its voice a guttural growl in the back of my mind.

"Looking for proof means you want the council to judge the case. I say we mete swift judgment ourselves?" it rumbles, the edges of its anger fraying my resolve.

I close my eyes, trying to steady my breath, but the words the beast growls at me vibrate through my entire body. It's not the first time it's urged me to take matters into my own hands, to act quickly, decisively. And every time, it's harder to resist.

The truth is, part of me agrees with it. There's no reason for hesitation. The council, the rules, the wait—it all feels too slow, too constrained. Lives are being lost. Ruby was almost one of them. But I can't think with the beast's bloodlust clouding my judgment.

"No," I mutter under my breath. "We need to play this smart."

I can feel the beast's frustration surge, its frustration clawing at the edges of my thoughts. It doesn't care for patience. It doesn't care for investigation or protocols. It wants action. It wants revenge. And with every second that passes, it grows louder in my mind, the urge to give in growing stronger.

I grip the edge of my desk, my fingers tightening until my knuckles crack. There's no denying the temptation, but Ruby's safety... it's everything. I can't afford to let my beast take over now. Not when there's a chance to expose the truth properly. The council's judgment... that's the only way to end this and bring closure to everything.

But the beast, relentless as always, speaks again, its voice low and menacing.

"Playing it smart will get us nowhere," it snarls, its impatience obvious. "We're predators, not sheep. You think the council will save her? They'll make excuses, drag their feet. They'll find a way to absolve Timothy."

The thought of the council excusing Timothy, letting him slip through their fingers, makes my blood boil. But the weight of the truth presses against my mind. I have to get it right. I won't risk Ruby's future on a hunch, on blind rage.

"I'm not letting Timothy off that easy," I growl. "I'll make sure the council knows what's been happening. And I'll make sure Ruby stays safe. But I can't do that if I let you take over now. You want blood? Fine. I'll give it to you, but not like this."

The beast falls silent for a moment, and I can feel the tension simmer in the back of my mind. I know it's not satisfied. It never is. But the battle between the instincts of the beast and my own determination is a fight I've faced countless times.

I won't let rage cloud my judgment. I can't afford to be reckless. Not when Ruby's life is at stake.

Pushing the beast down, I turn my attention to the task ahead. There's only one way to get what I need, one way to make sure everything comes together. It's time to find my way into Timothy's world.

And for that, I need to get closer.

My phone rings, dragging me back into a world I've been trying to escape. I glance at the screen, already knowing who it is. Nigel. Persistent as ever.

I let out a slow sigh and answer the call, putting it on speaker so I don't have to hold the damn thing to my ear. His voice comes through immediately, brisk and to the point, as if he's been waiting for me to pick up.

"Damian," Nigel starts, without any preamble. "You've received an invitation to a fundraiser in South Wickham. You need to attend."

I lean back in my chair, my fingers drumming absently on the armrest. "Nigel, I'm not interested in social gatherings right now."

"I know you're not, but this one's different," he presses, unfazed by my lack of enthusiasm. "This is your chance to rebuild your image. Your public presence has been fading. It's starting to affect your business, especially when you're looking for high-profile contracts."

I can feel the familiar tension in my chest. The last thing I want is to step back into that world of flashing lights and fake smiles. But Nigel's right about one thing—if I keep retreating from the spotlight, my name will fade into obscurity. That might be exactly what I want, but reality doesn't work that way.

"Not attending the event has no effect on my social standing." I reply, my voice flat.

Nigel doesn't let me off that easy. "You can't be too sure about that. Mrs. Benedict is going to be there. You're aware of the real estate deal she's pushing for, right?"

I pause, a hint of interest breaking through my indifference. Mrs. Benedict is big. The kind of big that opens doors. Her upcoming project is the talk of the industry—new residential locations in one of her newly acquired estates, and her approval could mean securing contracts worth millions if not billions. But I've been running from that world for a while now, and the thought of stepping back into it makes my skin crawl.

"I'm not looking to get involved with her project, Nigel," I say, the words firm, trying to push the thought away. "Not anymore."

He doesn't skip a beat. "Damian, if you want her on your side, you'll need to meet her in person. She won't consider you for the project unless you do. And that means attending this fundraiser."

I rub my temples, irritation growing. "Why would I waste my time on a fundraiser?"

Nigel goes on, as though he's been preparing for this conversation. "The people organizing it are key players, Damian. Charles Spitz, one of the biggest event organizers in the business, is working with Frida Harris on this. Harris might not be as high-profile as Spitz, but her philanthropic work carries weight. She's respected, and her name is associated with causes that matter."

I try to process the names. I know both of them—Charles Spitz is a household name in event planning, a master at turning simple gatherings into spectacles. Frida Harris, though, is a wildcard. Known for her charity work, she has a reputation for getting things done, but she's not exactly a socialite. Her name doesn't carry the same kind of glamor, and I never saw much value in aligning with people like her.

"And Mrs. Benedict?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"She's sponsoring the event so she'll definitely be in attendance," Nigel confirms, his voice steady. "Along with a few other major players in the real estate and industrial sectors. This event is going to be huge, Damian. It's the perfect chance to get back on the map."

The silence between us stretches out. I can't bring myself to care. The game, the charades, the business—I've had enough. But it's hard to ignore the weight of what Nigel's saying. If I don't play along, I risk losing more than just business opportunities.

His tone softens, but the persistence remains. "Remember, Damian, we all have to play the game, even if we don't want to. This is about positioning yourself, about making sure people remember your name when the next big opportunity comes knocking."

I'm quiet for a moment, watching the city stretch out below me from my office window. The thought of reentering the circus of high society feels suffocating. But Nigel's right in one regard—my name has been slipping, fading into the background. People forget quickly when you're out of sight.

"I'll think about it," I say, my voice final, hoping that'll be enough to get him off my back.

But of course, it isn't. I clench my jaw, irritation bubbling to the surface as he kept reiterating.

"You don't have time to think—"

"I said I'll think about it, Nigel," I blurt out, and hang up before he can say anything else, feeling the weight of his words settle into my chest like a stone. The city below me seems too small, too suffocating for everything that's been building up.

I don't want to go back to that world. But if I don't, it might just swallow me whole.

The quiet of the room envelops me again, thick and heavy, as my mind drifts. I pick up my phone without much thought, fingers scrolling idly through Frida Harris's profile. I don't expect to find anything that'll change my outlook on the fundraiser. But something catches my attention—a photograph. It's a candid shot, Frida standing beside someone, her smile genuine, her posture confident.

Ruby.

Her name settles in my mind with a weight I'm not prepared for. It's strange, this pull I feel when I think of her. The woman who showed up out of nowhere and has since become an uninvited guest in my thoughts.

My fingers hover over the screen, the image of her smiling with Frida tugging at something deep inside me, something buried under years of self-imposed isolation. It's not just recognition, it's a ripple—a stirring in the depths of me that feels both foreign and undeniable. The beast shifts restlessly, its presence stirring as I take in her face, in admiration of the woman Ruby is.

It startles me. I suppress an almost instinctual scoff at its unbidden interest in her. What does it find in her that I don't? But I can't shake the image of Ruby from my mind. Her calm, her presence—something about her feels... I don't have a name for it, but I feel the subtle pull of something far more complex than mere physical attraction.

"Maybe it won't be a waste of my time after all," I murmur to myself, my voice cutting through the stillness of the room. The words are quieter than I intend, as if saying them aloud somehow makes them real.

It's not about Mrs. Benedict. Not about the contracts or the accolades. It's the space Ruby occupies in my mind. The way her complexity has unraveled parts of me I've worked so hard to keep buried. And the truth is, I haven't felt a pull like this in years—not from anyone or anything. That sense of connection, of shared understanding, has been missing for so long I almost forgot it existed.

My hand clenches into a fist, and I set the phone down, my eyes still fixated on the image of Ruby. It lingers, vivid, refusing to fade. She's unlike the women in my world, the ones wrapped up in silk and plastic. Ruby doesn't cloak herself in the layers of artifice I'm used to. She's real.

Strength and serenity, wrapped in a kind of quiet grace I'm not sure I deserve. And that authenticity, that rawness, it pulls at me. I find myself wondering if it's not just admiration that stirs inside me. Is it something more?

I close my eyes, and for a moment, I can still smell her. The scent lingers in my memory as if she's still here. There's no heavy perfume to suffocate the senses, no synthetic scent trying to mask what she truly is. Instead, it's the soft, natural notes of her—shampoo and conditioner, coconut oil, and something else, citrusy but light, refreshing like the first breath of spring.

Sometimes, I catch a fleeting scent of spice. Not a strong or overwhelming one, but enough to tell me she loves to cook. It's not just the fragrance of her skin or her hair. It's the way she moves through the world. The way she exists. Her voice, so soft yet steady, resonating with the kind of calm I haven't known in ages. The way she listens, without judgment, without pretense. The way she makes you feel seen.

I can't remember the last time I allowed myself to notice something so simple, something so grounded. It should be nothing. It should be trivial. Yet, every time I think of her, it draws me in further.

I try to shake it off, but I know it's futile. Her scent, her presence, has etched itself into me in a way I can't explain. The beast stirs again, just beneath my skin, drawn to the purity of her. It's an emotion I can't control—intensified, almost primal, urging me to seek her out, to understand the pull.

I gather the scattered documents from my desk, moving with a kind of quiet deliberation. The rustle of paper, the soft clink of the file drawer closing. I lock it, the sound final, but the knowledge of what's hidden inside gnaws at me. It's not enough to bury it all away. I need to do something with it. Something that matters.

The weight of the decision is already heavy in my chest, but I don't second-guess it. I'll attend the fundraiser. It might not be about the deal, or the networking, or any of the usual reasons I'd go to an event like this. It's about her. About seeing Ruby again, after that unexpected encounter at her office.

I inhaled deeply, steadying myself before making the call. There was no point in letting anyone see how much this mattered—or why. This wasn't about appearances. It was about purpose.

Nigel's enthusiasm had come through loud and clear, even without words. He was thrilled, already planning, already organizing, already assuming I cared about the connections and opportunities he was so eager to set in front of me. As he listed names, I tuned out, barely listening, until one name hit like a thunderclap.

Alex Sterling. Son of Timothy Sterling.

The moment it registered, the air seemed to shift, my senses sharpening with the bite of tension. Timothy Sterling—the Alpha of the Night Star Pack. The same pack that had torn through Pennsylvania, leaving death in its wake. The same pack that had attacked Ruby.

Images rose unbidden, vivid and sharp. Ruby's bruised throat, the dark, ugly marks left behind by cruelty. Her honey-dark skin marred by their violence. Her eyes, wide with terror, haunted by the memory of nearly being ripped from this world. Those bruises weren't just a mark on her—they were a brand on my soul, a searing reminder of what the Sterlings had done.

A flicker of heat surged within me, my anger simmering just beneath the surface. My hand tightened around the phone as my jaw clenched, the beast stirring in the depths of my mind. But I wouldn't let it take control. Not yet. Control was everything, and I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing me rattled. Not now, not ever.

Its voice slipped through my mind like a whisper of smoke, cold and deliberate. "Perhaps a visit to Daphne is in order."

The thought gave me pause, but it held undeniable merit. Daphne, with her peculiar talents, had the means to create the edge I needed—something to incapacitate Alex Sterling, just long enough for me to pierce the veil of his mind. A risky gambit, but one that offered the answers I sought.

I pushed away from the desk and paced the length of the room, my movements fueled by a mix of anticipation and caution. This plan would require finesse, every step carefully calculated.

There could be no mistakes, no room for error. Sterling wouldn't go down easily—he was, after all, the son of an Alpha. Any misstep could draw more attention than I could afford.

The beast's eagerness matched my own, though for different reasons. Where I sought clarity and justice, it yearned for the thrill of the hunt, for the game itself. Its presence was both a burden and a boon, a reminder of what I could become if I let the leash slip too far.

This wasn't just about Ruby. It was about what the Sterlings represented—a looming threat that needed to be understood, contained, and, if necessary, neutralized.

I stopped pacing, the resolve within me solidifying like iron, I grabbed my coat, my mind already drafting the conversation I'd have with Daphne. The beast purred its approval, a quiet promise of what was to come.