Through Damian's eyes:

 Birthdays always carried an air of inevitability. Not the celebratory kind—the ones people plastered with cake and candles—but the quiet, reflective kind. They crept in like tides, rising and falling, leaving nothing behind but the same sand.

Today was no different.

The vibration of my phone broke the stillness, Henry Ölander's name flashing across the screen. I debated letting it ring. He always meant well, but his calls inevitably stirred up more than just conversation. Despite the instinct to ignore it, I answered.

Of course, there were the damn books.

Every year, without fail, my father sent them to me. I wasn't sure if it was to keep some kind of connection with me or if he thought they were his way of teaching me what he couldn't. I could see his mind at work—always teaching, always trying to prepare me for something that didn't even feel like it was meant for me.

"Is it you encouraging him to keep sending those damn books?" I asked, my voice more cold than I intended.

I could almost hear Henry's slight chuckle on the other end. "You know how it is. Telling him otherwise would be pointless. Håkan's the kind of man who does what's in his heart, no matter what anyone says."

I ran my tongue across my teeth, biting back the frustration building in me. It was always the same—he wasn't interested in hearing what I wanted. It was always about what he needed from me. What he thought I needed.

"Another year older. What've you been up to?" his voice warm and unhurried, like the crackling of a fire on a cold night. The question was casual, but I knew better than to take it at face value.

"Not much," I replied vaguely.

Henry chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "You're as forthcoming as ever, I see. Fine, I'll bite. Have you found yourself a mate yet?"

The directness hit me like the sudden chill of winter air. Of course, he'd ask. Henry had been my father's beta for decades, now serving as Regional Alpha for Sweden—a role that suited his need to meddle in lives beyond his own.

"No," I said simply.

"No?" He sounded genuinely surprised. "You're not even looking?"

I sighed, the weight of his persistence settling on my shoulders. "That's not how it works for me, Henry. You know that."

"You mean the lack of heat periods?" His voice softened, losing its edge. "That's one part of it, I suppose. But even without them, you're not exempt from the need for connection, Damian. No one is."

Connection. The word hung in the air, heavier than it had any right to be.

"No," I said again, firmer this time. "I don't experience heats, and I don't have urges to... mate. And frankly, this isn't something I'm comfortable discussing."

There was a pause, a moment where I thought he might let it go. But this was Henry.

"If things were different," he said, "Håkan and I would've had this talk with you when you turned eighteen. It's a rite of passage, you know. The First Rut. We'd have been there to guide you through it, like your father was guided when he came of age."

I'd heard the stories before, of course. The First Rut—an overwhelming, primal flood of instincts marking a young wolf's sexual maturity. It lasted at least nine days, a storm of raw urges and heightened senses that required the guidance of seasoned Alphas. But I hadn't experienced it. No heat, no pheromonal bonding, no overwhelming drive to find a mate.

Instead, I'd woken up one morning at sixteen with a voice in my head that wasn't mine. A voice that wasn't wolf or man, but something else entirely.

His words stirred something in me—an ache, a hollow space where a different version of my life might have existed. What would it have been like to have a wolf of my own? To feel its instincts instead of the beast's voice clawing at the edges of my mind?

"That's not how my life turned out, Henry," I said quietly.

"No, it didn't," he admitted. "But it's not too late to—"

"Don't," I interrupted. "If this is going to turn into another lecture about going back to see him—"

"I'm not lecturing," Henry said, cutting me off with the calm authority of a Regional Alpha. "But I won't deny that you're overdue for a visit. Your father... he's not getting any younger, Damian."

A familiar tension coiled in my chest, tightening like a vice. "If he really wanted to see me, he'd come find me. But I get it—Alpha duties and all that."

"Don't underestimate him," Henry warned. "If he wanted to, he'd cross oceans and mountains to get to you, and you know it. But he won't. Not because he doesn't care, but because he's waiting for you to make that choice. He wants you to come back on your own terms."

The words stung, though I couldn't tell if it was from guilt or something deeper. The beast stirred, feeding on my irritation and amplifying it, but I forced myself to stay calm.

"Henry," I said, my voice tight, "this conversation is getting too serious."

"It's meant to be," he replied. "You've got to understand, Håkan wants you to come back on your own. Not because of the pack, but because of you. You're the last piece of Eunice he has."

The mention of my mother gnawed at me, and I hated the way it tightened the knot in my gut. Eunice. My mother. She was gone now. I'd barely been able to remember her, but every time I did, it was like another weight on my chest.

She wasn't just my mother—she was Håkan's wife. The woman he had loved, and still loved. I could almost hear the pain in his voice when he mentioned her, and it only grew heavier when I thought of how much he'd suffered being without her.

"I've started seeing a psychologist," I said, abruptly shifting the conversation.

Henry paused, clearly caught off guard. "How is that relevant to what we're discussing?"

"I'm working on myself," I said. "Getting help. Maybe, after I've sorted some things out, I'll be ready to face him."

There was a long silence, and for a moment, I thought I might've won this round. But then Henry sighed.

I traced the edge of my desk with my fingers, trying to focus on Henry's voice, but the words he said felt like they were spiraling around me, hitting me with bits and pieces of truth I didn't want to hear. A reminder of everything that had led me here.

"Damian, you can't stall forever," Henry's voice was calm, but there was an edge of concern buried beneath. "Håkan's approaching his seventh century. Most elder wolves don't make it past their eighth."

I let his words sink in, letting them circle in the silence of the room. Håkan wasn't just my father—he was a leader, an Alpha who'd seen too much, lost too much. He wasn't going to make it forever, and he was reaching out in his own way, even if it didn't fit the way I needed.

The weight of his words settled over me like a heavy cloak, suffocating in its truth. "I'll let you know when I'm ready," I said finally. "Thanks for the birthday wishes, Henry."

"You're welcome," he said quietly. "Take care, Damian."

I ended the call and set the phone down, leaning back as the silence returned. The same silence that greeted me every birthday, no matter how far I ran from the memories it brought with it.

The cabinet groaned slightly as I opened it, its hinges protesting under the weight of years of neglect. Inside, three drawers were already filled with the books my father had sent over the years. Old books, leather-bound tomes and first editions of popular classics. My father had a knack for choosing titles that were both rare and meaningful, as if he were curating a library that he thought I would one day appreciate. I grabbed the newest addition and slid it into the fourth drawer, noticing how little space was left.

Almost full, I thought grimly. It wasn't lost on me how symbolic that felt—how his persistence was creeping closer to some kind of inevitability. I shut the cabinet with more force than necessary, the sound echoing through the quiet of the room.

As if on cue, my phone buzzed on the desk. I glanced at the screen and saw Nigel's name. My public relations manager. Likely calling about some trivial event I had no interest in attending.

I pressed the green button and brought the phone to my ear. "Nigel."

"Happy birthday, boss!" His voice was bright, bordering on cheerful.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Don't bother with the wishes. What do you want?"

There was a pause, the kind that usually meant he was recalibrating after my bluntness. "Right. Well, Isis has been trying to get in touch with you again."

I closed my eyes, my patience already wearing thin. "Tell her I'm not available."

Nigel hesitated, and I knew there was more. "She's not buying it this time. She's been... persistent. A lot more persistent."

A low growl rumbled in my chest, and I forced myself to take a deep breath.

Isis. My ex-fiancée.

The woman I'd once thought I could make a life with—until I couldn't. The only reason I'd gotten involved with her in the first place was to get to her father. The man was notoriously difficult to win over, and Isis had been the key to securing a contract deal I couldn't afford to lose.

I'd tried. For months, I'd tried to feel something for her. To convince myself that a life with her was possible. But the longer we were together, the clearer it became—there was no spark. No connection. And worse, the beast couldn't stand her.

It had a way of influencing my emotions, the damn thing. Its irritation became my irritation, and soon, everything about Isis—from her perfume to her laugh—grated on me. Ending it had been a mercy.

"She'll get over it," I said flatly.

"You've been saying that for months," Nigel replied, his tone edging toward exasperation. "Look, I get it, but maybe—"

"Nigel." My voice dropped, cutting him off. "She's not my problem anymore. Handle it."

There was a heavy sigh on the other end, but before I could hang up, Nigel added, "One more thing—you got an email from your therapist. She said she won't be available for your next session and that she'll be referring you to someone else."

That made me pause. "Why?"

"She didn't say," Nigel replied. "Just that she won't be available."

"Find out what happened," I said without hesitation.

There was a moment of silence, then Nigel asked, "Why does it matter? I mean, it's not like you can't just see someone else."

My jaw tightened. "Do I pay you to question my motives, or to do what I ask?"

He muttered something under his breath—too low for most people to hear. But not for me.

"Douchebag," I repeated, my voice low and cold.

There was a startled cough on the other end. "Did I say that out loud? My bad. Look, I'll find out what happened. But just so you know? You're being kind of impossible today."

"You're paid to deal with it," I replied.

"I'll call you back once I've got something," he grumbled.

He hung up before I could respond, leaving me standing in the middle of my office with an unsettled feeling creeping up my spine. Ruby. Why did it matter to me that she'd canceled?

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to shake the thought, but it lingered. She was the first woman my beast had ever shown a complete disinterest in. No irritation. No unease. It was... strange.

I crossed the room to the bar and poured myself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light as I swirled it.

I haven't seen any flaws in her yet, the beast said, its voice a low growl in my mind.

"She's my therapist," I muttered aloud. "Not exactly in the same category as the others. Also you've barely known her. Give it time."

It's not like the others. Most of them irritated me from the moment we met.

He wasn't wrong about that. The beast had a habit of disliking almost every woman I'd been with, and its irritation had a way of bleeding into my own mood. It was part of the reason my relationships never lasted long.

But Ruby... she was different. Even now, I couldn't explain why.

I knocked back the whiskey and set the glass down, the burn in my throat doing little to drown out whatever strange curiosity had taken hold of me.

Whatever had happened to her, I needed to know.