Chapter 3

Elenor POV Damien's thumb swiped across his phone screen. A second later, the massive flat-screen TV mounted on the far wall flared to life.

The muted financial news channel illuminated the penthouse. The ticker at the bottom of the screen flashed the same breaking news I had just read in the paper: Blackwood Enterprises Acquisition.

"A multi-billion dollar merger," Damien said, his voice devoid of any warmth. It was the voice of a man who had ruined lives in boardrooms without ever raising his pulse. He didn't look at the screen; his piercing charcoal eyes remained locked on me. "In the human world, it's business. In our world, a move this aggressive puts a target on my back. Any hint of scandal. Any whisper of instability. It will be interpreted by rival Packs as a sign of weakness."

He took a step toward me. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of step that made prey freeze.

"And weakness, Elenor," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, silken murmur, "invites territorial war. It invites blood. It invites enemies circling like vultures, waiting for the first sign of a crack in my armor."

My breath hitched. He knew my name. Of course he did. He was a Lycan King; he probably knew every humiliating detail of my pathetic existence by the time the sun came up.

He turned his phone around, shoving the screen into my line of sight.

My stomach dropped.

Grainy, paparazzi-style photos. The first was a shot outside the Tribeca bar. The neon lights illuminated my silhouette as I practically threw myself into his chest, my face partially hidden by his broad shoulders, but his sharp, unmistakable jawline was perfectly clear. He swiped to the next image. The two of us getting into his black Maybach. The dim interior light caught my tear-stained, intoxicated face looking up at him.

And then there was the third image. The one that made my blood run cold.

It was a telephoto shot through the Maybach's window—the angle just clear enough to show his face, and my head tilted against his shoulder, lips brushing his neck.

"And then," Damien murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he pointed a long, calloused finger at the angry red bite mark on his collarbone. "There is this. The ultimate proof of my... loss of control."

He let the silence stretch. Let it curdle.

"If the Pack Elders see that I allowed a drunken, wolfless stray from a rival territory to mark me—to claim me like some lovesick pup—they will question my judgment." His eyes bored into mine. "And when they question my judgment, my enemies will strike. Wolves will die. Territory will burn. All because of one reckless night."

The sheer weight of his words crushed the air from my lungs. I had spent my entire life trying to be invisible, trying not to be a burden to anyone, especially my little brother, Jamison. Now, I was the catalyst for a potential war involving the most ruthless Pack in North America.

"I..." My voice broke like glass. The guilt and terror were a physical weight, crushing my chest, drowning out any rational thought of running away. "I didn't mean to. I swear. How do I fix this? Tell me what to do. I don't have any money, I have absolutely nothing, but I'll do whatever it takes—"

A flicker of something dark and deeply satisfied flashed through his eyes. So fast I thought I imagined it.

I didn't imagine it.

"I don't need your money," he stated flatly. As if my offer was beneath contempt.

He turned away, striding over to a heavy oak desk in the corner of the room. He opened a drawer, pulled out a thick stack of papers, and walked back. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he slammed the document onto the black marble island right in front of me.

The bold, black letters at the top of the page blurred my vision:

MATE-BINDING & PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT — STATE OF NEW YORK.

Before I could even process the words, Damien closed the distance. He leaned his massive frame forward, caging me between his hard body and the freezing edge of the marble counter. One hand planted on either side of me. His chest inches from my face. His scent—cedarwood, rainstorm, Cuban tobacco—wrapping around my throat like a silken chain.

I was entirely trapped in his orbit. And some traitorous part of me didn't entirely hate it.

"You will marry me," Damien commanded, his tone as clinical and absolute as if he were finalizing a corporate buyout. "We will turn this incident into a planned union. A strategic alliance. It's the only way to control the narrative."

I stared up at him, my jaw slack, my mind completely short-circuiting. The transition from a drunken mistake to a forced Pack marriage was so violently abrupt that the room started to spin.

I was caught in a cage built by a Lycan King.

And the lock had just clicked shut.