I don’t need your protection.

Damian's POV

She finally met my gaze, her eyes slow and hollow, filled with a deep, weary cynicism that twisted my gut. “Would it have mattered?” Her question was quiet, delivered without accusation, but it sliced deep, exposing the raw nerve of my own motivations, my own casual cruelty.

My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. “I gave you a house. A contract. Protection. You could’ve asked for any assistance. You could’ve told me you needed the funds released. I provided the means.” I listed my actions, a justification, an attempt to rationalize my fury at her independence.

“I don’t want your charity.” Her voice was still quiet, almost a murmur, but the words struck with surprising weight, like tiny, sharp stones thrown with precise aim. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it for Eli.” She emphasized his name, a clear delineation. This is my brother. My reason. Not yours.

Her lips trembled. She pressed them into a thin, white line, as if holding back a torrent of emotion.

“I thought I’d feel relief,” she whispered, almost to herself, her eyes flickering away from mine, lost in some distant, private pain. “After so long… after so much fighting… But I don’t. I just feel… tired.” The word was laden with a profound, unutterable exhaustion, a weariness that went beyond physical fatigue, settling deep in her soul.

I studied her face, taking in every detail—the faint, bruise-like shadows under her eyes, the red crease where she’d bitten her lower lip too hard, drawing a tiny bead of blood. Her hands were still trembling faintly over the keyboard, typing nothing, simply resting there, a silent testament to the storm raging within her.

“I kissed you,” I said, the words falling out like a curse, a raw, involuntary confession that broke the silence.

She went utterly still. Even her shallow breaths seemed to stop.

My voice darkened, a low growl from deep in my chest. “I shouldn’t have.”

“I know,” she said softly, her voice barely audible, yet unwavering. It was a simple acknowledgment, devoid of anger or accusation, which somehow made it worse.

My wolf snarled in protest, a frustrated, angry sound that vibrated through my bones. Liar. You wanted her. She tasted like us. Like destiny.

“I don’t like women,” I ground out, the words harsh, a desperate attempt to reassert control over my own narrative. “They’re complications. Weakness.”

“I’m aware,” she replied, her voice still quiet, but with an underlying current of resilience. She didn’t look away this time, her gaze steady, if still hollow.

“I don’t kiss them. Not ever. Not like that. Not with… that intensity.” I was speaking to myself as much as to her, trying to rationalize the inexplicable, to deny the visceral truth of that moment.

“Then don’t do it again,” she whispered, her voice tightening slightly, a flicker of something close to a plea, but still firm. Her eyes, though still red-rimmed, held a quiet, unyielding resolve.

My fingers twitched at my side, a primal urge to reach out, to touch her, to force her to react, to break this unbearable composure.

"I wanted to break you," I said, bluntly, brutally, driving the knife in further, needing to see a reaction, to prove my own twisted logic. "That kiss—was punishment. For your defiance. Not affection."

Her lips parted slightly, a silent gasp.

A single tear slipped down her cheek, tracing a slow, silver path. She didn't wipe it away. She simply let it fall, a stark, crystalline testament to her pain.

“I know,” she murmured, the word barely a whisper, imbued with a profound, weary understanding. “That’s what makes it worse.” The quiet admission, devoid of melodrama or self-pity, was more devastating than any outburst. It acknowledged the cruelty, accepted it, and still continued to exist.

The room felt suffocatingly still, the air thick with unspoken truths and simmering emotions.

“I wasn’t trying to be brave,” she continued, her voice gaining a fragile strength, a raw honesty that disarmed me. “I was scared, Damian. I am scared. You terrify me. Everything about this terrifies me. But I don’t have the luxury of falling apart anymore. Not while Eli’s still fighting to live.”

Her voice cracked on his name, a small, involuntary hiccup that resonated deep within me.

And something in me broke. Just a sliver. A hairline fracture in the impenetrable wall I’d built around my heart. But enough. Enough to let in a sliver of the cold, undeniable truth that she was not just a pawn. She was a woman, forged in fire, sacrificing herself for love.

“I’m not going to hurt him,” I said quietly, the words surprising even myself, a primal vow emerging unbidden. “I’ll protect him. If anything happens to him… if he needs anything… you come to me. Immediately.”

“I don’t need your protection,” she snapped, her voice shaking now, the fragile composure finally cracking, revealing the raw anger beneath. “I need my brother healthy. That’s it. That’s all I care about. Once he’s safe, once he’s recovered, you can go back to treating me like your property. Or ignoring me. Whatever makes you feel powerful. Just let me work and get him through this.”

The silence that followed was deafening, charged with the crackle of her defiance and my own stunned realization.

I stared at her. At this fragile girl who had every reason to hate me, every right to flee, to rail against the injustice.

And yet… she still came back. Still typed on that damn keyboard. Still walked into my territory like she had a right to be here, like she belonged, even if she hated it.

My wolf whimpered low and confused, a soft, conflicted sound of raw instinct. Unsure if he wanted to claim her, possess her entirely, or protect her from the world, and from myself. The conflict was tearing me apart.

I turned away, abruptly, needing distance, needing to escape the suffocating intensity of her presence, her raw, exposed emotions.

“If you need time off,” I said stiffly, my voice rough, forced, “take it. I’ll approve whatever you need. For as long as you need.” It was an olive branch, perhaps, or merely an attempt to put space between us.

She didn’t respond, didn’t acknowledge the concession.

Just nodded, once, a small, almost imperceptible dip of her head.

I left the office before I could say something I’d regret, before I could push her further, before I lost all semblance of control. Before I could touch her again, before I could let my wolf fully take over. Before I could admit that for the first time in years—

—I wanted to. Desperately. To hold her. To comfort her. To possess her.

Even when I shouldn’t. Even when it contradicted every rule I lived by.

Even when I hated her for making me want her.