WHO HURT YOU

CHAPTER 6: WHO HURT YOU?

DARIUS:

I stepped out of the bathroom, the cool air hitting my skin, and saw a girl in silk perched on my bed. At first, I just concluded she was one of my flings sneaking in to surprise me. She probably bribed the concierge for a key, looking for a little midnight entertainment.

But as I grabbed a towel to dry my hair, the vibe felt… off.

I took a closer look. I’d never seen this face before. I’ve had numerous girls warm my bed since Adore, my mate, died. But I could make out their faces anytime. I've got a photographic memory for faces—part of the job description when you’re dealing with international pack treaties and high-stakes business deals—and she definitely wasn't one of the girls I've bedded.

If she wasn't one of my flings, then who was she? And why was she in my suit? Probably an agent?

That thought hit me instantly. My life is a constant game of chess with people who want to see me fall. I’ve stepped on plenty of toes, and there are more than a few rivals who would love to stick a knife in my back. Maybe they decided that using a honey pot would trap me faster.

I didn't let my guard down. I kept my expression hard, my eyes locked on hers. When I asked what she was doing in my room, she started stumbling over her words, talking about a mix-up with the floor and the room number. It sounded like a script.

I closed the distance between us, my Alpha aura flaring just enough to make the air in the room thick and heavy. That’s when the scent hit me. It wasn't the smell of a threat. It was a cocktail of distress, exhaustion, and raw, jagged heartbreak. She smelled like a storm that had just passed through, leaving everything broken in its wake.

But I didn't care about whatever storm she was passing through. I just needed her gone.

"Get the fuck out," I growled, my voice vibrating with enough authority to make a lesser wolf bow. I expected her to run. I expected her to trip over her own feet, apologize, and scramble out of the room like every other lesser wolf who stood in my presence.

But she didn't.

Instead, she rose to her feet slowly. She stood up straight, squared those delicate shoulders, and gave me a look of defiance. "With all due respect, sir," she said, her voice shaking but steady, "you don't have to be that rude. It was an honest mistake."

Then she turned to storm out. My hand shot out on instinct, my fingers clamping around her wrist. I pulled her backward, and she stumbled, spinning until she was facing me again. I didn't let go. I wasn't letting her walk away until I knew exactly who she was.

"You aren't leaving," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "Not until I’ve investigated everything and made damn sure you aren't working for one of my rivals."

She stared at me for a heartbeat. Then burst into laughter. It was a genuine sound that seemed completely out of place in this high-tension moment.

"A spy?" she choked out, wiping a stray tear from her eye. "For goddess sake, Darius. You’re the President of the Supreme Werewolf Council. Who in their right mind would be stupid enough to send a spy to your hotel suite? You’ve got more security than a fortress. If I were a spy, I’d be dead before I even made it to the lobby."

She fumbled with her purse, pulling out a plastic key card. “It was a damn honest mistake. Look at the numbers!”

I looked at her key card. The numbers were similar enough. Yet I arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. "So, you know exactly who I am, huh?"

"Of course I do," she said, her expression sobering up. "I’ve seen you countless times on TV, in the magazines, at the summits. Everyone knows who you are."

"Then let's talk about who you are," I countered.

She took a slow, deep breath, her eyes locking onto mine with a sudden, quiet intensity. "Does it really matter?"

I stepped closer, invading her space until I was looming over her. "It matters to me. You barged into my private suite, half-dressed, claiming you took a wrong turn. The least I can do is know who’s currently invading my privacy."

She sighed, a sound of pure resignation. "Fine. My name is Zara Ravencrest. I’m from the Silvercrest Pack. And if you’re so set on investigating me, go ahead. Honestly? I’d love to spend the night in this suite. Even though I haven't located my room yet, I'm sure this place is a hell of a lot nicer than my room, and I get to sit next to the most handsome man I’ve ever seen."

I frowned, taken aback by the sudden shift. She was playing it cool, but the way she looked at me was anything but cold. "You’re entirely too bold for someone who claims they aren't here on a mission, Zara."

"Well, sir," she said, crossing her arms, "you have all your fancy security tools, right? Go ahead and prove I’m a spy. If I am, I’ll take the consequences. Otherwise, you’ve got two choices: you let me leave to find my actual room, or you get me something to eat, because I haven't eaten a real meal all day and I’m starving."

I stared at her, genuinely stunned. The audacity was almost refreshing. Deep down, I already knew she wasn't a spy. I could smell the truth on her. She was just a girl who was running from something, or someone. But why act like she didn't have a care in the world? Most people in her situation would be shaking in their boots, but she was basically asking for room service.

I gestured toward the sofa. "Sit."

She moved past me, and as she did, her shoulder brushed against my bare chest. It was a light touch, but it sent a jolt of electricity straight through me. I ignored it, calling it a whim, but my eyes followed her as she sank onto the couch and crossed her legs, looking around the suite like she was at a museum.

I walked over, leaning against the back of the sofa, looking down at her. "You seem to like my room a lot. Or is there something specific you’re looking for?"

She shook her head, her gaze drifting to a painting on the wall before landing back on me. "Just admiring the art. And wishing the owner of this room was my boyfriend."

I almost choked. The blatant flirting was so out of left field I didn't know how to handle it. "You better be careful what you wish for," I warned with a smirk, my voice dropping an octave.

I turned away and headed to my wine cellar, needing a distraction. I poured two glasses of aged scotch and downed mine in a single gulp, the burn doing nothing to settle the weird tension in my gut. I grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the closet and pulled them on, not taking my eyes off her for a second.

"What do you want to eat?" I asked.

She looked at me, a mischievous light in her eyes. "I want roasted quail with truffle oil and a side of honey-glazed root vegetables. And a glass of sparkling cider."

I paused. That was a high-maintenance order, even for a five-star hotel. I walked over to the fridge, pulled out the prep tray, and tossed it into the microwave. While the machine hummed, I just stood there, watching her. She wasn't watching the room anymore; she was watching me.

When the timer dinged, I pulled the plate out and set it on the coffee table in front of her. I pulled up a chair opposite her and leaned back, watching her eat. She didn't look like a spy; she looked like someone who hadn't felt safe in a long time. She ate slowly, savoring every bite.

I watched her for a long time, the silence stretching out until the only sound was the faint hum of the city lights outside the window. I didn't mean to ask it. It just came out, ripped right out of my throat before I could stop it.

"Who hurt you?"