CHAPTER 6 – MORNING ILLUSIONS

Damien was standing near the window when Emily stepped back into the penthouse suite. He turned at the sound of the door closing, and his eyes immediately went to her face, then to the jacket she wore, then back to her again. His expression was calm, but there was a sharpness in his gaze that had not been there the night before.

“Where did you go?” he asked.

Emily did not freeze. She had been in tighter situations than this. Surprise was something she learned to swallow before it ever reached her eyes. She slipped the key card onto the table and met his stare evenly.

“Where did I go?” she repeated, as if the question confused her.

Damien’s eyes drifted toward the bed. The sheets were smooth. The pillows perfectly placed. There was no sign anyone had slept in it.

“It doesn’t look like you were here,” he said quietly. “Where did you sleep last night?”

She folded her arms loosely over her chest and let a hint of irritation enter her voice. “Is that what this is about? I couldn’t sleep, Damien. After everything that happened? Men chasing us. Guns. A crash. I kept hearing it over and over in my head.” She shook her head slightly. “I went out for air.”

“You went out,” he repeated, watching her carefully.

“Yes. I walked for a while. It helped.”

His gaze moved again to the bed. “And you made it?”

A small breath escaped her, almost a laugh. “My grandmother raised me to clean up my space before I leave it. First thing in the morning, you make your bed. It’s habit. I didn’t even think about it.”

His eyes shifted to the jacket she was wearing. “That isn’t what you had on last night.”

“One of your staff saw me outside,” she replied smoothly. “It was cold. She offered me something from lost and found. I didn’t think it would offend you.”

Silence stretched between them. Damien studied her as if weighing every word. There was suspicion there, but also something else - guilt, perhaps. He finally ran a hand through his hair and exhaled.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Last night put me on edge. I shouldn’t be questioning you.”

“It’s understandable,” Emily replied gently. “If I were you, I’d be suspicious too.”

She stepped closer, her gaze drifting down to his side where the bullet had torn through him only hours before. “How are you even standing?” she asked. “You were shot. Did you go to a hospital?”

“My doctor handled it,” Damien answered quickly.

Emily’s brows drew together. “And cleared you to walk?”

“I have responsibilities I can’t walk away from,” he replied evenly. “I need to be at the office this morning. That’s actually why I came back early. There are things we need to talk about before I leave.”

She stared at him for a moment, as if weighing whether that was bravery or recklessness.

“You’re going to the office,” she repeated quietly, as though the idea unsettled her. “After being shot.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “It looks worse than it is.”

Her eyes dropped again to his side. The memory of blood soaking through his shirt in her cab flashed through her mind.

“Let me see,” she said, stepping closer. “At least let me check the dressing.”

She did not wait for permission. Her hand lifted toward the hem of his shirt.

Damien moved back instantly.

“It’s handled,” he said, a little too quickly.

For a second, the room felt smaller.

Emily slowly lowered her hand, her expression softening as if she realized she had crossed a line. “Fine,” she murmured. 

He glanced at his watch, as if eager to redirect the conversation. “We should eat as we talk.  You must be hungry.”

“That sounds good,” she agreed.

He called for breakfast, and within minutes a staff member entered, pushing a trolley loaded with coffee, fresh fruit, pastries, and hot dishes. Emily insisted on serving, waving the staff away once everything was set. Damien settled onto the couch, loosening his collar slightly.

“Just coffee for me,” he said.

She poured it carefully, the dark liquid steaming in the cup. When she carried it over to him, she leaned in as though handing it to him normally. At the last second, her wrist tilted.

The coffee spilled across his shirt.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed, grabbing napkins.

Damien stood abruptly, the heat soaking through the fabric over his ribs. For a brief second, something flashed in his eyes - alarm, sharp and controlled.

“It’s fine,” he said tightly.

“Let me help,” she insisted, reaching toward him.

He stepped away again, more forcefully this time. “I’ll take care of it.”

Without waiting for her, he grabbed a clean shirt from the closet, walked quickly toward the bathroom and shut the door behind him. A distinct click followed - the lock.

Emily remained where she was, napkins still clutched in her hand, her expression changing the moment the bathroom door shut. The spill had not been an accident. It had been calculated. From the intel she had been given, the agency had long suspected that the so-called Robin Hood thief was not entirely human. She needed to see with her own eyes whether the wound was still there - or whether Damien Hayes was something far more dangerous than a wealthy businessman.

Inside the bathroom, Damien braced both hands against the sink, his head lowered for a moment as he steadied his breathing. 

He straightened slowly and began unbuttoning his shirt, peeling the damp fabric away from his skin. The coffee clung to him, warm and sticky, but his attention had already shifted elsewhere.

His eyes dropped to his side, to the exact place where the bullet had torn through him only hours before. The bandage was still there, wrapped firmly around his torso, but now it was darkened and heavy, soaked through with the coffee he had just spilled. The fabric clung to his skin, uncomfortable and damp, and for a brief second, that was all it seemed to be - an inconvenience, something to be removed and replaced.

He reached for it slowly, his fingers slipping beneath the edge of the bandage, and began to peel it away.

The fabric pulled slightly against his skin as it came loose, the adhesive resisting for a moment before giving in. He expected resistance beneath it. Tenderness. The dull, aching reminder of a wound that should still have been fresh.

But as the last of the bandage came away….

There was nothing there.

No open flesh. No swelling. No sign that his body had been torn open by a silver bullet just hours ago. The skin was smooth, unbroken, completely healed, as though the injury had never existed at all.

Damien stilled.

For a moment, he simply stared at it, the bandage still in his hand, his mind catching up to what his eyes were already seeing. This wasn’t normal. Not even for him. His healing had always been faster than a human’s, yes—but not like this. Not this clean. Not this complete. Not after silver.

His fingers moved slowly to his side, pressing lightly against the spot, testing it, as if the truth might change under touch.

It didn’t.

A low, quiet awareness stirred beneath the surface of his thoughts.

His wolf.

You healed too fast this time, the voice said, calm but firm, carrying a weight that made Damien still.

His jaw tightened slightly. “I noticed,” he murmured under his breath.

Those were silver bullets, the wolf continued. You know what that means. That kind of wound doesn’t close like this. Not in hours.

Damien’s gaze remained fixed on his reflection as his fingers moved once more over his side, tracing where the injury should have been. “The moment I removed the bullet,” he said slowly, thinking back, “it started closing.” His voice lowered slightly, more to himself now than to the wolf. “By the time I got back… it was already halfway healed.”

He exhaled quietly.

“It took less than two hours.”

The words settled heavily in the space between him and the voice in his head.

It should have taken days, the wolf said.

Silence followed.

What changed? the wolf asked.

Damien’s eyes narrowed slightly at his reflection. “I don’t know.”

The answer came too quickly.

Too easily.

The wolf did not respond immediately.

When it did, its voice was quieter, but sharper.

Do you really not know?

Damien’s fingers stilled against his skin.

A faint tension settled in his shoulders.

“…what are you suggesting?” he asked.

There was a brief pause.

It’s the girl. Her presence made you heal faster.

Damien’s gaze lifted slightly.

Something shifted in his expression, subtle but undeniable.

The thought lingered there, quiet but persistent, threading itself into something he had not yet allowed himself to fully understand.

Emily.

Her presence.

The way everything had felt… different since he met her.

Damien exhaled slowly and dropped his hand from his side, reaching instead for a clean shirt. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said, though his voice lacked the certainty it usually carried.

But the wolf did not argue.

It didn’t need to.

The silence that followed said enough.

Damien pulled the shirt over his shoulders and buttoned it carefully, covering the unmarked skin, hiding the truth beneath layers of fabric and control. By the time he lifted his gaze back to the mirror, his expression had returned to its usual calm, composed, unreadable state.

But the thought remained.

Unanswered.

Unresolved.

Unsettling.

Because if the wolf was right…

Then Emily wasn’t just a coincidence in his life.