Chapter 4

Damon’s POV:

I stood in the center of my office. My fingers worked the knot of my silk tie, loosening it. 

I felt a familiar restlessness beneath my skin, clearly the onset of my upcoming Rut. 

A sharp rap on the door broke the silence.

“Enter,” I barked, my voice raspy with a fatigue I couldn't quite shake.

Pierre, my secretary, leaned inside, his face neutral. He held a thick brown folder against his chest, pointing toward the sprawling mahogany desk that dominated the room.

“Sir, the meeting with the Ambroses will be held tomorrow morning. I have already arranged the documents you requested on finalizing the bid for the Genesis contract. Please look over them when you can. I’ve set them on your table.”

I sighed inwardly, the sound of the name Ambrose twisting something bitter in my gut. “Fine. You may leave.”

Pierre nodded once and shut the door with a soft click. I was alone again.

I was exhausted—beyond the kind of tired that sleep could fix. I needed to win this Genesis contract; the final piece that would prove I had surpassed the legacy of my father. Yet, as much as I looked forward to the victory, I couldn't suppress the flicker of anger and irritation that always accompanied my dealings with the Vorthas pack.

I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the sweat at the nape of my neck. I looked at the clock. 10:15 PM. The drive back to the Vitale estate would take over an hour, and my head was pounding with a migraine so fierce I knew I wouldn't be able to drive safely.

I pushed off my chair and retreated to the adjoined restroom. I shed my blazer, hung it on the rack, and splashed cold water on my face. I walked into the small, private bedroom attached to the office and plopped down on the bed.

Just an hour, I promised myself. Just a little shut-eye before I get back to the files.

But the darkness didn't bring rest. It brought her.

A scent drifted through the corridors of my sleep—one I had tried to excise from my memory like a cancer. Lychee and Damask Rose. It was sweet, cloying, and deceptively innocent. My fingers clenched into the sheets as irritation flared in my chest. I hated that smell. I wanted to stop breathing it in, but it felt like I was tasting it. Like I was tasting her.

In the dream, I was walking through the third floor of the Vitale manor. It was the floor I had sealed off years ago. It felt filthy now, tainted by her presence, her sins, and the lingering phantom of her pheromones.

I didn't want to remember. It had been over four years since the night everything burned to the ground. That tiny, foolish flicker of hope I had accidentally allowed myself to feel had been snuffed out the second she’d agreed to marry Raymond Ambrose Vorthas.

My feet moved of their own accord over the plush carpet, drawing me toward the room at the very corner. It was the room where music used to flow out like a river. She had always hated the silence. That was another thing I despised about her—where I found peace in the quiet, she was a whirlwind of noise. It was as if she’d die if she went quiet for more than a minute.

“Max!” her voice rang out, clear and melodic.

My heart stilled before a familiar anger surged. Not this memory. Anything but this.

“Max, I was wrong. Please don’t be upset with me… I… I really love you, okay?”

Her voice danced through the hallway, turning into a screeching static inside my ears. Hearing her whisper her love to another man—the man who used to be my closest friend—was a punch to the gut. Or at least, it had been once. Now, I just watched, a ghost in my own nightmare, knowing how the story ended. Max’s fate had been written in stone the moment he fell for someone as fickle as Ophelia.

How ironic. Ophelia in Hamlet ended up going mad and drowning. Even her name was a harbinger of bad luck. And she was exactly that for me. My bad luck. My downfall. My nemesis.

The night everything imploded flashed by. The night she turned eighteen. The night she first shifted. The same night she almost killed my step-mother.

The song "Running Up That Hill" began to play in the background of the dream, a haunting melody that seemed to follow her everywhere. I entered her room without knocking, finding her staring back at me with those massive, soul-piercing hazel eyes. The corners were rimmed with red, making the small, dark mole beneath her left eye stand out like a mark of sorrow.

I hated that look. I wanted to cover those eyes so that no one—not even me—could ever see the pity they inspired in men.

She scrambled off the bed, turning away from me to grab the blanket that had fallen onto the floor, beside her bed. Her skimpy nightdress riding high.

But then, I noticed something peculiar. I strode forward in the dream, grabbing her shoulder. I didn't care about being gentle; this was my mind, and I could do what I wanted. I turned her, my heart thudding against my ribs as I realized what was wrong.

Her nape was empty.

There was no mate mark.

That wasn't right. In every version of this nightmare, my eyes would lock onto that mark—the brand that shouldn't have been there when she had just turned eighteen, but always appeared in my subconscious as a symbol of her being claimed by another. 

But now, the skin was clean.

Why? Why had my mind changed the script?

I sat bolt upright in the office bed, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My neck ached from my stiff posture, and my head was swimming. I snapped my gaze to the clock. 3 AM.

The phone on the nightstand was vibrating violently, the screen illuminating the dark room. I frowned, reaching for it. The caller ID made my irritation increase further

Raymond Ambrose.

Just what I needed after that shitty dream.

I swiped to accept, pressing the cold glass to my ear. “What?”

“Come to the Vorthas pack house at your earliest convenience,” Raymond’s voice came through, devoid of any greeting or civility. “We have something important to discuss regarding your little sister.”

I leaned forward, my jaw clenching. We hadn't spoken in months. 

My father had always handled the Ambroses, but my father wasn’t here right now. He and that woman—my step-mother—were off on their nth honeymoon at some godforsaken island in the middle of nowhere.

“What’s the matter? It’s three in the morning, Raymond.”

“Precisely. It’s not something we should discuss on a recorded line,” he said, his tone hard and dismissive.

“What’s wrong with her? Is she okay?” I questioned, the words slipping out before I could stop them. 

A strange, cold fear was blooming in my chest. Maybe because of that dream.

“She’s… in her room, if you must know. I have decided on breaking our bond.”

My spine snapped straight. My grip on the phone tightened until the casing groaned. “Do you have any idea what the fuck you are saying, Raymond?” I sneered. 

That was how I found myself driving through the freezing December night, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel of my sedan. I was less than five miles from the Vorthas estate when I saw a figure on the shoulder of the highway.

I slowed down, my headlights cutting through the gloom to reveal a woman waving her arms frantically. She looked like a beggar, dressed in a massive, oversized hoodie, her feet covered in nothing but gray ankle socks.

I pulled down my car window. My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest.

I didn't even wait for the car to fully idle before I threw the door open and stepped out into the biting wind.

Ophelia scrambled back as I approached, her eyes wide and wild. She looked like she was about to bolt back into the woods, nearly falling on her back in her haste. I lunged forward, grabbing her by the elbows to steady her.

“What the fuck did you do?” I sneered, the words a mask for the shock rippling through me.

She looked small—fragile in a way that made my Alpha instincts scream. She tried to pull away, her gaze darting around the empty road as if she expected an army to descend upon us.

“Ophelia, look at me!” I demanded. “Do you have any idea what kind of mess you’ve caused? Raymond called me. He said he rejected you. Was this your plan? To run away like a thief in the night?”

I saw her lower lip begin to tremble. She didn't answer my question. Instead, she shifted her weight, and I realized for the first time that there was a bundle strapped to her back.

A child?

She gripped my hand, her fingers like ice against my skin. “P–please…” her voice was a broken whisper, a sound that bypassed all my defenses. “I need to take Valeria to the hospital.”

She looked at me, her hazel eyes swimming with a desperation I hadn’t seen in a long time. “P–please, Damon. O-or she’ll die.”

My heart seemed to drop further as the moon illuminated her face.

Her cheek…was bruised purple and black.