Chapter 4

Levin’s POV

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“Debby, we gotta talk,” I said, my voice low, standing outside her door. My knock was soft, almost scared, like I was a kid again, not the guy who runs this place.

She opened the door, her face hard, eyes sharp with anger but a flicker of surprise. “What do you want, Levin?” Her tone was cold, like I didn’t belong here.

“About Jerry. In my room,” I said, trying to keep it steady. My chest was still pounding from what happened—Jerry’s claws, his red eyes, that raw power.

She hesitated, eyes narrowing, but followed me. We stepped into my room, the familiar smell of polished wood and whiskey wrapping around me like a shield. This was my space, my sanctuary since she left, where I’d made hard calls and whispered prayers that somehow got answered. I closed the door, the click loud in the quiet.

“Sit if you want,” I said, crossing to the bar. I poured myself a glass of wine, coffee for her—two spoons of milk, one sugar, like always. The silence was heavy, pressing down like a storm.

“About Jerry,” I started, handing her the coffee, my hands steady but my gut twisting. “About us—”

“What’s wrong with him, Levin?” she cut in, sharp as a knife. “No small talk. Just tell me.”

Her words stung, like she was calling the shots. I gripped my glass tighter. “He needs guidance, Debby. My guidance. That kid’s got more fire than he can handle. If you keep holding him back—”

“I’m not holding him back,” she snapped, standing now, shoulders stiff. “I’m keeping him safe.”

“From who?” I shot back, playing dumb, though I knew what was coming.

“From you. From this whole mess!” she yelled, her voice cracking with anger and fear.

I stepped closer, keeping my voice low, trying to cool the heat between us. “He’s my son too,” I said, softer than I meant, the words heavy with years of missing him.

Her eyes burned, but pain flashed behind them. “Then act like it,” she said, her voice sharp but shaky, like she was fighting tears.

Her words cut deep, slicing through the walls I’d built. But worse was Damon’s shadow hanging over us. If he was right, if Jerry had the bloodstone—that cursed thing tied to our kind—none of this was random. Jerry’s strength, his rage, even Debby’s way of calming him—it was all connected, bigger than us. I wanted to tell her, to lay it all bare. We couldn’t fight Damon without Jerry’s power, and the fastest way to Jerry was through her trust. But her face, that wall of anger and hurt, stopped me cold. I swallowed the truth like poison, my throat tight.

I held Jerry tight earlier, his trembling easing, claws pulling back, his breathing steady against my chest. But Debby’s eyes never left me, wary, arms half-out like I’d drop him. Like he wasn’t my son too. Her stare was heavy, making me feel like a stranger in my own house. When she took him to her room, leaving the maids to sweep up the broken glass, I stayed behind, my heart still racing. Jerry’s surge was wrong—too strong, too sudden. I’d fought wolves twice his age who couldn’t match that power, and he wasn’t even fully shifted.

What hit me harder was Debby. She looked fragile but calmed him in seconds, holding him without a flinch. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. Their bond was stronger than I thought, deep enough to pull his wolf back to human. It saved him—and maybe me. When he lunged at me, his wolf guarding her, I knew if I’d been alone in that room, it would’ve ended bloody. If I hurt him, Debby would use it to keep him from me forever. If he hurt me, it’d break her. Guilt twisted in my gut. I’d messed up, letting my wolf push when I should’ve stayed calm.

Standing in my room now, the silence between us was thick, like fog you could cut. I wanted to bridge it, to say something real, but her anger stopped me. She held the coffee, staring at me like I was a puzzle she couldn’t solve. I wanted to tell her about the bloodstone, about Damon’s hunt, but her distrust was a wall I couldn’t climb. Fifteen years ago, she’d have leaned into me, her warmth chasing away my doubts. Now, she was a stranger, her scent—lavender, fear, bitterness—reminding me of what I’d lost.

I took a sip of wine, the taste sharp, grounding me. “Debby, we can’t keep fighting like this,” I said, my voice low. “Jerry needs us both.”

She didn’t budge, her eyes locked on mine, searching for lies. “Then stop hiding things,” she said, her voice steady now, but sharp. “You want to help him? Start with the truth.”

I wanted to argue—she’d left me, walked out when I needed her, and now she thought she could demand my world? This was my empire, my rules. But her words echoed in my head, and deep down, I knew she was right. Jerry was the only thing that mattered now, not my pride or my secrets.

My wolf stirred, restless, catching a faint sound from the hall. It was Jerry’s voice, soft, broken, slipping through the walls like smoke. Human ears wouldn’t catch it, but mine did, clear as day: “Vasilias Lykaon.”

The name hit like a shock. Lykaon—the old wolf king, tied to myths and curses. Why was Jerry saying it? My pulse raced, the wine glass heavy in my hand. I glanced at Debby, but she hadn’t heard, her eyes still burning into me. I couldn’t tell her—not yet. Not until I knew what it meant, what Jerry’s power was tied to. The bloodstone, Lykaon, Damon’s hunt—it was all closing in, and I was stuck in the middle, torn between my son and the woman I couldn’t let go.