Chapter 5

Michael

The rooftop lounge was silent except for the hum of the city below and the distant clink of glassware behind the privacy wall. The view from the private dining terrace stretched beyond the Hudson, golden city lights flickering against the evening sky. But Michael barely noticed any of it.

He was waiting for her.

He adjusted the cuff of his black dress shirt and checked the time again—not because she was late, but because each passing minute only heightened the strange pressure building in his chest.

This wasn’t just a date. It was a turning point.

The mate bond was already whispering beneath his skin—restless, hungry, tethering itself to a woman who didn’t yet know what she meant to him. And tonight, he wasn’t sure if he was more anxious for her to feel it… or terrified that she might.

Then he sensed her.

Before he saw her, before she even stepped through the glass doors, something shifted in the air. Softer. Warmer.

Her.

He stood instinctively, straightening just as the door opened.

And there she was.

Anna Davenport, framed in golden light. Hair cascading down her back in soft, glossy waves. Black dress hugging her curves like it was made for her. Her eyes—those impossibly bright, light brown eyes—found him immediately.

Michael couldn’t move for a second. Not even breathe.

He’d seen beauty before. Power. Women who could turn heads in boardrooms or ballrooms. But this was different.

She was real. Present. Unaware of just how much she already belonged to him.

“Hi,” she said softly, offering a shy smile as she approached.

He stepped toward her, slow and deliberate, and brushed a kiss across her cheek. Her skin was warm—so warm—and he could hear the subtle change in her breathing when he touched her.

“You look…” he exhaled, searching for something sufficient, “…incredible.”

Her smile deepened. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

He guided her to the table, pulling her chair out with gentlemanly precision before taking his own seat across from her.

Candles flickered between them. Her dress caught the firelight. Her scent—jasmine, vanilla, and something uniquely hers—wrapped around him like a challenge.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d text me,” he admitted.

Anna tilted her head, lips curving. “Neither was I.”

“Why did you?”

She hesitated, brushing her fingers along the base of her wine glass. “Because something told me I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

Michael’s chest tightened. The bond was working through her, too—even if she didn’t know what it was yet.

The server appeared, placing two glasses of dry champagne before them and presenting a chilled appetizer plate—seared scallops with blood orange glaze and a hint of thyme.

Anna’s eyes widened. “Okay, this already beats every first date I’ve ever had.”

Michael smiled, but his gaze never left her.

She picked up her fork and took a delicate bite, and when the glaze touched her lips, she licked it away with the tip of her tongue—slow, absent, unaware.

His body reacted instantly.

Heat flared through him, sharp and sudden, his cock twitching beneath the table. He shifted subtly in his seat, clearing his throat once to center himself.

Control.

He forced his voice low, even. “You like it?”

Anna moaned softly. “I might propose to the chef.”

Michael’s jaw tightened, but he chuckled. “You’ll have to fight me for him.”

Their banter eased the tension, but his desire didn’t settle. She didn’t know what that simple gesture had done to him—how his wolf had surged forward, how the air felt thinner now, heavy with scent, promise, and something almost dangerous.

She was fire wrapped in velvet. And he was sitting across from her pretending to be civil, when every cell in his body wanted to lean forward and claim.

But not yet.

She was human. Unaware. And more than anything, he wanted her trust.

So he stayed still, letting her guide the pace—even as his instincts burned beneath the surface.

—————

Anna

She hadn’t expected to feel this comfortable with him.

Not here. Not now. Not with someone she barely knew—but somehow felt like she’d known for longer than just a passing moment in a hotel bar.

Michael wasn’t just handsome. He was present.

Every time she spoke, he listened. Fully. Like nothing else in the world existed outside this table and her voice.

Halfway through the scallops, their conversation shifted—drifting from surface-level to something deeper, more personal.

“So,” he asked gently, “you mentioned your son earlier. Ethan, right?”

Anna smiled, the sound of his name softening her. “Yeah. He’s my whole world.”

Michael nodded slowly. “You raised him alone?”

She hesitated, resting her fork on the edge of her plate. For a moment, she debated just glossing over it with a polite answer. But something about him—the steadiness in his eyes—made her want to be honest.

“Yes,” she said finally. “Ethan’s father… didn’t want to be one.”

Michael said nothing, but the faint twitch in his jaw told her he didn’t like that answer.

“We were together for a little while,” she continued, voice quiet but steady. “It wasn’t a planned pregnancy. When I told him, he panicked. Said he wasn’t ready. Said I should ‘handle it.’ And when I didn’t, he just… disappeared.”

Michael’s eyes darkened, his fingers subtly curling into his glass stem.

“It was hard,” she admitted. “I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t even have a nursery. But I had a job, and I had a boss—my old managing attorney—who stepped in when things got legal.”

“He helped you?” Michael asked.

Anna nodded. “She did. Her name’s Marlene. When I finally got the courage to file for full custody, Marlene helped me push for termination of his rights. He didn’t even contest it. Just signed the papers and vanished.”

Michael’s expression didn’t change much—but the air around him did. It felt heavier. Charged.

“You’ve done it all yourself since then?” he asked.

“Just me and Ethan,” she said softly. “He’s five now. Smart, sweet, a little stubborn.”

Michael smiled faintly. “Takes after you.”

Anna chuckled. “Yeah, probably.”

He leaned in slightly. “That’s not easy—being both parents. And still carrying yourself the way you do.”

Her throat tightened at the unexpected sincerity in his voice. She nodded once, then glanced down at her plate.

“I have my moments. But I’ve also had help—my family’s great, even from a distance.”

“Where are they?”

“Back in Texas,” she said. “I’m originally from San Antonio. I’m the baby girl—two older sisters, one younger brother.”

Michael looked intrigued. “You’re the youngest?”

She grinned. “The most spoiled, yes. But also the most stubborn, apparently.”

“How’d you end up here?”

“I got a job offer from a firm in New York. Great pay. Work-from-home flexibility. Benefits that could actually support Ethan and me. It wasn’t an easy move, but it made sense. I had to build something stable.”

Michael nodded, as though he understood all too well the pressure of stability.

“You made the right call,” he said.

She met his gaze, and for a moment, everything slowed again.

He didn’t ask the next question. But she could feel it in the air: Are you still looking for someone to share it with?

She wasn’t sure of the answer.

But sitting here now, across from him, she was starting to wonder.

Maybe she already had.

—————

Michael

He hadn’t expected it to hit him like that.

Not her words. Not the story itself. He knew the world was full of men who abandoned their responsibilities, who walked away from women like Anna without a second thought.

What struck him—what stayed with him—was the way she told it.

No tears. No theatrics. Just quiet strength. A kind of exhausted grace that only came from walking through fire and surviving it alone.

And somehow, despite the weight she carried, she still had softness in her voice when she talked about her son.

Ethan.

Michael had felt the pulse of that name when she said it again. Not just in her voice—but in her scent. There was something layered in her emotions, something that hit his wolf on a different frequency entirely.

Anna Davenport wasn’t just a human woman trying to rebuild a life.

She was a mother.

A fighter.

And more than that—she was his.

The bond had already formed inside him, rooted itself deep in his core. He didn’t need confirmation. His wolf knew. It had chosen. There was no one else.

She just didn’t know yet.

Michael watched her now, sipping from her glass, her shoulders slightly more relaxed than when she first arrived. She looked tired—but not in a way he found unattractive. It was the tiredness of someone who carried the weight for two. Every day. Without complaint.

And he hated that she’d ever had to.

He should’ve been there. Should’ve been the one beside her in that courtroom. Should’ve protected her from having to face that man alone.

A surge of something primal rolled through him—hot, dangerous.

If he ever comes back, I’ll end him.

Michael took a slow breath, centering himself. Now wasn’t the time to let the wolf take over. He had to be careful. Measured. She was still learning him. Still trusting him, piece by piece.

He couldn’t afford to scare her off.

“You’re quiet,” Anna said softly, drawing him out of his thoughts.

He looked up. “Just… thinking.”

“About?”

“You.”

She tilted her head, giving him a look that was equal parts curious and guarded. “That’s vague again.”

Michael smiled faintly. “Fair. I was thinking about how strong you are.”

Anna blinked.

“Most people talk about strength like it’s a performance. But yours—it’s quiet. Steady. It lives in the way you sit, the way you speak.”

She didn’t say anything, but he could see it in her expression—the way her breath caught for half a second, the way her lips parted like she might argue, but didn’t.

“I mean it,” he said, voice low. “I see you, Anna. Every part of you. And I admire the hell out of it.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then glanced down at her glass again.

“I’m not used to hearing things like that,” she whispered.

“You will be,” he said.

She looked up slowly, and something passed between them. A flicker. An understanding. A door quietly opening.

Michael forced himself to lean back in his seat, even though every instinct told him to move forward. To close the space. To reach across the table and claim what was already his.

But not yet.

For now, he would give her safety.

Patience.

Time.

Even if it killed him.

—————

Michael

The night air was cool as they exited the rooftop lounge, the sounds of the city humming softly in the distance. The elevator ride down had been quiet, but not uncomfortable. Michael had stood close—close enough to catch her scent, to feel the warmth of her body—but not so close that he overwhelmed her.

She glanced at him now as they walked through the quiet parking structure, her heels clicking lightly on the concrete.

“That was… more than I expected,” she said, her voice soft but sincere.

He looked down at her, the corner of his mouth lifting. “In a good way, I hope.”

She smiled, nodding. “Yeah. In a good way.”

They reached her car—a silver SUV with a faint scratch across the rear passenger door. She turned to him, holding her purse in both hands.

“Thanks for tonight,” she said. “I needed that.”

Michael stepped closer. Not touching. Just near.

“I meant what I said,” he told her. “About you. About seeing you.”

Her breath hitched slightly, but she didn’t shy away.

He reached out and brushed his knuckles across her cheek—slow, careful. “Let me know when you make it home, alright?”

She smiled. “I will.”

He opened the driver’s side door for her, and she slid inside, giving him one last look before closing it.

Michael stood there until her headlights faded down the ramp and disappeared into the city.

Then he turned, exhaled slowly, and walked back toward his own car.

⸻

Twenty minutes later

Michael sat behind the wheel, his fingers drumming slowly against his knee as the city lights passed outside his window.

She hadn’t texted.

He checked again—nothing.

Fifteen minutes wasn’t a long time. Maybe she got caught in traffic. Maybe she got home, put Ethan to bed, and forgot. It wasn’t unusual.

But something inside him was starting to churn.

He opened his messages and tapped out a text:

Michael:

Just checking in. Did you make it home safely?

He waited. Screen lit. Nothing.

Five more minutes, he told himself.

⸻

Forty-five minutes later

No text. No call.

Michael’s jaw was tight now, the muscles flexing beneath his cheek.

He called her.

Straight to voicemail.

That did it.

He grabbed his phone and sent a message to David.

Michael:

I need an address for Anna Davenport. Now.

David (Beta):

You sure?

Michael:

She hasn’t responded in over an hour. I need to know she’s okay.

David didn’t argue. Thirty seconds later, a pin dropped on the screen.

Michael’s engine roared to life.

⸻

Twenty minutes later

He was turning onto a quiet, tree-lined residential street. His headlights rolled over neatly kept yards and low fences. Nothing looked out of place, but the knot in his chest wouldn’t loosen.

And then—his phone lit up.

Anna.

He answered before the first ring finished. “Anna?”

“Oh my God,” she said breathlessly. “I’m so sorry—are you okay?”

He blinked. “You’re asking me if I’m okay?”

“I dropped my phone between the seats,” she said quickly. “Like, way down. I couldn’t find it anywhere and it was on silent—I didn’t even hear it buzzing. It took me this whole time to wedge it out. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Michael’s grip on the wheel loosened slightly. Relief poured through him like a tidal wave. “You’re safe?”

“Yes. I got home over an hour ago. Ethan’s asleep. Everything’s fine. I’m so, so sorry—”

“Don’t apologize,” he said gently. “You’re okay. That’s all that matters.”

There was silence on the other end for a moment. Then:

“…You really came looking for me?”

Michael’s voice dropped, warm and firm. “Of course I did.”

Another pause. Softer now. “You didn’t have to.”

“Yes,” he said, pulling quietly to the curb across from her driveway. “I did.”

She didn’t say anything. But he could hear her breathing. Could feel the shift in her energy even over the phone.

“I’m just across the street,” he said, parking.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he said. “But I wanted to see you. Just for a second.”

A beat passed.

Then the front door opened across the street.

She stood in the porch light, wrapped in a robe, hair tousled, phone pressed to her ear.

He stepped out of his car and met her at the foot of the driveway.

No words. Just the echo of everything unspoken.

“I’ll text you next time,” she whispered with a small, crooked smile.

He smiled back, all restraint in his eyes. “Next time, I’ll come in and put the phone back in your hand myself.”

Anna laughed softly.

And just like that—something between them shifted again.

Deeper. Stronger. Real.