Seraphina’s POV
My instinct was to refuse imdiately. "I don’t have an appropriate dress for—"
"What you’re wearing now is perfect." Damien’s voice carried that infuriatingly confident tone that made my stomach do gymnastics routines I didn’t authorize. The way he said it—like he was comnting on the weather rather than completely upending my evening plans—made want to simultaneously kiss him and throttle him.
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it, then opened it again like so kind of dented fish. "But I... Adrian needs... Ophelia will kill if I..."
"Speechless oga?" One dark eyebrow arched in what I was beginning to recognize as his signature look of amused superiority. "That’s a first."
The smugness in his voice snapped back to coherent thought. "Fine," I said, trying to inject so dignity into what was clearly a complete surrender. "But I’m not paying for dry cleaning if soone spills wine on this dress.’"
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough to make my traitorous heart do a little tap dance. “Noted. I protect what’s mine," he said simply, and the possessive note in his voice made my knees wobble like a newborn deer’s.
The casual threat, delivered in that low, dangerous voice, made heat pool in places that had no business responding during work hours
The rest of the day passed in a whirlwind of focused intensity that felt like being caught in a very attractive, very expensive tornado. Despite the mate bond crackling between us like a live electrical wire, Damien and I fell into a surprisingly natural rhythm. He was demanding but fair, brilliant but not condescending, and when I anticipated his needs—sliding the northern territory reports across his desk just as he reached for them—he looked at like I’d just perford actual magic.
anwhile, Ayla had been a constant source of comntary all day, providing a running narration like the world’s most inappropriate sports announcer. *Ooh, look at those shoulders,* she’d purr when Damien moved past my desk. *Did you see the way his muscles flexed when he reached for that file? And that sll—God, that SLL. It’s like sandalwood and testosterone had a baby and nad it Perfect Man.*
"Could you maybe tone down the lustful comntary?" I muttered under my breath during one particularly vivid description of what she’d like to do to our mate.
*I’m just saying, those hands look very capable. Very... thorough.*
"AYLA."
By the ti evening approached, I was wound tighter than a Swiss watch, every nerve ending hyperaware of Damien’s presence. When he so much as shifted in his chair, I could feel it like a physical touch. When he spoke, his voice seed to resonate in my bones.
This mate bond thing was going to be the death of .
"Control yourself," I muttered under my breath during one particularly intense wave of mate-hunger, pressing my thighs together as heat pooled low in my belly.
As evening approached, I excused myself to the ladies’ room to touch up my makeup and attempt to calm my racing pulse. The erald dress still looked stunning, but now I could see the flush on my cheeks, the dilated pupils that betrayed exactly how affected I was by spending eight hours in close proximity to my mate.
When I erged from the restroom, Damien was waiting by the door like a predator who’d been stalking his prey. He looked devastatingly handso in his perfectly tailored navy suit, the fabric molding to his broad shoulders and lean torso in ways that should be illegal. When he offered his arm with old-fashioned gallantry, the simple gesture made my heart flutter like a teenager’s.
"Ready?" he asked, and there was sothing different in his voice—softer than his usual commanding tone, almost... tender?
I placed my hand on his offered arm, biting back a gasp as electricity shot through at the contact. His muscles were like steel beneath the expensive fabric, and I had to resist the urge to run my fingers along the length of his arm just to feel more of that delicious warmth.
"As ready as I’ll ever be," I managed, hoping my voice sounded steadier than I felt.
His car was a thing of beauty—sleek, black, and expensive enough to fund Adrian’s college education. As he held the passenger door open for , I caught another intoxicating whiff of his scent and had to grip the door fra to keep from swaying. God, he slled incredible—like sandalwood and sothing uniquely masculine that made my wolf whine with need.
"Careful," he murmured, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back to steady . The simple touch sent fire racing through my veins, and I had to bite my lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound.
"So," Damien said finally, his voice carrying a note of curiosity that hadn’t been there during our professional interactions, "tell about your son."
The question caught completely off guard. My heart stuttered, then began racing for an entirely different reason. "What would you like to know?" I asked carefully, studying his profile in the dim light of the dashboard.
"Everything," he said simply, and there was sothing in his tone—not judgnt or calculation, but genuine interest. Maybe even warmth.
"His na is Adrian," I began, unable to keep the fierce love from my voice, "and he’s four. He’s brilliant—scary brilliant sotis."
Damien chuckled, a rich sound that made warmth spread through my chest. "Sounds like he keeps you on your toes. And his father? Are you two still in contact?"
The question hit like a physical blow, all the warmth draining from my chest in an instant. I stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past as I tried to find words that wouldn’t make sound like exactly what Valerie had always called .
"I don’t know who his father is," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.
Damien’s knuckles went white. "You don’t know?"
I forced myself to keep talking even though every instinct scread at to change the subject. “Just one night, no real nas exchanged.
The restaurant was exactly what I’d expected—elegant, expensive, and filled with the kind of understated luxury that scread old money and older power. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over pristine white tablecloths, and the soft murmur of conversation blended with the gentle clink of silverware that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
Damien guided through the crowd with a possessive hand on the small of my back, and I was acutely aware of the way other wolves tracked our movent. Several won shot looks that ranged from curious to openly envious.
"Relax," Damien murmured near my ear, his breath making shiver with awareness. "You’re the most beautiful woman in this room, and you have every right to be here."
The confident certainty in his voice was exactly what I needed to hear. I straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin, channeling every ounce of dignity I’d spent five years building from scratch.
Throughout the dinner, I found myself hyperaware of every brush of contact, every shared glance, every mont when Damien leaned close enough for to breathe in his intoxicating scent. When he reached across for the wine bottle, his arm brushing against my shoulder, I had to dig my nails into my palms to keep from leaning into the contact like a cat seeking warmth.
We’d been mingling for about an hour when I heard a commotion near the entrance—raised voices and the sharp click of heels moving too quickly across marble floors. I was turning toward the disturbance when liquid fire splashed across my chest and abdon, soaking through the precious erald fabric and making gasp with shock.
“Oh Gosh! You bitch!" a shrill voice shrieked, dripping with the kind of entitlent that made my wolf snarl. "Don’t you have eyes? Couldn’t you see I was walking this way? Do you have any idea who I am, you pathetic little—"
The voice cut off so abruptly it was like soone had slamd a door. I looked up, wine dripping from my chin, to find myself staring into a face that had haunted my nightmares for five years.
Valerie stood before , her mouth hanging open in shock, a now-empty wine glass clutched in her perfectly manicured fingers. Her bleached blonde hair was styled in artful waves.
"It’s you!" she gasped, her voice strangled with disbelief and sothing that looked dangerously like panic. "Sera!"
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