Damien
Damien wakes before dawn, long before the packhouse stirs.
He lies on the floor of his office where he must have collapsed sometime during the night, staring at the ceiling beams without really seeing them. His body aches — knuckles split, shoulders stiff, throat raw from howling words into silence that never answered.
The bond hasn’t gone quiet.
That’s the problem.
It hums faintly beneath his ribs, thin and strained, like a wire pulled too tight. Not broken. Not healed.
Moving.
That awareness settles into him with brutal clarity.
Lila isn’t gone.
She isn’t dead.
She isn’t still.
She’s changing.
And every second he remains here — trapped by walls, titles, expectations — the distance between them becomes something permanent.
His wolf stirs, no longer frantic.
Focused.
