Elenor POV
The harsh fluorescent lights of the precinct were blinding after the dark chill of the New York night. The air inside was thick with the smell of cheap coffee, stale sweat, and human anxiety, but none of it mattered the moment Damien stepped fully into the room. His Lycan aura—a suffocating, invisible force field of pure dominance—rolled through the space. Hardened detectives and agitated civilians instinctively stepped back, parting like the Red Sea to let us through.
A pale officer hurriedly unlocked a heavy metal door down the hall.
When the door swung open, my heart shattered.
The interrogation room was a windowless, claustrophobic box. Sitting at a steel table bolted to the floor was Jamison. His bottom lip was split and crusted with blood, his left eye swollen shut, and his wrists were locked in heavy, cold metal handcuffs.
"Jamison!" I gasped, rushing forward.
I threw my arms around his rigid shoulders, the icy bite of his chains pressing against my stomach. For a second, I just held him, breathing in his familiar scent. But the relief was instantly swallowed by a tidal wave of panic and anger. I pulled back, gripping his face.
"Why?" I demanded, my voice cracking. "Why would you do this? You threw a punch at Caleb Thornton? Jamison, your Ivy League acceptances, your entire future—why would you throw it all away on a stupid, violent impulse?"
Jamison flinched, pulling his face out of my hands. His good eye flashed with a defensive, wounded fury. "It wasn't a stupid impulse, Elenor!"
"Then what was it?" I cried, gesturing wildly to the bleak, shadow-filled room. Damien stood silently in the corner, a massive, unreadable statue blending into the darkness, but I couldn't focus on him. "You're in a cage, Jamison!"
"Because I had to!" Jamison roared, the chains rattling violently against the steel table. He leaned forward, his chest heaving. "I was at the club on the Upper East Side. Caleb was there with his pathetic little entourage. I heard him, El. I heard him bragging about the Unity Gala."
My blood ran cold. The air in my lungs vanished.
Jamison gritted his teeth, his voice dropping into a harsh, trembling whisper. "He was laughing about how he humiliated you. He called you the Thornton Pack's wolfless charity case."
The words hit me like a silver bullet straight to the chest. Wolfless charity case.
The agonizing humiliation from the gala came rushing back, tearing my soul wide open. It wasn't Caleb's cruelty that broke me; it was the crushing realization that my defect—my broken, wolfless existence—was the reason my brother was sitting in handcuffs. I had ruined his life.
My legs gave out. I collapsed into the metal chair opposite him, burying my face in my hands as a ragged, ugly sob tore from my throat. I hated myself. I hated my weakness.
The room fell into a suffocating silence, broken only by my weeping.
Then, the shadows shifted.
Damien stepped forward. The overwhelming scent of cedar, torrential rain, and dark Cuban tobacco flooded the cramped space, instantly demanding absolute submission.
"You defended your blood," Damien said, his voice a low, smooth rumble that vibrated in the marrow of my bones. "An honorable, if foolish, act."
Jamison stiffened, his hostility flaring as he looked at the terrifying stranger who had walked in with me. But before my brother could snap back, Damien's tone dropped, turning as biting as a Siberian winter.
"But a fist and a broken nose mean nothing to a man like Caleb Thornton," Damien continued, his charcoal eyes locking onto Jamison with supreme, unquestionable authority. "It only puts you in chains. That is the reaction of a pup."
Jamison opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He was completely paralyzed by the Lycan's oppressive weight. I lowered my hands, my tears stopping as I stared at the man towering over us.
"True vengeance," Damien instructed, his voice dripping with a dark, lethal promise, "is systematically destroying everything he relies on. You dismantle his wealth. You strip his status. You rip out the very foundation of his Pack, piece by piece, until the name 'Thornton' is nothing but a forgotten joke."
The sheer, terrifying logic of his words hung in the air. It wasn't a threat; it was a doctrine.
Jamison stared at Damien, his initial hostility melting into a profound, terrified awe. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting from Damien's imposing frame to me, and back again.
"Who the hell are you?" Jamison breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "And why are you doing this for us?"
Damien didn't answer immediately. He simply stood there, a towering monolith of dark power, his charcoal eyes assessing my brother. But Jamison wasn't looking at Damien's eyes anymore.
As I had rushed forward to hug him earlier, the collar of my oversized coat had slipped. Jamison's gaze dropped to my exposed collarbone. His good eye widened, the pupil shrinking to a pinprick.
I felt a sudden, icy dread. My fingers brushed against the tender, purple bruise just below my neck—a souvenir from the bar last night, when the human man had shoved me against the sticky counter edge before Damien intervened. It wasn't a bite. But in the dim light, with my torn dress and tear-streaked face, that ugly contusion looked exactly like a possessive mark.
That bruise. In my brother's furious eyes, it was a silent accusation.
His face went completely pale, and then, a second later, it flushed with a violent, explosive red.
"You son of a bitch!" Jamison roared.
He lunged upward. The heavy metal chair screeched against the concrete floor, and his handcuffs slammed onto the steel table with a deafening CRASH. He pointed a trembling, blood-knuckled finger directly at Damien's chest.
"Were you with her last night?!" Jamison screamed, his voice cracking with raw, protective fury. He turned his wild eyes to me, taking in my tear-stained face and my panicked trembling. "El, did he force you? Is that what this is? He's using my arrest to blackmail you into his bed?!"
"Jamison, no! Stop, please!" I gasped, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I scrambled to pull my coat tight, my face burning with a sickening, paralyzing shame. It's just a bruise, I wanted to scream. I bumped into a bar counter. But the words lodged in my throat. Explaining would mean admitting where I'd been—drunkenly drowning my sorrows in a dive bar, letting a stranger drag me into his car.
"You sick bastard!" Jamison spat at Damien, thrashing against the chains that bound him to the table. "She's not a piece of meat you can buy to get me out of a cell!"
The commotion was instantaneous. Through the one-way mirror on the wall, I saw the shadows of the detectives and Damien's legal team shifting frantically. The door handle rattled. My private humiliation was being broadcasted to a room full of strangers.
"Damien, please," I begged, grabbing the sleeve of his immaculate suit. My voice was a pathetic, broken whisper. "Just step outside. Let me explain it to him. Please."
I expected him to nod, to give me the space to clean up this horrific misunderstanding. Instead, the suffocating scent of cedar and dark tobacco flared, thick and heavy with absolute dominance.
Damien ignored my plea entirely.
His massive, warm hand enveloped my trembling fingers. With a single, fluid motion, he pulled me firmly behind his broad back, shielding me from Jamison's wrath and the prying eyes behind the glass. He stepped up to the steel table, his Lycan aura crashing down on the room like a physical weight.
"Yes, she was with me last night," Damien stated. His voice wasn't a yell; it was a low, seismic rumble that commanded absolute silence. "Because she is my wife."
Jamison froze. The furious thrashing stopped. His mouth fell open, but the words died in his throat.
Before my brother could even begin to process the shock, Damien leaned in slightly. The dark, swirling storm in his charcoal eyes was terrifying—a raw, unhinged possessiveness that made my blood run cold.
"And I didn't marry her to solve a problem," Damien continued, every syllable striking like a hammer against an anvil. "I married her because I've been in love with her for ten years."
The interrogation room plunged into a dead, ringing silence.
Behind the one-way mirror, the frantic movements ceased entirely. Jamison stared at the towering Lycan, his anger completely obliterated by the sheer, incomprehensible magnitude of the revelation. He looked from Damien to me, his eyes begging for it to be a joke.
But I couldn't look at my brother. I was staring at the back of Damien's head, my chest tight with a brand new, suffocating terror.
Ten years.
My mind spun wildly. Our marriage was a cold, calculated contract. A transaction. Yet here he was, declaring a decade-long devotion with a conviction so fierce it felt real. I stared at the man holding my hand in a vice grip, realizing with a sickening jolt that I had no idea what kind of monster I had just bound my life to.
