Donovan POV:

I stood by the bed, watching her sleep.

Even in the dim light filtering in from the hallway, I could see the faint purple bruise forming on her temple and the angry red scrape on her knee. Her brow was furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line. Whatever demons chased her in the waking world had followed her into her dreams.

My hand lifted, my fingers itching to smooth the worry from her forehead, to feel the softness of her skin. I stopped myself just an inch away. It was an intimacy I hadn't yet earned.

With a final, lingering look, I pulled the door quietly shut and walked back into the living room.

Dr. Alistair Hayes was already there, waiting by the bar with his black leather medical bag at his feet. His salt-and-pepper hair was perfectly combed, his suit immaculate. He was the only person I trusted with my life, and consequently, the only one who could get away with the disapproving look he was giving me now.

"Your suit is ruined," he stated flatly, his eyes scanning my rain-soaked form. "Another stray, Donovan?"

I ignored his dry tone. "There's a girl in the west guest room. She's injured. Take care of it. Be quiet."

Alistair's eyebrow shot up. It was the most emotion I'd seen from him in years. Without another word, he picked up his bag and headed down the hall.

I went to my study. The sleek, minimalist room was my sanctuary, a place of cold logic and hard data. I sat at my desk and opened my laptop. Finn had already sent the file.

Chloe Beaumont.

The screen filled with headlines, each one more venomous than the last.

"Raymond's Ward Defies Pack: A Scandalous Affair with George Heir."

"The Omega's Deception: Chloe Beaumont's History of Promiscuity."

The articles were accompanied by a photo. It was grainy, clearly taken from a distance, but the image was damning. Chloe, looking disheveled, in the arms of a smirking, heavyset man I recognized as Bud George. The angle was deliberately misleading, crafted to look like a clandestine embrace rather than what it likely was: an assault.

A low growl rumbled in my chest. The temperature in the study seemed to drop several degrees.

This was the work of the Raymond Pack. A crude, brutal campaign to destroy her reputation and force her into a marriage that would benefit them. They were selling her, and smearing her name to ensure she had no other options.

The door to the study opened, and Alistair walked in. He closed it behind him, his face grim.

"Her injuries are superficial," he reported, setting his bag down. "Bruises, scrapes. I cleaned and dressed them. But her vitals are all over the place. She's suffering from extreme emotional distress and exhaustion. Donovan, you need to get her out of here."

I looked up from the screen. "Give me a reason."

"I have several," he said, his voice tight with concern. "Her name is Chloe Beaumont. She's the adopted daughter of the Raymond Pack's Alpha. Her marriage to Bud George is the biggest society news in the city. By taking her, you've declared war on two Packs."

"It's not a war they can win," I said, my voice flat.

Alistair sighed, a sound of deep frustration. "For God's sake, think about your own position! The Sterling Pack is still unstable. Your father is weak, your stepmother is ambitious, and your half-brother is a fool, but a dangerous one. You just got back. You can't afford to make powerful enemies over some... Omega you found on the street."

He thought this was about lust. A momentary lapse in judgment. He couldn't possibly understand the truth.

"My affairs are my own, Alistair," I said, my tone a clear dismissal.

He shook his head, grabbing his bag. "Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you when this blows up in your face."

He left, and the study was silent once more. But his words lingered. He was right about my family. They were circling, waiting for any sign of weakness. Bringing Chloe here was a risk.

A risk I was more than willing to take.

I closed the laptop and walked back to her room, pushing the door open a crack. I just needed to see that she was still safe.

She was tossing in her sleep, the silk sheets tangled around her legs. A sheen of cold sweat glistened on her forehead.

She began to murmur, her voice thick with sleep and fear.

"No... it wasn't me... let me go..."

My fists clenched at my sides. I could feel her terror like a physical thing, a cold spike in the air. I wanted to find the people who did this to her and tear them apart.

Then, her frantic murmurs softened. Her voice changed, becoming fragile, almost tender. A single name escaped her lips, a broken whisper filled with a longing that felt like a punch to my gut.

"Emilio..."

The name hung in the silent room. A man's name.

Who the hell was Emilio?

A cold, possessive fury, dark and ugly, coiled in my stomach. It was a raw, primitive jealousy I had never experienced before. I had just found her, and she was dreaming of someone else.

My wolf snarled in my head. She is ours. Only ours.

I didn't know who this Emilio was. A past lover? A friend? It didn't matter.

He was the past. I was her future.

From this moment on, she belonged to me. And I would make damn sure that my name was the only one she ever whispered in her dreams.

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