The bodyguard looked at Sloane with furious eyes, veins bulging, he was one step away from shifting on the spot.

The moment he lashed out, Solane was circled by the overgrowing Beta energy. It was easier for her as a Luna, but the scene was terrifying.

"Ex." as she opened her mouth to speak, another commanding voice echoed in the cabin.

"Stand down."

The bodyguards froze mid-step, their heads bowing low, instantly cowed by the weight of the voice. They backed off without another sound.

Sloane turned slowly, her pulse steady, though Ava stirred uneasily inside her.

The figure who approached wasn't like the rest. He wore only a black shirt, the top buttons undone, revealing glimpses of taut muscle and the faint marks of old scars. Tall, lean, carved from shadows, his sharp features carried a cold, unreadable power. Even the beads on his wrist, wolfbone polished smooth, seemed more talisman than ornament.

His gaze locked on her, as cool and ruthless as an Alpha's command.

Sloane cleared her throat, forcing calm. "Are you his father?"

The child's breathing had eased, his small body finally relaxing against her. The danger had passed, but he needed rest.

The man shook his head once.

She blinked. "No?"

"My nephew," he said at last. His voice was low, iron-hard, with no room for doubt. "Tell me what is going on with him."

He hesitated a beat, looking at her like she was a fraud and her touching his nephew was another trick for fun, but he added, "You won't be punished. Not when you meant no harm."

Relief loosened the tightness in Sloane's chest. For a moment, she'd truly thought she wouldn't leave this cabin alive.

She couldn't tell him what she noticed until she was sure about that thing. But for now a partial truth would suffice.

"His throat swelled nearly shut," she explained evenly. "Acute inflammation. Likely viral. He needs to be seen in a proper hospital as soon as we land. He's stable now, but keep him from stress, any more strain could trigger another attack."

As if to prove her words, the pup blinked awake, his bronze eyes glimmering as they fixed on her with awe, like she was the only light in the room.

The man gave a single nod, slow and deliberate. "You have my thanks."

Sloane offered a small smile, dipping her head respectfully. "I only did what a Healer must. It's the moon goddess's blessing."

"Still, I believe you deserve a token of gratitude." The man clicked his fingers, and one of the bodyguards gave her a bank card.

"I am sorry, I can't take this." Sloane stuttered.

"It's not a bribe, it's your fees. I hope you can take it." The man insisted, his voice still devoid of any emotion.

"I." she said.

"I insist," he said as he pressed the card into her hand.

Sloane was dumbfounded when she was escorted back to her seat. She was still reeling from the events that took place in the previous hour when she was once again summoned to the cabin.

"Please look after Master Volkov for the time being, that would be very helpful." One of the assistants pleaded.

Sloane agreed, she wanted to earn the money she was given. So that might be the way to ease the guilt.

Still, Sloane took her role seriously and kept her focus on the little wolf's breathing. His color returned, his pulse steadying, the faint rasp in his throat easing. Relief softened her shoulders.

After settling him, she wandered toward the door, gaze flicking over the lavish cabin. The space was opulent, marked by the unmistakable scent of old Alpha bloodlines, polished wood, carved runes etched into the corners, wards humming faintly. The hush inside was almost unnatural, as if the air itself bent in deference.

Through the window, she watched thick clouds roll beneath the plane's wings. For the first time in moons, she felt grounded.

Maybe when she first boarded, she was still mourning the severed bond with Damon, the weight of Caleb's rejection, the loss of a life she'd poured herself into.

But saving this child reminded her that her gifts weren't wasted. She wasn't just a discarded Luna. She was still a healer. Still a wolf with purpose.

That truth swelled inside her, warm and solid.

Suddenly.

A faint rustle stirred behind her.

She tensed.

The sound stopped. Silence pressed in.

Then, another rustle, closer this time. Testing her.

Her wolf pricked its ears. She turned slowly, but nothing greeted her.

Just as she started to face forward again, a small hand tugged gently at her tunic.

She glanced down instinctively.

And found herself staring into wide, yellow-tinged eyes.

The boy broke into a shy, awkward smile. His pale skin glowed in the cabin's lamplight, long lashes fluttering like a hawk moth's wings. When he blinked, those eyes shimmered like sunlight through amber.

Her chest softened instantly. A small pup suffering with that kind of pain.

Sensing her warmth, he nuzzled against her hand like a pup seeking comfort.

"What's your name, little wolf?" she asked, voice gentle.

The boy tilted his head, curls bouncing, and clung tighter to her fingers. His voice came out soft, sweet, still edged with a wolf pup's innocence.

"Jeremy Volkov."

Sloane chuckled and clasped his tiny hand, giving it a playful shake. "I'm Sloane Veyra. I'll be watching over you for now. You can call me Sloane. or Aunt Sloane, whichever you like."

"Aunt Sloane," he said solemnly, as though sealing a pact.

She nodded in approval, and his grin broke wide, dimples flashing like twin moons.

Too pure. Too bright. Sunshine wrapped in fur and skin.

The chamber was clearly designed for him, wolf toys scattered about, rune-marked blocks, carved wooden figurines of beasts.

While she checked his pulse again and listened to his breathing, she played with him, her hands quick and practiced. Years of dealing with Caleb's moods had made her patient; with this little one, it was effortless.

Soon, Jeremy was gazing at her with unguarded admiration.

"Auntie, you're amazing! Way cooler than my uncle!"

Sloane arched a brow, lips curving in a teasing lilt. "Is that so? Then, since you lost, it's time to take your medicine."

Jeremy obeyed without fuss, gulping down the herbal draught like a warrior in training.

By then, the plane began its descent.

A pack of bodyguards filed in silently to escort the pup away.

Ava gave a soft pang of reluctance. Still, she offered Jeremy a warm smile and lifted her hand in farewell.

He waved back, reluctant but trusting.

And just like that, the moment ended. She told herself it was over, just another episode in her journey.

She straightened her shoulders, packed her satchel, and stepped back into her true calling: the medical relief mission waiting below.

On the third day, just as Sloane finished scrawling the last notes on her healing reports and prepared to return to her quarters, a familiar scent drifted on the wind.

She froze mid-step.

Down the street, a towering man stood, broad-shouldered, dressed in black, unmistakably a war trained Beta. His stance was too deliberate, he wasn't there by chance. He was waiting.

Sloane's heart skipped.

Moon above... don't tell me saving that little wolf dragged me into pack politics. I can't afford to be tangled in another Alpha's mess.

The man approached, but instead of hostility, his head dipped low in respect. His tone was formal, deferential, something she wasn't used to hearing anymore.

"Miss. Veyra, don't be afraid. I am not here to harm you. Mr. Volkov needs your help."

Sloane blinked, unease prickling her skin.

Her thoughts leapt to the boy on the plane.

"Did something happen to Jeremy?" she asked sharply.

The bodyguard's face turned grave, voice carrying the weight of an oath.

"It would be best if you came with me and saw for yourself."

All sorts of things ran through Sloane's mind, and she rushed with the bodyguards. They entered the Volkov's estate and it was not something that Sloane hadn't seen.

She was not interested in luxuries or show off, she had lived her life as a decent wolf and would love to do that in the future too.

She was escorted straight to a room, and when Sloane entered it, she felt like she was teleported into a war zone.

The whole room was torn into pieces, and the orchestrator of the whole mess was growling in anger.

Solane's eyes widened as she noticed his little claws coming out, but as soon as they came, they were gone.

What the hell is wrong with him, Sloane wondered.

And on the other corner, the man was standing, still aloof, but anger radiating from him.

"Call him! Ask him how much time it will take," Dominic growled, his eyes focused on Jeremy.

Seeing Dominic's serious expression, Sloane jumped between them, trying to protect Jeremy from his uncle's wrath.

"He is a kid," Solane reasoned.

Dominic squinted his eyes.

"Don't worry honey. I am here." Sloane whispered to Jeremy.

The child who was ready to tear everyone apart smiled and ran to hug Solane.

"Don't touch," Dominic gritted his teeth. His Alpha aura flared, making people wince.

The temperature of the room dropped drastically; every eye was focused on Sloane and Dominic.

Ignoring Dominic and others' stares, she went down to hug him, and he preened like a cat under her touch.

Everyone's heart stopped; they were waiting for the bomb to blow, but to all their surprise Dominic chuckled.

The dead weight of the situation was weighing heavily on all the staff.

Sloane sat on the edge of the bed, one hand brushing gently through Jeremy's hair, whispering soft reassurances until the boy's trembling finally gave way to the steady rhythm of sleep. Around them, people lingered in tense silence, their eyes darting toward the tall figure in the corner.

Dominic.

Cold, unyielding, his very presence seemed to tighten the air. Shadows clung to him like armor, and no one dared to step too close. His reputation had already done enough damage, fear preceded him, filling the ruined room far more than the wreckage ever could.

When Jeremy's small breaths evened out, Sloane carefully rose to her feet. She tugged her coat tighter around her shoulders and turned toward the doorway, intent on slipping out quietly.

But before she could take a step, Dominic moved. A wall of muscle and ice, his hand came up to bar her path.

Her heart jolted, but she forced her face into something unreadable. "Move," she said firmly. "I need to leave."

His gaze swept over her, unreadable, but unflinching. "Do you know who I am?" His voice was smooth, deep, yet threaded with something darker.

Sloane let out a sharp breath, rolling her eyes as if the room's tension didn't already weigh like chains. "Yes, I know. Alpha Dominic Volkov, the untouchable heir." She tilted her chin, daring him to argue. "Just because you're rich doesn't mean you get to bully people."

Something flickered across his face, not anger, not amusement, but a quiet calculation. Slowly, Dominic shook his head, as though her defiance was both irritating and oddly fascinating.

"I'm not here to bully you, Miss. Sloane," he said at last, his voice dropping lower, steadier. "I have a proposition in mind."

Sloane's brows arched, suspicion flaring. "A proposition? What proposition?"

Dominic didn't hesitate. "You'll look after Jeremy." His gaze cut toward the sleeping boy, softening only for a fraction of a second before hardening again. "And in return, I'll keep you safe."

For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint creak of the broken window frame in the wind. Sloane's chest rose and fell as she weighed his words. The offer was tempting, too tempting, and Dominic knew it.

She drew in a deep breath, steadying herself. "Fine," she said carefully. "But I have a condition."

His eyes narrowed, sharp with intrigue. "A condition?" His tone carried the faintest hint of challenge, as though he expected her to falter.

Sloane met his stare head-on, her own voice low but steady. "Not just here. Not just within these ruined walls, or in this territory." She stepped closer, chin lifting. "If I'm to do this for you, I need your protection everywhere, even beyond your borders."

For the first time, Dominic's lips curved, not quite a smile, but something close, a glint of interest, maybe even respect. His voice was calm, yet dangerous in its certainty.

"Bold," he murmured, tilting his head. "Very bold."

**

Back in the Blackthorn territory.

Damon Blackthorn woke with a pounding skull, sprawled across the leather couch, still in last night's clothes. No blanket, no comfort, just the stale taste of liquor and the stench of the room around him.

On the floor Caleb clutched a pillow in his sleep, face pressed against the carpet. The mess from the night before was brutal, half-empty bottles, overturned glasses, and a dark stain of vomit near the table.

Damon's jaw tightened, shadows cutting hard across his features.

"Where the hell is Sloane? Why hasn't this been cleaned?"

His voice cracked through the silence, harsh enough to rattle the air. But no reply came. Only the faint stirring of Caleb, jolted awake by the sharpness of his father's tone.

The boy blinked, and his face crumpled in pain.

"Ouch! It hurts, it really hurts!"

He clutched his arm, wailing in panic.

Damon's temples throbbed harder. His hangover roared, and the noise clawed at his nerves.

"Stop crying," he snapped, voice like ice. "You are an Alpha. What's wrong?"

Caleb's sobs cut short, replaced with hiccuping sniffles. "Dad. my arm. it really hurts."

The bruises stood out stark against the boy's pale skin, running the length of his arm. He tried to lift it, but the pain twisted his small face, leaving him frozen and trembling on the floor.

For a long moment, Damon only stared, tired, unblinking, unreadable. Then, with a low breath, he leaned back and pulled his phone from his pocket.

The first name in his contacts: Sloane.

His thumb hit the call button without hesitation. As the line rang, his expression remained like stone.

She was working overnight again. Always gone. Always leaving him to this chaos.

She should have quit by now. She should have been here.

Damon pressed the phone harder to his ear, jaw tightening as the automated voice echoed back at him: The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.

He lowered the phone slowly, eyes narrowing, the silence in the room thick with his rage.

"So, that's how it is?" he muttered under his breath, voice low and dangerous. His knuckles whitened around the device. "One fight, and now she thinks she can play games with me? She pulls that ridiculous bond-dissolution stunt, and now-what? Vanishes? Won't even pick up her damn phone?"

I am an Alpha, he smirked.

The bitterness in his tone was sharp enough to cut glass. He let out a dark, humorless laugh. "Fine. Let her. When she comes crawling back, and she will. And then I'll make sure she regrets every second of it."

His thoughts were interrupted by Caleb's cries, high-pitched and raw. He couldn't believe he was his son. The sound drilled into his skull, worsening the pounding hangover already tearing through him. Damon pinched the bridge of his nose and barked out, "Enough!" before dialing the pack doctor.

The man answered quickly, voice calm, too calm for Damon's liking. After a few questions, the doctor's verdict was clear: "He'll be fine, Alpha. Just bruises. With his wolf blood, he'll heal in less than a day."

Damon's irritation only deepened. His lip curled, and he exhaled a sharp breath through his nose. "Then stop wasting my time with noise," he snapped, his voice like the crack of a whip.

He shoved the phone into his pocket and turned on the others lingering in the room. "All of you, out." His glare silenced any protest. "Take Caleb to school. Now."

The order rang absolute, cold as steel.

No one dared argue.

Caleb's cries only grew louder when the attendants tried to tug him toward the door. He clutched his sore arm to his chest, tears streaking his face as he turned to his father.

"Dad, please! I'm not feeling well. I can't go to school like this!" His voice cracked with desperation.

Damon's head lifted slowly, his dark gaze pinning the boy in place. The room went deathly still, everyone sensing the storm about to break.

"So what if you're not well?" Damon's tone was ice, threaded with disdain. He rose to his feet, towering over his son. "You will be well. That's how it works. You are supposed to heal, to endure. Consider this your test as the next Alpha."

Caleb's sobs shook his small frame. "But it hurts," he whispered, clutching tighter at his arm.

The sound grated against Damon's ears. His expression hardened, cruelty slipping through like cracks in stone.

"Pathetic," he bit out. His voice was low, but the sting of it was sharper than any slap. "Crying over bruises? You call yourself my son? You're a waste of Alpha blood."

The words cut through the boy like a blade. Caleb's face crumpled, his sobs turning ragged, but he didn't argue. He couldn't.

The others in the room lowered their gazes, fear and unease pooling in the silence. No one dared speak for the boy. Not when Damon Blackthorn had spoken.

The pack doctor lingered, shifting on his feet, then finally cleared his throat. "Alpha. forgive me for asking, but. are you well? Do you need anything for the pain? Medicine, perhaps?"

Damon's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing into a lethal glare. The cold edge in his voice froze the room. "I said everything is fine. Do I look like I need your pity?"

The doctor lowered his gaze instantly. "Of course not, Alpha." With that, silence swallowed the room again.

An hour dragged by, thick with Damon's brooding presence. He sat back in the chair, one leg crossed, fingers drumming against the armrest as his thoughts circled back to Sloane. Her absence, her silence, it clawed at him, but in a twisted way, it only fed his pride.

Then, a knock broke the quiet. Soft at first, then louder.

A smirk curved across Damon's lips. Finally.

"She's ready to crawl back," he murmured, standing. His phone buzzed at the same time, vibrating against the table. He didn't bother to look, certain it was her. Certain she couldn't stay away.

The phone buzzed again, insistently. His anticipation rose like fire in his veins, a heady mix of triumph and satisfaction. He answered without hesitation, his voice cool, mocking. "Couldn't stay away, could you?"

But the reply wasn't Sloane's.

"Good afternoon, Alpha," a polite voice said. "We've arrived to begin redecorating young Master Caleb's room. May we come in?"

Damon froze. The smirk vanished, replaced with a blank stare. For the first time in hours, he said nothing, just silence, heavy and sharp.

The high he'd been riding crashed instantly, leaving only the bitter taste of disappointment in its place.

"Come another day." He didn't wait for a response, shoving the phone aside before sinking deeper into the leather chair, irritation clawing at his chest.

By evening, he sat at the long dining table, its polished surface gleaming under the warm lights. The staff moved silently around him, setting dish after dish, each detail perfect, just as it always had been. Damon picked up his fork, tasting the first bite. Familiar flavors. Order. Control. Nothing had changed.

For a moment, he let the food anchor him, ease the pounding in his temples. Good. Stable. Predictable.

But then he asked, almost absently, "Where are the mashed potatoes?"

The dish was placed before him quickly. Damon scooped a spoonful, brought it to his mouth.

And froze.

His expression darkened instantly. He set the spoon down with a sharp clink, the air around him crackling with tension. "What the hell is this?" His voice cut through the room like a blade. "I've never tasted something like this. Who let this leave the kitchen?"

The head chef stepped forward nervously, bowing his head. "Alpha, forgive me. I. I tried to replicate Luna's recipe. The staff have grown used to serving it her way. But-" He faltered, swallowing. "We ran out of her special sauce. That may be why it tastes different."

The name hit Damon like a slap. His grip on the fork tightened until the metal groaned.

Luna. Sloane. Always Sloane.

Even here, in his house, in his meals, she lingered like a shadow he couldn't shake.

He pushed the plate away, disgust and fury twisting in his gut. His jaw clenched as his eyes narrowed, sharp with promise.

"She thinks she can leave me behind. She thinks she can play her games and walk away untouched." His voice was low, almost a growl, meant only for himself.

Damon leaned back, a cruel smirk tugging at his mouth as his anger burned into resolve.

"She won't get far. I'll make her pay."