Elenor POV

The memory of the armored Maybach faded into a dark, whiskey-soaked blur. I woke up to blinding New York sunlight piercing through massive floor-to-ceiling windows.

I bolted upright, my head throbbing with a vicious hangover. The bed beneath me was massive, draped in high-thread-count black Egyptian cotton. I looked down and realized I was drowning in a crisp, white men's button-down shirt. Panic seized my throat. I scanned the freezing black hardwood floors and saw my silk dress from the gala lying near a leather armchair, its side seam violently ripped.

Oh, Goddess. What did I do?

The frosted glass door of the en-suite bathroom slid open. He stepped out, a white towel slung dangerously low on his narrow hips. The sheer force of his Alpha aura—a suffocating, heavy blend of sharp cedarwood, a raging rainstorm, and rich Cuban tobacco—instantly crushed the oxygen out of the room. My skin prickled with the phantom electricity of his touch from last night.

I scrambled off the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. "I... I am so sorry," I stammered, my voice trembling as I instinctively backed away. "Last night. The alcohol, the stress... it was a massive mistake. I shouldn't have let things get out of hand."

He didn't say a word. His charcoal-gray eyes darkened to pitch black. I couldn't hear the inner wolf tearing at his mind, but the predatory stillness radiating from him made my breath hitch. He closed the distance between us with slow, lethal grace. I retreated, step by step, until my spine hit the freezing edge of the massive black marble island in the center of the room. Trapped.

He stopped mere inches from me. Slowly, he tilted his head to the side.

There, at the base of his thick, muscular neck, right on the collarbone, was a deep, red bite mark. A claiming mark. *My* bite mark. A fragmented memory hit me like a freight train—the overwhelming scent, the sheer panic, my teeth sinking into his burning skin in a desperate, drunken frenzy.

"A mistake?" His voice was a dangerous, gravelly whisper that vibrated straight through my chest.

"I... I can fix it," I babbled, my wolfless instincts screaming in absolute terror. "I can go to a pharmacy. Buy some heavy-duty concealer. No one has to know—"

A short, ruthless scoff cut me off. It was colder than any growl. He looked down at me as if my human solution to a deeply primal werewolf bond was the most insulting, pathetic thing he had ever heard. Without another word, he turned his broad back to me, walked to the other side of the island, and poured himself a cup of black coffee.

I stood frozen, my heart hammering against my ribs.

He picked up a folded newspaper from the counter and tossed it across the marble. It slid, stopping right in front of my trembling hands.

*The Wall Street Journal.*

The front page headline screamed: *BLACKWOOD ENTERPRISES SET FOR RECORD-BREAKING ACQUISITION.* Below the bold text was a high-definition photo of the man standing in front of me, looking every bit the ruthless corporate titan.

Damien Blackwood.

The blood drained from my face, leaving me dizzy and nauseous. In the human world, he was Wall Street's most cold-blooded predator. But in our world... *Blackwood* was a name whispered only in absolute terror. He wasn't just an Alpha. He was a Lycan. The apex predator of the werewolf hierarchy, a myth of unimaginable power and cruelty.

My petty drama with Caleb Thornton suddenly felt like a child's game. I, a defective, wolfless outcast, had just drunkenly bitten and insulted a Lycan King.

Damien took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes locking onto mine with a chilling, calculated emptiness. He set the mug down, reached into the pocket of his discarded suit trousers on the chair, and pulled out his phone.

Elenor POV

Damien’s thumb swiped across his phone screen. A second later, the massive flat-screen TV mounted on the far wall flared to life.

The muted financial news channel illuminated the penthouse. The ticker at the bottom of the screen flashed the same breaking news I had just read in the paper: *Blackwood Enterprises Acquisition.*

"A multi-billion dollar merger," Damien said, his voice devoid of any warmth. He didn't look at the screen; his piercing charcoal eyes remained locked on me. "In the human world, it’s business. But in our world, a move this aggressive puts a target on my back. Any hint of scandal, any whisper of instability, will be interpreted by rival Packs as a sign of weakness."

He took a slow, deliberate step toward me. "And weakness, Elenor, invites territorial war. It invites blood."

My breath hitched. He knew my name. Of course he did. He was a Lycan King; he probably knew everything about my pathetic existence by the time the sun came up.

He turned his phone around, shoving the screen into my line of sight.

They were grainy, paparazzi-style photos. The first was a shot outside the Tribeca bar. The neon lights illuminated my silhouette as I practically threw myself into his chest, my face partially hidden by his broad shoulders, but his sharp, unmistakable jawline was perfectly clear. He swiped to the next image. It was the two of us getting into his black Maybach. The dim interior light caught my tear-stained, intoxicated face looking up at him.

"And then," Damien murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he pointed a long, calloused finger at the angry red bite mark on his collarbone. "There is this. The ultimate proof of my... loss of control. If the Pack Elders see that I allowed a drunken, wolfless stray from a rival territory to mark me, they will question my judgment. My enemies will strike."

The sheer weight of his words crushed the air from my lungs. I had spent my entire life trying to be invisible, trying not to be a burden to anyone, especially my little brother, Jamison. Now, I was the catalyst for a potential war involving the most ruthless Pack in North America.

"I..." My voice broke. The guilt and terror were a physical weight, drowning out any rational thought of running away. "I didn't mean to. I swear. How do I fix this? Tell me what to do. I don't have any money, I have absolutely nothing, but I'll do whatever it takes—"

A flicker of something dark and deeply satisfied flashed through his eyes, so fast I thought I imagined it.

"I don't need your money," he stated flatly.

He turned away, striding over to a heavy oak desk in the corner of the room. He opened a drawer, pulled out a thick stack of papers, and walked back. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he slammed the document onto the black marble island right in front of me.

The bold, black letters at the top of the page blurred my vision: MATE-BINDING & PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT - STATE OF NEW YORK.

Before I could even process the words, Damien closed the distance. He leaned his massive frame forward, caging me between his hard body and the freezing edge of the marble counter. The sheer force of his Alpha aura—that intoxicating, suffocating blend of sharp cedarwood, a raging rainstorm, and rich Cuban tobacco—wrapped around my throat.

I was entirely trapped in his orbit.

"You will marry me," Damien commanded, his tone as clinical and absolute as if he were finalizing a corporate buyout. "We will turn this incident into a planned union. It's the only way."

I stared up at him, my jaw slack, my mind completely short-circuiting. The transition from a drunken mistake to a forced Pack marriage was so violently abrupt that the room started to spin. I was caught in a cage built by a Lycan King, and the lock had just clicked shut.

Elenor POV

The lock of his cage had just clicked shut in my mind, but my body was still frozen against the freezing edge of the marble counter. I stared at the bold letters on the document—*MATE-BINDING & PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT*—my vision swimming.

"Why?" The word barely scraped past my throat. I looked up into his ruthless, charcoal eyes. "Out of all the females in the world, why me?"

Damien’s gaze swept over me, analytical and entirely devoid of warmth. He looked at me the way a billionaire evaluated a distressed asset. "You, a wolfless from a rival Pack, with no political standing, are the perfect, uncomplicated solution to this diplomatic incident. Your lack of connections makes you... efficient."

Efficient.

The word sliced through my chest with surgical precision. It felt exactly like Caleb Thornton’s cruel voice echoing in my head, calling me a charity case in front of his entire Pack. To Caleb, I was garbage to be discarded. To the Lycan King standing before me, I was just a convenient tool. A blank slate to be used and erased. The familiar, suffocating humiliation of being absolutely nothing threatened to drown me.

Damien’s eyes narrowed slightly. He noticed my flinch. He noticed everything.

Instead of backing away, he leaned closer. The intoxicating, heavy scent of sharp cedarwood, a raging rainstorm, and rich Cuban tobacco wrapped around me, short-circuiting my panic.

"It is a two-year contract," Damien murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerous, velvety register meant only for me. "When it ends, you walk away with an eight-figure trust fund. Enough money to ensure you and your brother, Jamison, never have to scrape by again."

My breath hitched at Jamison's name. He had investigated me thoroughly.

Damien’s large hands gripped the edge of the counter on either side of my hips, trapping me completely. "As my Mate, my Luna, you will never again be a wolfless charity case. You will be the Luna of the Blackwood Pack. No one will ever dare to look down on you again."

A tear slipped down my cheek. He had found the deepest, most bleeding wound in my soul and offered the exact cure I had spent my entire life begging for. Protection. Respect. A future for my brother.

My trembling fingers reached out. Damien immediately placed a heavy, solid gold Montblanc pen into my palm.

I didn't read the pages. I couldn't. Blinded by a toxic mix of trauma, exhaustion, and the desperate need to escape my pathetic past, I signed my name on the dotted line. Elenor Harmon.

The second the ink dried, I looked up. For a fraction of a heartbeat, a flash of raw, unfiltered, feral fervor ignited in Damien’s eyes. It was a terrifying, predatory hunger that made my blood run cold. But before I could process it, the mask of the cold, calculating CEO slammed back into place.

He snatched the document, turned on his heel, and strode over to a titanium safe embedded in the wall. *Click.* The heavy metal door sealed shut.

"Go shower," Damien commanded, his tone suddenly brisk and entirely devoid of the seductive warmth from a moment ago. "There is a white dress laid out on the bed in the master suite. Put it on."

I blinked, my mind struggling to keep up with his whiplash-inducing shift in demeanor. "A dress? For what?"

"We are going to City Hall," he stated, checking the heavy Rolex on his wrist. "We have exactly two hours."

"Two hours?" Panic clawed its way back up my throat. "Today? You want to get married *today*?"

Damien turned to face me, his jaw set in stone. "The Pack Elders and my rivals are already circling. We must make this union official before they can interfere."

He didn't leave room for argument. The sheer force of his Alpha aura pushed against me, a silent demand for obedience. I was entirely powerless. In less than twelve hours, my life had been violently ripped from my hands and rewritten by a man I didn't even know.

Numbly, I pushed myself off the marble counter and walked toward the bedroom, the ticking of his watch echoing in my ears like a countdown to my own execution.