Claire's POV

I took a personal day from work, a welcome reprieve from the awkward office encounters.

At one o'clock sharp, I arrived at the Conrad Hotel for Uncle John's sixtieth birthday celebration. I presented him with the carefully selected gift and offered my polite birthday wishes, trying my best to ignore the familiar tightness in my chest.

My father hadn't arrived yet-a small, momentary victory. The mere thought of seeing him, flashing that artificial smile beside her, made my stomach churn.

I planned to make my excuses and slip away quietly after the main course, but Aunt Carter, ever so kind, caught my arm just as I was about to execute my escape.

"Claire, don't leave yet. There's another guest joining us, someone very important!"

I forced a small, polite smile. "Important? Who could that be?"

"Your Uncle John's friend's son," she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "You'll never believe it-he's your company's new CEO! Lucius Watson!"

The champagne flute in my hand nearly slipped, the delicate stem suddenly slick with sweat.

"What?" The single word was a choked gasp.

Of all the people in the world. him. Again.

Before I could recover from the gut-punch of shock, the grand banquet hall doors swung open. And there he was. Lucius, striding in with the effortless confidence of a man who owned not just the room, but the very air within it.

And beside him-my father's family.

As if fate thoroughly enjoyed tormenting me, I spotted Ethan too, hovering near Emma's elbow.

My stomach twisted painfully, nausea rising. I wanted nothing more than to simply vanish. But Aunt Carter, blissfully unaware of the emotional minefield she'd just pushed me into, gently guided me toward the VIP table.

When I was seated, my pulse nearly stopped.

At the very same table sat my father, Ryan, his trophy wife Connie Briden, her daughter Emma, Ethan, and Lucius.

The air itself seemed to thicken, heavy, suffocating, crackling with an almost palpable tension.

I wasn't sure if Aunt Carter, still believing in my relationship with Ethan, had invited him, or if Emma had simply dragged him along as her latest conquest, a shining new accessory.

Connie sat across from me, elegance dripping from every smug gesture. Her designer gown shimmered beneath the crystal chandelier, catching the light. Beside her, Emma, all engineered perfection-thick, fluttering lashes, a meticulously pouted lip, an unnaturally sculpted face that screamed of expensive procedures and endless vanity.

And there he was-Ethan himself-sitting right next to her, his arm casually draped over the back of her chair, his smirk as self-satisfied as ever. Funny. Just this morning he'd texted me, claiming he still loved me. Yet here he was, playing the devoted boyfriend in public.

Men truly were masters of hypocrisy.

Lucius sat opposite me, composed and unreadable, his tailored black suit fitting him like a second skin, an armor against the world. He didn't look at anyone directly, his gaze distant, almost bored. Yet, I could feel the pervasive weight of his presence, the quiet command that seemed to ripple from him without a single word.

I lowered my head, focusing intently on the exquisite, expensive dishes I couldn't afford in a thousand lifetimes. The food was undoubtedly gourmet, yet in my mouth, it tasted like bitter ash.

Then my father's voice cut through the polite murmurs, oily and obsequious.

"Oh, Emma," he cooed, his tone oozing with forced warmth. "This is Mr. Lucius Watson. He's the CEO of the Watson Group now. Our company might have a chance to work with his in the future. You should. make sure to get acquainted."

Ryan Pierce-my father. The man who had shattered our family and now shamelessly sought profit from every connection, including the man who had, in a different way, just ruined me.

Emma's laugh was sweet and practiced, a high, tinkling sound. "It's such an honor to meet you, Mr. Watson. I truly hope we'll have the chance to work closely together in the future."

She leaned forward, giving him a perfect, unobstructed view of her ample cleavage.

Lucius didn't flinch. His gaze remained perfectly level, impassive. His voice, when he finally spoke, was polite but utterly detached. "Pleasure."

For a fleeting second, his eyes flickered towards me-so quickly, I could have easily imagined it. But the sudden, sharp tension that coiled in my chest was undeniably real.

Emma, oblivious, pressed on. "It feels too formal to call you 'Mr. Watson.' May I just call you Lucius instead?"

Her tone was sickly sweet, cloying. I wanted to gag. Ethan, the opportunist, looked delighted, like a man who relished being close to power, even if it meant tolerating his cheating partner's blatant flirting.

Lucius said nothing, his expression completely unchanged.

"Lucius?" Emma persisted, twirling a lock of perfectly styled hair around her finger. "Could I perhaps have your contact information? Strictly for business purposes, of course."

"You can reach my secretary," he replied flatly, without a hint of warmth.

The brutal rejection hung in the air, sharp and merciless.

For a moment, his gaze slid towards me again. I instinctively looked away, my cheeks heating for reasons I couldn't quite fathom. Perhaps I was imagining the pull-that strange, magnetic awareness that had haunted me since that night.

But before the awkward silence could fully settle, Connie's shrill voice sliced through the air like a knife.

"Claire, you are being terribly rude. I am your elder. Aren't you going to offer me a greeting?"

The sheer audacity of that woman.

My head snapped up. I met her gaze squarely, refusing to back down. "You're not my elder," I said, my voice dangerously even. "You're just the woman who ruined my family."

The table went utterly still. A hush fell over the surrounding diners.

Lucius's eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly, though his face remained a mask of impassivity.

Connie gasped, a theatrical performance of mock offense, and turned to my father. "Ryan, your daughter is completely out of control!"

My father's face darkened, a familiar storm brewing. "Claire, apologize to Connie right now!"

Of course. That was always his line.

No matter what the situation, Connie was always the aggrieved victim, and I, the perpetual disgrace.

Ethan, ever the opportunistic sycophant, decided to chime in, playing the moral judge. "Claire, that was completely uncalled for. You should apologize."

I laughed, a cold, sharp sound. "Playing the dutiful future son-in-law already? How truly sweet of you."

He sneered. "No wonder our relationship never worked. You never knew when to shut your mouth."

My temper, already threadbare, finally snapped. "It didn't work because you don't know how to keep your pants on-and Emma doesn't know how to keep her legs closed."

Gasps rippled through the table, a collective intake of breath. Emma's perfectly painted smile vanished, replaced by a mask of furious shock.

I stood, my chair scraping loudly, harshly, against the marble floor. "Tell me, why should I apologize? Because she's older? Because she stole my father, destroyed my mother's life, and now expects me to bow down to her?"

Connie shot to her feet, trembling with incandescent rage. "Ryan! She's humiliating me! Do something!"

My father's hand slammed down on the table, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "Enough!"

Then came the crack.

The slap landed across my face before I even saw it coming.

Pain exploded, a white-hot agony. The room spun wildly. I staggered, my knees buckling, sending me sprawling to the floor.

Before I could even register the shock, a sharp, piercing sting burst across my hand-Emma's heel, pressing down, grinding hard on my fingers.

I looked up, fury burning through the dizzying haze.

"You know what?" I spat, pushing myself to my feet, my voice shaking with raw emotion. "Fuck all of you!"

More gasps filled the room, now a chorus of stunned silence.

I grabbed the nearest bowl of steaming soup-an elaborate consommé, perhaps-and hurled it straight at Ryan. The boiling liquid splashed across his expensive suit, eliciting a choked cry.

He roared in outrage, but I was already moving. The next plate went flying-a meticulously arranged appetizer-its contents splattering across Connie's designer chest, followed by another, aimed squarely at Emma's pristine gown.

The room erupted into utter chaos.

"Claire, stop it!" Uncle John shouted, rushing towards me, his face pale, but his words were muffled, lost in the din.

Connie was shrieking, a high-pitched, furious sound. Ryan was cursing, shaking his fist. Emma frantically tried to wipe soup off her chest with a flimsy napkin, only succeeding in smearing it further.

I turned to my father, my chest heaving, tears finally blurring my vision, not of sadness, but of pure, unadulterated rage. "You said you won't have a daughter like me? Good. Because I no longer have a father like you."

The words left my lips like fire, searing the air. For the first time in my life, I felt no guilt in speaking them.

Freedom burned where pain used to be.

I walked away, trembling uncontrollably, but unbroken.

Author's POV

Lucius had remained utterly silent through the entire sordid scene, his gaze never once leaving her.

The chaos erupting around the table was mere background noise, an irrelevant din. What truly mattered was her.

Claire Morrison.

The fierce defiance in her eyes. The barely perceptible tremor in her hands. The raw courage with which she stood her ground, despite the pain, despite the betrayal.

Raven stirred inside him, restless, agitated.

"She's ours."a primal growl echoed in his mind.

Lucius's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking. "No." His control was slipping.

"She's bleeding," the voice in his head snarled, darker now."They hurt what's ours."

His knuckles went white as he gripped the tablecloth.

His wolf Raven, the wild and primitive part of him, was fighting for control, desperate to rip apart anyone who had hurt Claire.

The protective instinct was overwhelming.

But he stayed silent, forcing down his wolf's violent impulses.

He had to. Not here, not now. Not if he wanted to keep pretending to be human.

As she stormed away, all furious grace and fire, he caught one last glimpse of her face. Flushed, angry, beautifully alive.

The truth hit him, ancient and absolute, sinking into his bones.

He could fight it, deny it, rage against it.

But the mate bond was already there. Unbreakable. Undeniable.

She was his fated mate.

Even if she didn't know it yet.

Claire's POV

"Claire, wait!"

Ethan's voice, laced with false authority, stopped me just as I stepped out of the hotel's gleaming revolving doors.

I froze for half a second, a sigh escaping my lips before I reluctantly turned.

He stood a few feet away, his expression a baffling mix of irritation and what he probably thought was genuine concern. "Why are you always like this?" he demanded, as if I were the problem. "We were together for four years, Claire, and you still haven't changed-hot-headed, impulsive, always making a scene in public."

I blinked at him, disbelief momentarily overriding my simmering anger. That's why he followed me? To scold me? For one stupid heartbeat, I'd entertained the ludicrous idea that he might have come to check on me, to offer some comfort after the public humiliation. But of course not. That was never Ethan.

I almost laughed, the sound hollow. "Are you serious right now?"

He sighed dramatically, as if I were the exhausting one. "We could have had a future if you'd just tried to be more. I don't know. Feminine. Softer. Sexier. Why can't you be more like Emma?"

The words, dripping with casual cruelty, sliced through the last fragile thread of patience I possessed.

More like Emma? The woman who helped dismantle my family, who stole my boyfriend, and still had the nerve to show up tonight dripping in ostentatious diamonds?

I looked at him, disbelief curdling into pure disgust. "Four years together, and you still don't understand me. I don't need to change for anyone-especially not for a man who left me for a walking plastic surgery catalog."

"I was going to propose to you!" Ethan's voice rose, echoing off the grand marble columns of the hotel entrance. "Thank God I didn't!"

I let out a harsh, hollow laugh. "Don't you dare try to justify your cheating by blaming me. And thank you for sparing me the nightmare of marrying you."

I brushed past him, ignoring the wounded pride contorting his face. The spring breeze was biting cold, and my thin dress offered little to no protection.

The more I walked, the more my feet ached in my heels. No taxis were in sight, only the city lights glittering like indifferent, mocking stars.

Memories surfaced despite my best efforts to bury them. Ethan and I, walking hand in hand through brightly lit shop windows a year ago. The day he'd bought me that little cupid brooch I'd admired but couldn't afford. He'd smiled then, his eyes genuinely warm. "When I'm rich, I'll buy you something better, Claire."

How incredibly ironic those words felt now.

Love, it turned out, was nothing more than a loan that never got repaid.

The wind stung my face, and despite my fierce resolve, tears welled in my eyes, blurring the indifferent city lights. I wasn't weak-but even the strongest woman could break after being betrayed, publicly humiliated, and physically assaulted all in one day.

Still, I didn't regret fighting back. I'd rather be the woman who threw the soup than the one who swallowed her pride, silently choking on it.

My foot throbbed with every painful step. I was about to take off my heels and walk barefoot, consequences be damned, when a sleek black Bentley rolled to a silent stop beside me.

The tinted window slid down, revealing him.

Lucius.

His face was a mask, every feature carved from shadow and absolute control, utterly unreadable. "Get in the car," he ordered, his voice deep, commanding, leaving no room for argument.

I froze, startled by both his sudden, unexpected appearance and his audacious tone. It wasn't a suggestion-it was an unequivocal order.

Work hours were long over. I didn't owe him an ounce of obedience. And after the absolute spectacle he'd witnessed at dinner, the very last thing I wanted was to be cooped up in a car with him.

So, I ignored him, tightening my grip on my purse, and kept walking.

"It's nearly impossible to get a cab here at this hour," he said evenly from behind me, the car still crawling at my pace.

I still didn't respond, only quickening my steps.

He waited a moment, then added, his tone deceptively calm, chillingly precise, "You should know there have been several attacks on women in this area recently. The suspect hasn't been caught."

I stopped dead in my tracks. The street suddenly felt darker, colder. The rustling of leaves in the wind sounded sharper, more sinister.

My battered pride battled furiously with raw reason-but primal instinct, the very instinct he seemed to awaken, won.

I turned back, exhaled a shaky breath, and opened the passenger door. Without a single word, I climbed in.

Lucius started the engine, the powerful car purring softly. The silence between us was thick, heavy, almost suffocating in its intensity.

After a few tense minutes, he reached into the console and handed me a small, black, unadorned box. "This will help with the swelling."

I blinked, genuinely surprised. "What is it?"

"Ointment," he said simply, as if discussing the weather.

Out of some ingrained politeness, I took it and carefully opened the lid-only to gag at the incredibly pungent, almost medicinal smell that hit me. "What the-" I choked, pulling away.

Lucius's lips curved, the faintest ghost of amusement flickering across his otherwise stoic, perfect face. "Apply it," he said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

I hesitated, then reluctantly dabbed a tiny bit onto my throbbing cheek. The cooling sensation spread almost immediately, the sting fading as if by magic.

I gasped softly, genuinely impressed. "It actually works."

"Of course it does," he murmured, as if stating the most obvious, incontrovertible fact in the world.

Still, the smell was absolutely unbearable. I wrinkled my nose, glaring at him through the corner of my eye. His faint smirk deepened, and I realized-he was thoroughly enjoying my discomfort.

I turned away with a huff, crossing my arms defensively.

A few moments later, his voice broke the heavy silence again. "So," he began, his tone casual, almost conversational, but his eyes, when he briefly flicked them to me, were sharp, dissecting. "You were drinking alone that night. Mourning your cheating boyfriend. And you begged me to take you home."

I froze. The bluntness, the absolute lack of delicacy in his words, made my heart stutter.

I shot him a furious glare. "Excuse me? I did not beg you. And for the record, last night was a mistake. A moment of weakness. A catastrophic lapse in judgment. I had no idea you'd be my boss."

He didn't look away. His gaze was steady-too steady, too intense. "And now?"

"Now," I said, my voice firm, resolute, "we maintain professional boundaries. What happened will not happen again."

Lucius's voice dropped lower, almost a conspiratorial whisper, a dangerous rumble that vibrated through the car. "Professional boundaries. One-time thing."

"Yes."

He leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable, a Sphinx-like enigma. Then he said, almost lazily, with an edge of pure arrogance, "Don't flatter yourself. I have no interest in you. If anything, I should be the one concerned that you might try to use me for your own benefit."

The sheer audacity, the unadulterated arrogance in his tone, made my blood boil.

"Wow," I said through clenched teeth, my voice a low growl. "You really are full of yourself, Mr. Watson."

He said nothing, that faint, infuriating smirk returning to his lips like a secret only he understood, a silent victory.

Ten minutes later, the Bentley pulled to a smooth, silent stop outside my building.

"Thank you, Mr. Watson," I said stiffly, unbuckling my seat belt with deliberate movements. "For the ride."

"You don't need to thank me," he replied, his voice still that same emotionless, detached cadence. "You're an employee. If something happened to you, the company would have to cover part of the compensation fee."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

He looked at me, perfectly calm, his gaze unwavering. "It's a business precaution. Purely logical."

Unbelievable. The man was infuriating beyond measure.

"Don't worry, Mr. Watson," I snapped, my temper flaring again. "I'll make sure I live to be a hundred. You can save your precious compensation money for yourself."

Before he could respond, I slammed the car door shut with a satisfying thud.

The Bentley pulled away, tires hissing softly against the wet pavement. He didn't even glance back.

I stood there, watching the taillights disappear into the dark, my pulse still racing from anger, from defiance, from something I couldn't name.

He was infuriating-cold, arrogant, insufferably composed, treating me like a liability rather than a human being.

And yet, against all reason, my heart was still beating too fast.

When I got home, Betty, my younger sister, ran up to me the moment I opened the door. "Claire! What happened to your face?"

Mom came hurrying out of the kitchen, her expression instantly shifting from worried to horrified when she saw the angry red mark on my cheek. "Who did this? Was it your father?"

I forced a small, wobbly smile. "Don't worry, Mom. I got slapped twice, but I definitely returned the favor."

Her eyes filled with tears, not for herself, but for me. "You shouldn't have gone there, honey."

"Don't defend him," I interrupted, the smile slipping, a fresh wave of bitterness rising. "Ryan stopped being my father the moment he walked out on us. Why do you still protect him?"

"Claire, he's your father after all," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, filled with an age-old sadness.

I looked at her, at her tired, perpetually worried eyes, at the woman who had endured so much in silence-and my anger, for a moment, faded into sheer exhaustion.

"I'm tired, Mom," I said quietly, rubbing my temples. "I'm going to rest."

I went to my room and shut the door behind me, the silence a welcome balm. My cheek still burned with a dull ache, but the pain in my chest was far, far worse.

I collapsed onto my bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Tomorrow was the weekend. Thank God for that.

Because after tonight, I wasn't sure how much strength I had left to face the world again.

Lucius's POV

As I drove her home, the woman beside me sat in tense silence, but my mind was replaying the first time I'd seen her, barely a day ago.

She'd pushed open the bar door, walking in as if swept by a sudden, violent gale. Her scarlet dress, clinging to every curve, showcased an alluring figure. Golden hair cascaded loosely around her shoulders, framing a face of striking beauty-fair skin, delicate features, and prominent tear stains streaking her cheeks.

I'd taken one look, then returned to my drink. After all, she was just an ordinary human girl, and therefore, inconsequential to me.

I am a werewolf. My father, the formidable Alpha of the Black Moon pack, had strategically established our companies within human society. I had spent years studying business management abroad, preparing for my destiny. Next month, I would officially assume my father's mantle as the new Alpha, a role that brought me back to this world, and naturally, made me the new CEO of the Watson Group.

As the future Alpha, my Luna-my chosen mate and partner-must be a powerful werewolf woman, capable of leading our pack alongside me. Besides, I had always preferred the strength and companionship of our own kind. So, despite the undeniable pull I felt towards her that night, I didn't approach immediately.

My wolf, Raven, however, was unusually agitated.

Talk to her, Raven urged, his voice a low thrum within my mind. (As werewolves, we communicate with our wolf through mind links, no need for spoken words.)

She's just a human. What's so special about her? I countered, trying to quell his insistence.

She's ours, our mate, Raven replied, a powerful certainty in his tone.

I watched her as she drowned her sorrows, one vodka after another. Even across the smoky room, a subtle fragrance-a blend of wild flowers and warm vanilla-wafted from her, calling to me, though faintly.

Let's go, Raven urged again, his agitation growing.

I had no choice. Ignoring Raven was a fool's errand; if he took control, the situation would only escalate. Reluctantly, I finished my drink, the amber liquid suddenly tasteless, and walked over to her.

Women had never been scarce in my life, a benefit, I supposed, of my looks and status. Soon enough, she ended up in my bed. When I slipped off her dress, her body was truly stunning. A slim waist, full, generous hips, long, elegant legs, and breasts that were simply perfect.

She was a virgin, completely inexperienced, yet sex with her brought an unprecedented, almost primal satisfaction. Her body seemed made for mine, fitting me in ways I had never experienced. I lost count of how many times I took her, yet the insistent hunger within me remained unsated.

To be honest, even now, recalling those moments, I can still taste the salt and sweetness of her skin, feel the consuming warmth of her embrace.

But the next morning's cold shower, a necessary ritual for clarity, brought me crashing back to reality. She was human. Humans didn't understand our world, the ancient responsibilities, the immense burden I carried. A human Luna could destroy everything. She couldn't lead the pack, couldn't possess the inherent strength and wisdom a werewolf mate needed.

I won't let you reject her! Raven howled within me, a furious, indignant protest.

I rubbed my temples in frustration. Raven could be impossibly stubborn.

I tried not to argue with him. Raven, my wolf, was a creature of instinct, driven by primal desires, and he kept insisting she was my fated one. But my parents, while meticulously grooming me to be an excellent Alpha, had drilled one undeniable truth into me: the pack always comes first.

When I walked out of the bathroom, my decision was made. I planned to dismiss her with money, a cold, transactional gesture, as I'd done with other women who had shared my bed. But before I could, she preempted me, humiliating me first. She threw a hundred and fifty dollars in my face, insulted my performance in bed, and treated me like a prostitute.

Before I could even fully react, she had fled. I was furious!

Yet, despite her hasty retreat, she still ended up in my grasp. Who would have thought she was an employee at my company? The moment I stepped into the meeting room that morning, I caught her unique scent, a subtle mix of defiance and vulnerability. Watching her nervous expression from across the room, I maintained my cold, impassive facade, mentally telling Raven, Look how scared she is now. She was so bold this morning.

Raven, perverse as ever, purred contentedly within me. Isn't she delightful? She's got spirit, challenging us like that.

I closed my eyes helplessly for a second, fighting the urge to roll them dramatically, a gesture that would betray my inner turmoil to the human executives around me.

After the meeting, I had my subordinate call her to my office-she had slipped out earlier, a ghost in the crowd. I had fully intended to deliver a stern lecture, to put her firmly in her place. But when I saw those big, beautiful, innocent blue eyes again, my resolve inexplicably softened.

It must have been Raven's influence, his persistent fascination with her. When she got close to me, the urge to pull her into my arms was overwhelming, a powerful instinct I barely restrained. Instead, I threw her own insults back at her. I wanted to add something cutting, like, "If I was so bad in bed, why were you moaning so passionately last night?" But I didn't want to tarnish my carefully cultivated image too much, so I held my tongue.

To assimilate into human society, my father had cultivated friendships with powerful figures from all walks of life. He had even fought in human wars, forging unbreakable bonds with a few comrades-in-arms.

That afternoon, I attended a birthday gathering for one of his old war buddies in his stead. I never expected to run into Claire there, a stroke of incredibly bad luck or perhaps an undeniable twist of fate.

Claire didn't seem to get along well with her father's side of the family. At the dinner table, the way that man-her father-kept glancing at her, eyeing her with a proprietorial disdain, made my blood boil. I wanted to gouge his eyes out. But it turned out he was her ex-boyfriend. God, Claire has terrible taste in men.

I watched her argument with her father's family escalate into a physical altercation, a shocking display that gave me new insight into her character.

She was strong-willed and defiant, her temper as fiery as her body was hot.

When her father had slapped her, a primal roar had clawed its way up Raven's throat. I wanted to rush over, to beat the man senseless. But this was clearly a family matter, and my Alpha upbringing, my rigid self-control, prevented me from interfering. If she were my mate, I could intervene, the thought had flashed through my mind, startling me with its intensity. Had I developed such strong protective and possessive feelings for her?

After she stormed out of the birthday party, a whirlwind of righteous fury, I quickly made my excuses and left too. I followed her in my car, keeping a careful distance, close enough to overhear her conversation with her pathetic ex-boyfriend.

With my enhanced werewolf hearing, I caught every word. Her ex had cheated on her with Emma, that walking plastic surgery advertisement from the party? What an idiot her ex was. They talked about a proposal. Was Claire truly that eager for marriage? The thought irked me.

I was about to drive away, to put distance between us and reinforce my logical decision to avoid her, but then I caught the faint, unmistakable scent of tears in the cold night air. Was she crying? I let out a frustrated sigh, a sound of resignation, and pulled my car up beside her.

Now she sat beside me, her unique floral and vanilla scent enveloping me, filling the confined space of the car. Raven purred contentedly within my mind, a soft, satisfied rumble.

Seeing her swollen face, the angry red mark, I handed her some healing herbs-a potent salve we werewolves used for injuries, a remedy I was intimately familiar with from countless training sessions.

Her eyes were red, still brimming with unshed tears, as if she were still profoundly upset. I didn't quite understand. What was so heartbreaking about a cheating man? Was that why she'd stumbled into the bar last night, drowning her sorrows in vodka as if it were water?

The thought pissed me off. Had she just used me in bed as some kind of replacement, a convenient way to forget her ex? No wonder she'd treated me like a damn call boy.

I'd tested her, thrown her words back at her: "So, you were drinking your sorrows away last night, begging me to take you home, because your boyfriend betrayed you?"

And what did she say? "Professional boundaries. One-time thing."

She was the first woman who had ever dared talk to me like that, drawing lines as if I were some insignificant nobody. I, an Alpha, a billionaire, with women chasing after me left and right, and I had to chase her, a plain human girl? Even if she was my fated mate, so what?

I wouldn't let her affect me. I couldn't. My pack, my future, depended on it.