Chapter 10 Damien stood by the window as if the shadows had claimed him, the night bending to his will. Tall, broad-shouldered, draped in navy and black that caught no light, he radiated the calm of a predator too long in silence to ever be startled again. His eyes were flint, sharp, relentless, yet behind them lingered the exhaustion of a man who had carried wars no sleep could mend. Clean-shaven, precise, every movement measured, he stood like a wolf coiled, never careless, hands clasped behind his back in the stance of a soldier sworn to an endless war. My father's voice broke the heavy air, low and commanding, touched with the lazy authority o one who expected obedience without asking. He gestured toward the stranger with a careless sweep. "Stella. This is Damien Moonveil. Son of my late blood-sworn ally. A widower. No heir. From this moment forward, he is your Shadow." I stiffened, but I did not look away. My gaze locked with him, testing him. The fire in my chest flared as I bit out, "I don't need a Shadow." Damien tilted his head slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was low, smooth, yet utterly without warmth, like a wolf's growl held just beneath the surface. "Good. I don't need to waste my time babysitting. But here we are." A derisive snort escaped me. "That's supposed to make me feel safe?" My father chuckled, a sound that never softened, always edged like a blade. "You don't have to like him, child. You just have to outlive your enemies." "Lovely," I muttered, bitterness biting my tongue. The heavy oak doors creaked open then, and right on cue, my brothers entered, Edrick first, Ram a step behind. They were never at ease, even with each other, but their loyalty was carved ir blood and battle. Ram, holding an espresso as if it were an extension of his hand, pointed lazily at Damien. "He's not just some watchdog, you know." Edrick's grin curved sharply, dangerously. "He's a barrister too. Pack-trained. Took down thre rival Alphas last year in council courts without spilling a drop of blood." Ram smirked as he sipped. "Ruthless inside the chamber. Deadlier outside it." Edric leaned closer, eyes glinting with mischief, as though gossiping around a campfire before the kill. "And here's the wild part, he volunteered to guard you. Crazy, right?" I crossed my arms, unsettled by the quiet certainty in Damien's stance. "Why?" Damien finally stepped forward, not fast, not arrogant, simply deliberate, his presence filling the room like a storm front. His words were steady, carved from stone. "Because your father is right. You don't have time to waste trusting the wrong wolves. And because men like your husband never walk away clean. Ever." His voice didn't reach for charm, didn't drip with honey or false power. It was an unadorned truth, cold enough to make my skin prickle. I studied him, wary. "You know what kind of mess this is, don't you?" Happy Rejection My Aloba 1/3 17.6% 6:45 pm He inclined his head once. "I know exactly what kind. And I don't flinch." I should have said no. Should have rejected the bond my father was forcing, cast him out of my orbit, declared myself strong enough to walk alone as I always had. Yet in that bone-deep instant, I understood, he wasn't sent to ease my nights or quiet my terrors. He had been placed at my side to make every other wolf, every rival, every lurking enemy feel unsafe. And maybe, maybe that wasn't the worst weapon my father could hand me. Still, I folded my arms across my chest. "Fine. You can follow me. Just don't expect me to smile or come running every time a window creaks." Damien's reply was a shrug, almost amused. "Good. I don't do small talk." My mouth tugged upward, unwilling, defiant. "Then we'll get along just fine, Falco." He didn't blink. His voice rumbled like a vow. "We'll see, Vale." The next morning, I discovered Damien had done the unthinkable. He gave me a schedule. Breakfast at seven. Training at nine. Combat drills. Lunch at noon. Therapy, yes, therapy, with the pack's Healer at three. Dinner at six. Lights out at ten. I stared at the parchment like it was a death curse. "What the hell is this?" Without looking up from the leather-bound ledger he studied, Damien answered, calm as the moon over a battlefield. "Structure. You've been running on rage. Rage burns out. Wolves withou discipline die." I bared my teeth. "I was raised in hell. Don't you dare try to babysit me." He shut the ledger with quiet finality, his eyes meeting mine with the weight of an Alpha's stare though he carried no throne. "Then raise yourself now, Stella. Because you've been dying slowly since the day you left them." The fury came fast. My fist flew faster. I hit him with the full swing of a woman who hac survived cages, betrayals, and fire. My knuckles cracked against his jaw, sharp and satisfying. He did not move. Did not block. Did not even flinch. He absorbed the strike like stone absorbs rain. Then he exhaled, long and steady, and simply asked, "Feel better?" I wanted to scream, Wanted to flip his ledger, wanted to rip the curtains down, and howl at the moon. Instead, I stormed out. But the next morning, a stupid green tonic sat on the counter, pulsing with herbs and wolfsbane, a sticky note beside it that read: If you collapse mid-training, I'm not carrying you. I drank it. I didn't even gag. Two hours later, I stood in the Vale training yard in leggings and a scowl, already aching. Damien waited by the sparring mats, arms folded, his presence heavy as iron. "Warm up," he ordered. "Ten minutes. You're not twenty anymore." "Neither are you, I muttered. He didn't miss a beat. "I'm not the one who spent thirty years running a pack house from a Chapter 10 10 2 6:45 pm kitchen." That one stung. I shoved past him and stretched. Day one was brutal. Every squat burned. Every strike he demanded of me carried the weight of ghosts. He was merciless about form. "Lower. Core tight. You're not dancing, Stella." "I was a dancer." His eyes were resolute. "Were. Not anymore." I grunted, sweat dripping. "God, you're worse than childbirth." He didn't even twitch. "Not here to be liked. I'm here to make sure you live long enough to stand before your enemies." And though I hated him for it, part of me knew he was right. By the fourth day, when I collapsed breathless after push-ups, Damien didn't sneer. He lowered himself to the floor beside me, silent. After a long moment, he said, voice low, 'You lost thirty years. You can't erase it. But you can outrun the version of you they made." said nothing. Couldn't. But the next morning, I drank the tonic again. And when his hand pressed steady and firm against my shoulder to correct my stance, I froze, not from fear, but because, for one breathless nstant, I remembered who I used to be. Who could I become again. 6:45 pm