Damien's POV
Her words slammed into me like claws across my chest.
A man.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. My wolf surged forward, snarling, demanding a name, a face, blood. My jaw clenched so tightly it hurt, my knuckles whitening around the pen in my hand.
I didn't look at her. I couldn't. If I did, I might break.
Instead, I bent my head lower, forcing myself to stare at the papers spread before me, though the words swam and tangled into a blur I couldn't make sense of. My hand moved as if to write, but the pen refused to obey. I wasn't writing at all—I was clutching it so hard that the plastic groaned under the pressure, my knuckles straining white. A sharp crack split the silence, the pen snapping in my grip, ink threatening to spill, yet still I didn't loosen my hold.
She lied. She had to. If another man had touched her, I would have known. I would have smelled him on her skin, felt it burn in my wolf's bones. There was no way I could have missed it.
