The penthouse had never been so quiet.
Damon sat in his leather chair by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of whiskey untouched at his side. The city sprawled below, restless and glittering, but he barely saw it.
The silence pressed in on him.
Once, Maya's soft footsteps had filled these halls. Her scent—warm, delicate, maddening—had clung to the air, no matter how hard he pretended not to notice. Now, the air was stale. Sterile. Lifeless.
His wolf stirred uneasily under his skin, pacing, snarling. She should be here.
Damon clenched his jaw, gripping the armrest until the leather creaked. "Enough," he muttered to himself, but the words carried no weight.
It had been months since she left. He'd told himself it was for the best. She wasn't meant for this world, wasn't strong enough to survive the politics, the enemies, the curse. Better for her to walk away now than to shatter completely.
At least, that's what he'd told himself.
But every night, he found his gaze straying to the door as if she might walk through it again. Every morning, he woke reaching for warmth that wasn't there.
The whiskey sat untouched. Even that couldn't drown her ghost.
The council noticed his distraction.
They never said it outright, but Damon saw it in the way they studied him—measured, calculating, circling like sharks scenting blood. He was the strongest Alpha in the city, his influence unmatched, his control legendary.
But cracks had formed.
At meetings, his temper was shorter. His answers sharper, more ruthless. Rival Alphas whispered that Blackthorn was losing his edge.
Let them whisper.
If anything, Damon worked harder. He pushed deals through with brutal efficiency, silenced opposition with cold threats, and doubled his patrols. Every enemy that tested him learned quickly that Damon Blackthorn hadn't softened.
But the harder he fought, the louder his wolf grew.
She's gone.You let her go.Find her.
He snarled in empty corridors, fists slamming against walls when the restlessness became too much. His men avoided him more than usual, keeping their eyes down, their voices cautious.
He didn't care.
Because none of it mattered anymore. Not the council. Not the territory. Not even the empire he'd built with blood and fire.
Without her, it all felt like ash.
Sometimes, late at night, memories attacked him.
Maya's laugh, soft and unexpected, echoing in his chest. The way she'd looked at him that night in the kitchen, flour dusting her hands, daring him to smile. The way her voice trembled but never broke when she tore the contract in half.
Her tears.
Her eyes when she told him she wouldn't be half of anything.
He pressed his palms into his eyes, growling low in his throat. He hated remembering. He hated the way his chest clenched every time he pictured her walking away.
But worse than the pain was the emptiness.
As if she'd taken something vital with her when she left.
He tried to distract himself.
Other women flirted. Some even tried to throw themselves into his bed, eager for the power that came with being near him. He ignored them all. Their scents repulsed him. Their voices grated.
He couldn't bring himself to touch anyone else.
His wolf made sure of it, snarling, snapping, refusing to settle. Not her. Not mate.
He cursed under his breath, stalking the length of his penthouse, restless energy bleeding from every step.
"You're pathetic," he told his reflection one night, silver eyes burning back at him. "She was a contract. Nothing more."
But the words sounded hollow, even to him.
The breaking point came during a council dinner.
Damon sat at the long table, the air thick with smoke and ambition. Rivals watched him, allies whispered in corners. One of the Elders leaned forward, lips curling.
"Still no word from your… human?" the man asked, voice dripping with derision.
The room chuckled softly.
Damon's hand tightened around his glass until it cracked.
"She was never your concern," he said, voice low and dangerous.
"Perhaps not," the Elder replied smoothly. "But it is… unusual. You let her walk away, and now you sit here, distracted, unfocused. Some would say she was your weakness."
The laughter stung sharper than any blade.
Damon stood abruptly, the chair scraping back. His wolf surged beneath his skin, demanding blood.
But he didn't give them the satisfaction.
Instead, he stalked out, slamming the heavy doors behind him.
Back in his penthouse, he shattered a bottle against the wall, glass raining onto the floor. His chest heaved, breath ragged, silver eyes wild.
His wolf howled inside him.
Find her.Bring her back.Mate. Ours.
Damon gripped the edge of the counter, head bowed.
"She left," he whispered harshly. "She doesn't want me."
But the words didn't soothe the storm. They only made it worse.
Because beneath all the rage and pride, he knew the truth.
He had let her go. He had let her believe she was nothing more than a tether, a pawn, when the truth was far more dangerous.
She wasn't disposable. She never had been.
She was everything.
And he had been too much of a coward to admit it.
That night, Damon dreamed of her.
She was standing in the kitchen again, hair loose, eyes alight with challenge. He reached for her, but she slipped away, always just out of reach.
When he woke, sweat drenched his skin, his heart pounding.
He stared into the darkness, jaw tight.
Enough.
He couldn't keep pretending. He couldn't keep drowning in her ghost while the world watched him unravel.
If Maya thought she could disappear, she was wrong.
Damon Blackthorn was done waiting.
And no matter how long it took, no matter how far she'd run, he would find her.