The courtroom air felt thick enough to choke on.
Maya sat ramrod straight at the plaintiff's table, her palms pressed flat against her skirt to stop the tremble. Across the aisle, Damon was a wall of stillness, his silver eyes fixed on the judge.
Lila's photo sat on the table between them. Maya didn't dare look at it now.
The judge cleared her throat, her gavel resting idle for the moment. "I have reviewed the evidence, testimony, and conduct of both parties."
Maya's pulse thundered in her ears.
"Mr. Blackthorn," the judge continued, gaze steady, "you have demonstrated consistent effort in your visitation sessions. Your behavior has been compliant, cooperative, and by all accounts nurturing toward your daughter."
A murmur rippled through the courtroom. Maya's stomach dropped.
"However," the judge went on, "your absence during the child's early life is well-documented. That cannot be erased. Stability remains the court's priority. Therefore…"
Time slowed.
"Supervised visitation will continue for another four weeks. After that period, if progress is maintained, the court will allow limited unsupervised visitation—initially short in duration, gradually extended."
The gavel struck once, final.
Maya exhaled shakily, somewhere between relief and despair.
Not unsupervised yet. But not safe either. Damon had won more than she wanted to give.
Her lawyer touched her arm, murmuring something about "manageable terms," but Maya barely heard it. Her eyes darted to Damon.
For the first time in weeks, his expression cracked. Relief and something like gratitude flickered across his face. His shoulders loosened, just barely, as if a weight had been lifted.
And then his gaze found hers.
Raw. Direct. Almost pleading.
Maya looked away fast, her throat burning.
They left the courthouse in tense silence. Ana walked stiffly beside her, muttering curses under her breath.
"Four weeks," Ana said. "We've got four weeks to make sure he doesn't twist this in his favor. We'll document everything, push back if he slips once."
Maya nodded, numb.
But behind them, Damon's footsteps were steady, unhurried. He wasn't gloating. He wasn't celebrating.
He was just… there.
The worst part was that his restraint scared her more than his arrogance ever had.
Outside, the city was bright and loud, indifferent to her unraveling world. Cars honked, pedestrians bustled, pigeons fought over crumbs near the courthouse steps.
Maya adjusted Lila's stroller straps with trembling hands. She couldn't look at Damon, not with her daughter giggling at the sight of him like he was the sun itself.
"Daddy!" Lila squealed, reaching toward him.
Maya's heart clenched painfully.
Damon crouched, his massive frame folding down with surprising ease, and pressed a kiss to Lila's hair. "Soon, little wolf. We'll have more time soon."
The tenderness in his voice was a blade to Maya's ribs.
She snapped the stroller upright, her words sharp. "Don't make promises to her you can't keep."
He rose slowly, meeting her glare with quiet steadiness. "I don't plan to break this one."
Her throat tightened. "You broke all the others."
His jaw worked, but he didn't argue. He stepped back, letting her pass, as though he knew she was one heartbeat away from shattering.
That evening, Maya sat on the couch, staring at the letter outlining the judge's decision.
Four weeks. Four weeks before the walls came down further.
Lila was asleep, her soft breaths carrying through the baby monitor. Ana had gone home, though not without promising to "sharpen her claws" against Damon if needed.
Maya should have felt victorious. The court hadn't given him free rein. She still had time.
But instead, she felt hollow.
Because she'd seen Damon's face in that courtroom. The raw relief. The way he'd looked at their daughter as if she were the only thing tethering him to earth.
She hated him. She hated him so much.
But deep inside, a voice whispered: What if he means it this time?
She pressed her fists into her eyes, willing the thought away.
Two nights later, the first visit under the new order arrived.
It was still supervised, but with more freedom—the mediator relaxed, allowing them to meet at Damon's house rather than the sterile office.
Maya hesitated at the gate when she saw the modest brick home lit softly from within. The memory of that unfinished nursery upstairs clawed at her chest.
Damon opened the door before she could knock. His sleeves were rolled, his hair damp, as if he'd been working until the last second. His eyes flickered briefly to hers, then softened when they landed on Lila.
"Come in."
Maya's jaw tightened. She stepped inside, holding her daughter close like a shield.
The house smelled of paint and cedar, fresh and lived-in. In the living room, a basket of toys sat waiting. On the wall, framed sketches—wolves, forests, stars.
Her chest ached. He's really doing this.
Lila wriggled down the moment she saw the basket. Damon crouched nearby, letting her dig through it, his large hands clumsy but careful as she babbled nonsense stories with the toys.
Maya stood near the wall, arms folded, her body buzzing with nerves.
For once, Damon didn't push. He didn't prod, didn't demand. He just sat cross-legged on the rug, letting their daughter climb into his lap, tug on his shirt, shove toys at his face.
And when Lila leaned against his chest, sleepy but smiling, he closed his eyes briefly, a quiet exhale leaving him like prayer.
Maya's throat tightened.
She told herself it was an act. But the longer she watched, the harder it became to believe that lie.
Later, after Lila had fallen asleep in Maya's arms, Damon walked them to the door.
"She belongs with you," Maya said sharply, defensive before he could speak. "Don't fool yourself into thinking otherwise."
His gaze softened, though his voice was firm. "She belongs with us. Both of us. That's what I'm fighting for."
Maya's grip on her daughter tightened.
Her heart betrayed her with a sharp, aching thud.
But she didn't answer.
Not yet.
The next Saturday, Maya almost canceled.
She'd sat at the kitchen table for a full hour, staring at her phone, thumb hovering over the number for the court mediator. If she called, she could ask for the session to be rescheduled, cite exhaustion, or say Lila wasn't feeling well. It wouldn't be a lie—her little girl had been restless the night before, tossing and mumbling in her sleep.
But when Lila woke up and chirped, "See Daddy?" with a grin wide enough to melt glaciers, Maya felt something in her chest splinter.
How could she take that joy away?
So she packed the diaper bag, dressed her daughter in a yellow dress, and drove across town to the modest brick house Damon had claimed as his.
Her heart hammered the whole way.
The door opened before she could knock.
Damon stood in the frame, his hair slightly damp, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. There was sawdust on his forearm and a streak of paint on his wrist. His eyes flicked to her, but softened when they landed on the little girl perched on Maya's hip.
"Hey, sunshine," he said, his voice low but threaded with warmth.
Lila squealed and reached for him. Maya hesitated, then set her daughter down. Lila bolted across the threshold and launched herself into his arms.
Damon caught her easily, his whole frame gentling to hold something so small. His smile—rare, unguarded—flashed across his face.
Maya's chest tightened. She hated that smile. She hated that it looked real.
She stepped inside, scanning the room. The house smelled faintly of cedar and soap. The walls bore fresh paint. In the corner, a low shelf had been stacked with picture books, puzzles, and stuffed animals.
It wasn't a showpiece. It was lived in. Prepared. Waiting.
She clenched her jaw. Too fast. He's moving too fast.
"Want to show Mommy the garden?" Damon asked, looking down at their daughter.
Lila bounced in his arms. "Yes! Flowers!"
He shot Maya a glance—seeking permission, not presuming. Against her better judgment, she gave a stiff nod.
They stepped out the back door into a small yard. Damon had planted rows of flowers along the fence—sunflowers, marigolds, wild violets. Not all had survived, but enough bloomed to color the patch of green.
Lila wriggled free and toddled toward the blossoms. Damon crouched nearby, pointing out petals, helping her pluck one carefully without snapping the stem.
"See this one?" he murmured. "That's a marigold. Smell it."
Lila giggled, shoving the flower toward his face instead. He laughed—a real sound, deep and rumbling, startling Maya with its softness.
She froze on the porch, arms wrapped around herself.
This wasn't the Damon she remembered—the one who had left her broken and alone. This was someone else. Someone dangerous in a different way, because he looked like a man who could be believed.
Her throat tightened. Don't fall for it. Don't you dare fall for it.
Back inside, Damon settled Lila on the rug with wooden blocks.
Maya lingered by the doorway, unable to tear her eyes away.
Lila stacked the blocks into a wobbly tower. Damon steadied her hand gently, letting her do the work but guiding when the pieces tipped.
"Good job," he murmured when the tower stood tall.
"Big tower!" Lila crowed, clapping her hands.
Maya's chest burned. She should be happy—her daughter was laughing, thriving in this moment. But the sight cut her open. Because for two years, it had been just the two of them. She had been the tower, the foundation, the only parent in the room.
And now, Damon was here, fitting into the picture like he'd always belonged.
When snack time came, Damon disappeared into the kitchen. Maya followed, more out of suspicion than anything else.
He was slicing strawberries at the counter, careful and slow.
"Relax," he said without looking up. "I know her allergies."
Maya stiffened. "And how would you know that?"
"I listened." His knife paused mid-slice. He glanced at her, eyes steady. "When you told the mediator. When Ana mentioned it last week. I hear everything when it comes to her."
Her chest constricted, fury warring with something traitorous. "Words don't undo absence."
His jaw ticked, but his voice stayed low. "No. They don't. That's why I'm showing you."
He set the plate of strawberries down with quiet finality.
Maya wanted to scream at him, to hurl the plate against the wall. Instead, she spun on her heel and stalked back to the living room.
Later, when Lila grew drowsy, Damon scooped her into his arms and carried her upstairs.
Maya followed, her stomach a knot.
In the nursery, he laid their daughter in the little bed. The soft yellow walls glowed in the lamplight. Lila clutched one of the carved wooden wolves and curled against the pillow.
Damon lingered by the bedside, brushing a curl from her forehead. His lips moved silently, a whisper too soft for Maya to catch.
She gripped the doorframe, her pulse pounding.
"What did you say?" she demanded.
He turned, startled, then sighed. "Just goodnight. Nothing more."
But his eyes told her it had been more. Something private. Something prayer-like.
And it made her chest ache in ways she didn't want to name.
They stood in the hallway, the hush of a sleeping child between them.
Maya crossed her arms, building her armor again. "Don't think for a second that this erases what you did."
Damon leaned against the wall opposite her, weary but resolute. "I don't. I'll never erase it. I'm not asking you to forget, Maya. I'm asking for the chance to prove I'm not that man anymore."
Her throat tightened. Anger surged to the surface, her lifeline. "You think one house, a few toys, and a flower bed fix anything? You think being sweet for a handful of visits makes you a father?"
His silver eyes darkened. But when he spoke, it wasn't anger—it was quiet, unshakable truth.
"No. Being here every damn day, no matter how hard, makes me a father. And that's what I plan to do."
Maya's breath caught.
The silence between them throbbed. For one dangerous heartbeat, she wanted to believe him.
But she shoved the thought away, clutching the walls around her heart.
"Belief doesn't come easy," she whispered.
"Then I'll earn it the hard way," he said simply.
The house was too quiet after Lila fell asleep.
Maya sat on the couch in the dim living room, her bag clutched in her lap, waiting for Damon to reappear so she could announce they were leaving. But minutes passed. She heard faint sounds upstairs—the creak of floorboards, the soft thud of footsteps—before silence settled like a heavy cloak.
She should have gone to the car. She should have scooped Lila up, driven away, locked the door behind her.
But something pinned her here.
Her pulse quickened when Damon finally descended the stairs. He moved slower than usual, like each step cost him effort. His sleeves were still rolled, his shirt creased, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion.
He stopped when he saw her waiting, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.
"You stayed," he said softly.
Her chin lifted, defensive. "Only because she fell asleep."
His lips curved—not quite a smile, more like a bitter acknowledgment. He crossed the room and leaned against the wall, keeping his distance but letting his presence fill the space.
"She looks peaceful here," he murmured.
"She looks peaceful anywhere she's loved," Maya shot back.
His eyes flicked to hers, sharp. "So you admit she feels it from me."
Maya's throat closed. She turned her gaze to the floor, anger curling inside her chest. "Don't twist my words."
Silence stretched again, thick and suffocating.
Then Damon exhaled, slow and ragged. "Maya… I need to tell you something. And I'm asking you to let me finish before you shut me out."
Her stomach knotted. She should say no. She should grab her daughter and run.
But her voice betrayed her. "Say it."
He pushed off the wall, stepping closer but not too close, as if aware of her boundaries. His hands flexed at his sides, restless.
"When you left—when you walked out and I let you—" His voice cracked. He stopped, swallowed, tried again. "That night, I told myself I was sparing you. That I was poison, and if I stayed, you'd drown in me. My world was violence, blood, power. Wolves who would tear you apart just for being tied to me. I thought walking away was… merciful."
Her breath hitched. Anger surged, but underneath it was a trembling ache she'd buried for too long.
"Mercy?" Her voice trembled. "You think leaving a woman pregnant and alone is mercy?"
His eyes burned. "No. I know now it was cowardice. The kind that still keeps me awake every night."
Maya pressed a fist against her chest, trying to hold back the tide of memories—the long nights, the pain of giving birth with no one at her side, the way her heart had shattered every time her daughter asked why she didn't have a daddy.
Damon's voice dropped lower, rougher. "I stayed away because I thought you'd be safer without me. And all I did was make you bleed alone."
Her hands shook. "You're damn right you did."
He flinched like she'd struck him. But instead of lashing back, he nodded. "I deserve that. I deserve worse."
The sincerity in his tone broke something jagged inside her.
"Then why now?" she whispered. "Why crawl back into our lives now, when I finally stitched myself back together?"
His chest rose and fell. He looked at her like a man stripped bare, nothing left to hide.
"Because I saw her." His voice trembled with truth. "The first time I held her, I felt it—the bond, the fire. She's mine, Maya. Ours. And I realized I'd missed the only thing that ever mattered. I can't undo what I cost you, but I won't miss another day."
Her throat constricted, vision blurring with tears she refused to let fall.
"You don't get to say that," she choked. "You don't get to show up and claim what you abandoned."
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, stopping just short of her reach. His scent—smoke and cedar, wolf and warmth—wrapped around her like memory.
"I know," he said hoarsely. "But I'll spend the rest of my life proving I'm worthy to claim it again. Not just her, Maya."
Her heart lurched.
Not just her.
The room pulsed with silence, heavy and alive. Her body betrayed her, leaning the tiniest fraction forward, her lips parting on a shaky breath.
For one reckless second, she imagined it—closing the distance, letting him pull her into the arms she still dreamed of at night.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes, burning with restraint.
He didn't move closer. He didn't touch her. He just waited, raw need and reverence written across his face.
Maya's pulse thundered in her ears.
Her hand twitched at her side. She almost reached for him. Almost.
But the memory of every lonely night, every broken promise, every wound he'd left carved into her heart slammed back all at once.
Her chest seized.
"No," she whispered, the word cutting through the thick air. She tore her gaze away, grabbed her bag, and stormed toward the door.
"Maya—" His voice was rough, desperate, but he didn't stop her.
She yanked the door open, gulping down the cool night air like salvation. Her hands shook so hard she almost dropped her keys.
From inside, his voice carried after her, low and ragged, almost a vow.
"I'll wait. As long as it takes. I'll wait."
Maya stumbled down the steps, her vision blurred with tears she swore she'd never shed for him again.
But her heart betrayed her, pounding with a truth she wasn't ready to face.
Because for the first time in two years, she wasn't sure she could keep hating him.
Epilogue:
Maya drove home in silence, her knuckles white around the wheel.
Lila slept in the back seat, her little head tilted against the car seat, clutching one of Damon's carved wolves. The toy looked absurdly small in her tiny hands, but she wouldn't let it go, even in sleep.
Maya's eyes blurred.
She had sworn she would never let him back in. Never let him rewrite the story he had abandoned her to bear alone. But tonight, she had felt it again—that dangerous pull, that ache in her chest that screamed he was still hers, even when she hated him.
And it terrified her.
At home, she carried her daughter upstairs, tucked her beneath the blankets, and kissed her curls. For a long while she sat at the bedside, listening to the even rhythm of Lila's breaths.
"Baby girl," she whispered, brushing a hand across her cheek, "you deserve everything. You deserve a father who won't leave. A mother who won't break. A family that doesn't shatter."
Her throat tightened. Tears slipped free before she could stop them.
"I don't know if I can give you all of that. Not yet. But I'll fight to keep you safe. Always."
She pressed her lips to Lila's forehead, then slipped out before her sobs woke the child.
Downstairs, she poured herself a glass of water, but her hand shook so badly the glass rattled against the counter.
She closed her eyes, Damon's words echoing in her skull.
Not just her, Maya.
She wanted to scream, to drown the thought, to erase the memory of his eyes burning into hers.
Instead, she stood in the kitchen, trembling, knowing the truth: part of her had already started to forgive him.
And forgiveness scared her more than hate ever had.
Across town, Damon sat alone in the half-finished nursery.
The little bed was empty, the blankets smoothed where Lila's small body had rested hours before. Her scent lingered in the air—milk, soap, innocence.
He sat on the rocking chair, a block of cedar in his hands and a knife at his side. Slowly, carefully, he carved.
Shavings curled at his feet, the wolf's outline emerging bit by bit beneath his callused fingers.
He worked in silence, save for the rasp of blade on wood. His heart ached with every cut.
When the shape was complete—rough but whole—he set the little wolf on the nightstand.
His voice was low, broken, meant for no one but the shadows.
"I'll wait," he whispered. "I'll wait until she believes me. Until she lets me in. And when she does, I'll never let her go again."
The vow hung in the stillness, binding him as surely as any oath carved into stone.
He leaned back in the chair, eyes closing, exhaustion pulling at him. For the first time in years, his wolf lay quiet inside him—not caged, not raging, but waiting.
Waiting for her.
Maya dreamed of fire and moonlight that night.
In the dream, she stood at the edge of a forest, Lila safe in her arms, Damon's figure outlined in silver light beyond the trees. She wanted to turn away. She wanted to run.
But her heart beat in rhythm with his, steady and unyielding, tethering her no matter how far she tried to go.
When she woke, the echo of that rhythm still pulsed in her chest.
She pressed a hand to her heart, eyes burning.
And though she whispered to the empty room, the words came out as a vow of her own:
"Not yet, Damon. But maybe… someday."
The night bled into dawn. The city stirred awake.
Two hearts, broken but bound, beat in different homes, carrying the same hope—fragile, dangerous, undeniable.
And the moon watched silently, waiting for the day those heartlines finally wove together again.