University Infirmary – VIP Room – 1:00 PM
White engulfed Elara as her eyelids fluttered open. White ceiling. White sheets. White walls.
For a terrifying heartbeat, memories of the sterile holding cells where her mother had died crashed over her. Her heart slammed against her ribcage, a trapped bird desperate for escape.
"Easy."
The voice—deep, rough, commanding—anchored her to reality. Elara turned her head.
Damien occupied a plastic chair that seemed to shrink beneath his imposing frame. His broad shoulders eclipsed the afternoon light streaming through the window. Shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, tie abandoned, he leaned forward with elbows on knees, his gaze burning into her with an intensity that electrified the air between them.
"Where am I?" The words scraped against her parched throat.
"Infirmary. You fainted. I brought you here."
When Elara attempted to sit up, the room tilted violently, forcing her back against the pillows. "How long?"
"Twenty minutes. Doctor says dehydration and exhaustion." His eyes narrowed to obsidian slits. "I say it's malnutrition. And whatever that chemical smell is."
Elara flinched. The suppressants. She discreetly inhaled—antiseptic and latex hung heavy in the air, mercifully masking her scent. But Damien's presence saturated every corner of the room. His Alpha pheromones clung to the walls and furniture—territorial markers declaring: This room is mine. This female is mine.
"I'm fine," she lied, swinging her legs over the bed's edge. The cool linoleum shocked her bare feet. "I have Advanced Botany. I can't miss it."
"You are not going to class." Damien rose to his full height, blocking her escape with his body. Heat radiated from him in palpable waves. "You're going to rest. My driver has the car waiting. I'm taking you home."
"You don't know where I live."
"I do now." His tone left no room for argument. "I looked it up while you were unconscious."
Anger flared hot in her chest, burning away the fog in her mind.
"You have no right to stalk me!" She stood abruptly, swaying as blood rushed from her head. His hands instantly hovered near her waist, not touching but ready to catch her.
She slapped them away. "Stop it! I am not a porcelain doll. I am a student with a lab practical in fifteen minutes that's worth thirty percent of my grade. No practical, no scholarship. No scholarship, no degree. Is that what you want?"
Damien stared, clearly unaccustomed to defiance. Most people wilted under that predatory gaze. Yet here stood Elara—pale and trembling like a sapling in a storm—glaring up at him with ferocious determination.
Dark appreciation flickered across his features. "Fine. Go to your lab."
Elara blinked, momentarily stunned. "Fine?"
"But I'm coming with you," he added, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"You can't. It's a restricted lab. Students and faculty only."
Damien adjusted his cuffs, arrogance rolling off him in waves. "Elara, I paid for the building. I own the lab."
Advanced Botany Lab – 1:30 PM
Humidity enveloped Elara as she entered the greenhouse-like structure of the Advanced Botany Lab. Rich earth, chemical fertilizers, and exotic blooms created a symphony of scents that normally comforted her—the heavy plant aromas concealing her own, the moisture soothing her skin.
Today, the glass walls felt like a cage.
Twelve students in white lab coats and protective goggles clustered around workstations. And then there was Damien.
He'd refused the lab coat, standing in the corner like a dark sentinel, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against a potting table. A storm cloud in a garden. The other students cast nervous glances his way. Ben, the Teaching Assistant, fumbled with his notes, dropping papers as Damien's gaze swept over him.
"Today," Ben squeaked, "we are... uh... grafting samples of the Rosa Damascena to test for hybrid resilience. Please... uh... use your scalpels carefully."
Elara forced herself to concentrate on the thorny stem before her. Her hands trembled slightly, aftershocks from her earlier collapse.
He is watching, Lumina whispered in her mind. He is watching your hands.
Damien's gaze burned into her, tracking not the plants but the delicate movements of her fingers on the scalpel, the curve of her neck as she bent over the workstation.
"Need a hand?"
Elara jumped at his voice, suddenly right behind her. Heat emanated from his chest, mere inches from her back. His breath stirred the fine hairs at her nape.
"Mr. Blackwood," she hissed without turning. "You're violating safety protocols. You need goggles."
"I have excellent vision," he murmured, his voice vibrating through her. "You're shaking, Elara. Let me do it."
"No. It's my grade."
"You're going to hurt yourself."
"I've handled a scalpel a thousand times. Go away."
She positioned the blade for a delicate diagonal slice across the stem. But his proximity overwhelmed her senses—rain, musk, mate—clouding her focus. Her hand slipped.
The scalpel missed the plant entirely, slicing deep across her left palm. Not a nick. A gash.
"Ah!" Pain lanced up her arm as crimson welled from the wound, dripping onto the pristine white table.
"Ms. Vance!" the TA shouted, but Damien had already moved.
One moment he stood behind her; the next, he materialized before her, seizing her wrist with inhuman speed.
"Let me see." His voice had transformed—tight, urgent, commanding.
"It's fine," Elara tugged against his grip. "Just a scratch."
"There is blood on the table, Elara. That is not a scratch." He forced her palm open.
The jagged cut ran from thumb to wrist, blood pooling in the hollow of her hand. But the real danger wasn't the wound—it was the scent.
Elara's blood didn't carry the metallic tang of human blood. It smelled sweet—vanilla and ozone, pure concentrated magic. The unmistakable scent of the White Wolf, healer, divine.
Panic surged through her. She pressed her bleeding hand against his chest, against his pristine white shirt.
"I need a bandage!" she cried out. "I'm bleeding on you!"
Damien ignored the crimson stain spreading across his chest. His eyes fixed on her wound, narrowing as the blood flow visibly slowed. Not gradually, as with normal clotting, but instantly. The jagged edges quivered, knitting together before his eyes.
Elara watched horror dawn on his face. She wrenched her hand free. "I need to wash it!"
She bolted to the emergency sink, cranked the faucet to full blast, and thrust her hand under the icy torrent. Pink-tinged water spiraled down the drain, washing away evidence. She grabbed harsh industrial soap—lemon and bleach—scrubbing violently.
Hide the scent! Hide the healing!
Damien appeared beside her in two long strides. He snatched paper towels and reached for her hand. "Stop scrubbing. You'll make it worse."
He took her wet, soapy hand, drying it with unexpected gentleness. His eyes widened as he examined her palm.
The wound that should have required stitches now resembled a three-day-old scratch. Edges sealed. Redness fading.
Damien's gaze lifted to hers, electricity crackling between them. "That healed fast," he whispered.
Elara's pulse stuttered. "It's not healed," she lied, voice trembling. "It just... stopped bleeding. I have high platelets. Good clotting factor."
"High platelets don't knit skin back together in ten seconds, Elara." He raised her hand to his face.
"Don't," she pleaded.
He inhaled deeply over the wound, his nostrils flaring.
Elara held her breath. Please smell the bleach. Please smell the lemon soap.
Damien's brow furrowed. "Lemon. Bleach. And..." He hesitated, inhaling again. "...Honey?" Confusion clouded his features. "Why does your blood smell like honey and ozone?"
"It's the fertilizer!" Elara blurted. "From the roses! I was holding the stem. It's... special organic fertilizer. Honey-based."
The lie hung between them, flimsy as gossamer.
Damien's eyes moved from her face to the roses and back to her hand. Disbelief etched his features. He knew she was lying, yet couldn't reconcile the impossible. Humans didn't heal like that. Wolves did, but she felt like a void to his senses—not wolf, not human, something else entirely.
"You are a puzzle," he murmured, thumb tracing the nearly-healed scratch. His touch sent lightning down her spine. "And I am going to solve you."
He turned toward the cowering TA. "Class is dismissed."
"But—" the TA began.
"Dismissed!" Damien's roar sent students scrambling for the exit.
He turned back to Elara, expression dark with possession. He grabbed gauze from the first aid kit. "Sit," he commanded, pointing to a stool. "I'm bandaging this properly. Then you're going to tell me the truth about your 'allergies' and your 'platelets.'"
Elara sank onto the stool, trapped. As he wrapped her hand with precise, gentle movements, she realized time was running out. The mask was slipping. One accident had revealed too much.
She watched him bend over her hand, felt the magnetic pull of their bond—the overwhelming urge to lean forward, touch him, confess everything.
Not yet, Lumina warned. If he knows what we are, the war begins.
"It really is just high platelets," she whispered in one last attempt.
Damien finished tying the bandage. Without looking up, he brought her wrapped hand to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against her knuckles. Elara's breath caught in her throat.
"Liar," he whispered against her skin.