The muted financial news channel illuminated the penthouse. The ticker at the bottom of the screen flashed the same breaking news I had just read in the paper: *Blackwood Enterprises Acquisition.*

"A multi-billion dollar merger," Damien said, his voice devoid of any warmth. He didn't look at the screen; his piercing charcoal eyes remained locked on me. "In the human world, it's business. But in our world, a move this aggressive puts a target on my back. Any hint of scandal, any whisper of instability, will be interpreted by rival Packs as a sign of weakness."

He took a slow, deliberate step toward me. "And weakness, Elenor, invites territorial war. It invites blood."

My breath hitched. He knew my name. Of course he did. He was a Lycan King; he probably knew everything about my pathetic existence by the time the sun came up.

He turned his phone around, shoving the screen into my line of sight.

They were grainy, paparazzi-style photos. The first was a shot outside the Tribeca bar. The neon lights illuminated my silhouette as I practically threw myself into his chest, my face partially hidden by his broad shoulders, but his sharp, unmistakable jawline was perfectly clear. He swiped to the next image. It was the two of us getting into his black Maybach. The dim interior light caught my tear-stained, intoxicated face looking up at him.

"And then," Damien murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he pointed a long, calloused finger at the angry red bite mark on his collarbone. "There is this. The ultimate proof of my... loss of control. If the Pack Elders see that I allowed a drunken, wolfless stray from a rival territory to mark me, they will question my judgment. My enemies will strike."

The sheer weight of his words crushed the air from my lungs. I had spent my entire life trying to be invisible, trying not to be a burden to anyone, especially my little brother, Jamison. Now, I was the catalyst for a potential war involving the most ruthless Pack in North America.

"I..." My voice broke. The guilt and terror were a physical weight, drowning out any rational thought of running away. "I didn't mean to. I swear. How do I fix this? Tell me what to do. I don't have any money, I have absolutely nothing, but I'll do whatever it takes-"

A flicker of something dark and deeply satisfied flashed through his eyes, so fast I thought I imagined it.

"I don't need your money," he stated flatly.

He turned away, striding over to a heavy oak desk in the corner of the room. He opened a drawer, pulled out a thick stack of papers, and walked back. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he slammed the document onto the black marble island right in front of me.

The bold, black letters at the top of the page blurred my vision: MATE-BINDING & PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT - STATE OF NEW YORK.

Before I could even process the words, Damien closed the distance. He leaned his massive frame forward, caging me between his hard body and the freezing edge of the marble counter. The sheer force of his Alpha aura-that intoxicating, suffocating blend of sharp cedarwood, a raging rainstorm, and rich Cuban tobacco-wrapped around my throat.

I was entirely trapped in his orbit.

"You will marry me," Damien commanded, his tone as clinical and absolute as if he were finalizing a corporate buyout. "We will turn this incident into a planned union. It's the only way."

I stared up at him, my jaw slack, my mind completely short-circuiting. The transition from a drunken mistake to a forced Pack marriage was so violently abrupt that the room started to spin. I was caught in a cage built by a Lycan King, and the lock had just clicked shut.

Chapter 3

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