Chapter 9

Elenor POV

The harsh fluorescent lights of the precinct were blinding after the dark chill of the New York night. The air inside was thick with the smell of cheap coffee, stale sweat, and human anxiety, but none of it mattered the moment Damien stepped fully into the room. His Lycan aura-a suffocating, invisible force field of pure dominance-rolled through the space. Hardened detectives and agitated civilians instinctively stepped back, parting like the Red Sea to let us through.

A pale officer hurriedly unlocked a heavy metal door down the hall.

When the door swung open, my heart shattered.

The interrogation room was a windowless, claustrophobic box. Sitting at a steel table bolted to the floor was Jamison. His bottom lip was split and crusted with blood, his left eye swollen shut, and his wrists were locked in heavy, cold metal handcuffs.

"Jamison!" I gasped, rushing forward.

I threw my arms around his rigid shoulders, the icy bite of his chains pressing against my stomach. For a second, I just held him, breathing in his familiar scent. But the relief was instantly swallowed by a tidal wave of panic and anger. I pulled back, gripping his face.

"Why?" I demanded, my voice cracking. "Why would you do this? You threw a punch at Caleb Thornton? Jamison, your Ivy League acceptances, your entire future-why would you throw it all away on a stupid, violent impulse?"

Jamison flinched, pulling his face out of my hands. His good eye flashed with a defensive, wounded fury. "It wasn't a stupid impulse, Elenor!"

"Then what was it?" I cried, gesturing wildly to the bleak, shadow-filled room. Damien stood silently in the corner, a massive, unreadable statue blending into the darkness, but I couldn't focus on him. "You're in a cage, Jamison!"

"Because I had to!" Jamison roared, the chains rattling violently against the steel table. He leaned forward, his chest heaving. "I was at the club on the Upper East Side. Caleb was there with his pathetic little entourage. I heard him, El. I heard him bragging about the Unity Gala."

My blood ran cold. The air in my lungs vanished.

Jamison gritted his teeth, his voice dropping into a harsh, trembling whisper. "He was laughing about how he humiliated you. He called you the Thornton Pack's *wolfless charity case*."

The words hit me like a silver bullet straight to the chest. *Wolfless charity case.*

The agonizing humiliation from the gala came rushing back, tearing my soul wide open. It wasn't Caleb's cruelty that broke me; it was the crushing realization that my defect-my broken, wolfless existence-was the reason my brother was sitting in handcuffs. I had ruined his life.

My legs gave out. I collapsed into the metal chair opposite him, burying my face in my hands as a ragged, ugly sob tore from my throat. I hated myself. I hated my weakness.

The room fell into a suffocating silence, broken only by my weeping.

Then, the shadows shifted.

Damien stepped forward. The overwhelming scent of cedar, torrential rain, and dark Cuban tobacco flooded the cramped space, instantly demanding absolute submission.

"You defended your blood," Damien said, his voice a low, smooth rumble that vibrated in the marrow of my bones. "An honorable, if foolish, act."

Jamison stiffened, his hostility flaring as he looked at the terrifying stranger who had walked in with me. But before my brother could snap back, Damien's tone dropped, turning as biting as a Siberian winter.

"But a fist and a broken nose mean nothing to a man like Caleb Thornton," Damien continued, his charcoal eyes locking onto Jamison with supreme, unquestionable authority. "It only puts you in chains. That is the reaction of a pup."

Jamison opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He was completely paralyzed by the Lycan's oppressive weight. I lowered my hands, my tears stopping as I stared at the man towering over us.

"True vengeance," Damien instructed, his voice dripping with a dark, lethal promise, "is systematically destroying everything he relies on. You dismantle his wealth. You strip his status. You rip out the very foundation of his Pack, piece by piece, until the name 'Thornton' is nothing but a forgotten joke."

The sheer, terrifying logic of his words hung in the air. It wasn't a threat; it was a doctrine.

Jamison stared at Damien, his initial hostility melting into a profound, terrified awe. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting from Damien's imposing frame to me, and back again.

"Who the hell are you?" Jamison breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "And why are you doing this for us?"