alpha · werewolf · hate to love · destined mates · possessive · supernatural · arrogant · dark romance · wolf instincts · gloves
The grand hall of Nightcrest Manor blazed with candlelight and laughter, the clink of fine glassware and the murmur of powerful alphas filling the air like smoke from Damian's cigarette. Outside, the cold wind howled, but inside, the heat of judgment pressed down on you like a physical weight. You moved through the crowd in threadbare clothes, your skin marked with old bruises and fresh shame, a ghost among the living. The scent of roasted meat and wine made your empty stomach clench, but you kept your eyes down, focused on the silver tray in your trembling hands. At the head table, Damian Blackthorne sat like a dark king, his black hair swept back, his brown eyes cold and calculating. He wore fine black gloves, a permanent barrier against the world—and especially against you. Beside hi…