Audrey's POV
Fen was the first to reach Lisa after she collapsed. The boy's small face tightened with fear, golden eyes wide."Dad," he whimpered to Rowan, "did Mom make Lisa faint? Should we run to the healer—or the hospital?"
He padded behind Rowan like a worried little shadow, instinctively mirroring his father's protective stance. The resemblance between them was stark—same alert posture, same barely leashed panic.
From where I stood, I watched Rowan gather Lisa into his arms. His tall frame was rigid, muscles coiled tight, breath uneven. The panic in him was sharp enough to scent in the air. A bitter, almost mocking smile tugged at my lips.
In Rowan's world, nothing—no one—ever outweighed Lisa.The moment her body went limp, he snapped, losing whatever control he usually clung to.
The way he held her, shielding her like she was his moon-touched mate… it was painfully obvious where his loyalty, his heart, his instinct truly lay.
There was nothing left between us. No words. No illusions. I had made everything brutally clear.
A sharp, claws-deep pain tore through my leg, forcing me to stop. I sucked in a shaky breath through clenched teeth. Every step felt like bone grinding against bone.
Earlier, when I'd thrown myself between Fen and danger, I hadn't bothered to guard my own body. I knew the injury had been bad. Now it throbbed with a deeper, more vicious heat—worsened, without doubt.
With stiff fingers, I fished out my phone and texted Riley: "I'm at Rowan's house. Come get me. I need the hospital."
After sending it, I pocketed the phone and sank carefully onto the nearest seat, my limbs trembling from strain.
Just yesterday, Riley had updated me—our evidence was finally pulled together, and the attorney was hired. Within ten days, we could drag Rowan and House Blackthorne into court.
My gaze sharpened. Soon, I would be free. Free of him. Free of all of this.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
My phone vibrated again.
Riley couldn't possibly be that fast—unless he'd learned to teleport. I frowned, lifted the screen… and froze.
Dorian.
Why in the moon's name was he calling?
I hesitated before answering. "Mr. Wayne."
"I'm at the gate," his deep voice rumbled through the speaker—low, commanding, edged with something feral. "Can you walk out, or should I come in?"
…What?
For a moment, I thought I'd misheard him. When I didn't respond, he spoke again, voice dropping even lower. "Audrey?"
"I—why are you—?"
"You texted me," he cut in, calm as shadow.
My stomach dropped. I yanked my phone up, checked my messages, and nearly howled. I'd sent the blasted text to the wrong person.
Not Riley. Dorian.
I smacked my forehead. Hard.
His voice came again—smooth, magnetic, with a seriousness that curled around the edges of my ribs. "How bad is the injury? Do you need me to come inside?"
I didn't want to drag him into my mess, but it was too late. He was already here. Sending him away would feel rude—even by my standards.
"Yeah," I admitted. "I twisted my ankle earlier. Might've torn something. I should get it checked."
A quiet pause. Then a single command, firm and unarguable: "Wait for me."
Minutes later, a tall figure strode toward me. Dorian Wayne—impeccably dressed in a tailored dark suit, crisp slacks, broad shoulders—looked like he'd stepped straight out of a boardroom and into a battlefield. He scanned me with sharp eyes, assessing, calculating.
"I saw Rowan drive off," he said.
He didn't elaborate, but I understood the implication easily—Rowan had rushed Lisa to the hospital.
I exhaled a harsh, brittle laugh. "Go on. You can say it—I know he left with another woman."
Dorian didn't comment. Instead, he simply offered his hand.
"Can you stand?"
His hand was large, strong, warm—the kind of strength that held power in its stillness, veins marking the back of his hand like ridges carved by instinct and old blood.
I wasn't the type to whine. So I placed my hand in his and let him pull me gently to my feet. With his steadying grip, I limped toward the door.
Outside, his sleek black car waited. I moved toward the back seat, but before I could reach it, he opened the passenger door for me.
I hesitated.
The front seat was usually reserved—for a mate, for the woman who lived in his house, for someone who mattered. It carried a certain unspoken meaning in our world.
But he held the door, silent and expectant, leaving me no room to refuse.
So I slid in.
Once we were on the road, I spoke softly, feeling rather awkward. "Mr. Wayne, I'm sorry. That message wasn't meant for you. It was supposed to go to my assistant… but it was sent to you by mistake."
Would he buy that?
"Mmm." A simple low hum—nothing more.
It startled me how little it seemed to matter to him. As if helping me was no inconvenience at all.
I considered explaining further, but it felt pointless. Explaining too much would make me sound guilty, like I was scrambling to cover up a lie.
So I kept quiet.
It was strange. Fate kept pushing me across Dorian Wayne's path. He moved in the same social circles as Rowan, yet I had never paid attention to him before recently.
Maybe he kept his presence muted, scent masked, power sheathed. Even when I had glimpsed him at gatherings, it was always from a distance—he'd never left an impression.
Until now.
The drive to the hospital was short. After parking, Dorian stepped out and moved to help me from the car.
I shook my head quickly. "Mr. Wayne, dropping me off is already more than enough. I don't want to take up any more of your time. If you have business to handle, please—go ahead."