Chapter 158: Now Mon Loup

Suddenly, My stomach growled loud enough that a gull actually startled.

I blinked, looked down at the ripple of water around us, then up at Damien.

He arched a brow. “Hungry, mon petit loup?”

Mon petit loup? i thought but then I tried to glare at his question, wasn’t it obvious? but the frown lasted three seconds.

“Yes,” I admitted. “Starving, actually. I think freedom burns calories.”

He laughed, a deep warm sound that made the ocean feel warmer. “I should’ve known. My girl fights, shifts, swims, liberates herself emotionally—and then remembers she hasn’t eaten.”

“I was busy being reborn,” I muttered.

He placed a hand over his heart dramatically. “Forgive me. How inconsiderate of me not to anticipate that you’d need a post-apocalypse breakfast.”

“Stop teasing me,” I said, splashing water at him.

He splashed me back—lightly—then shook his head. “You’re adorable when you’re feral.”

“I am not feral.”

Another stomach growl betrayed me.

He grinned—slow and wicked. “Mm. Very feral.”

“Damien!”

“Fine, fine.” He lifted both hands as though surrendering to a tiny, vicious goddess. “Come here.”

Before I could ask why, he caught my waist and lifted me clean out of the water like it was nothing. I squealed—an embarrassingly cute sound—and he laughed again. Then he tossed me higher onto his shoulder, my hair dripping down his back.

“Damien!” I yelped, pounding lightly at his shoulder. “Put me down!”

“No,” he said simply. “You said you’re hungry. And when my wolf is hungry, I feed her.”

“I can walk!”

“I don’t doubt it. But I enjoy carrying you.”

I should’ve protested. I really should’ve. Instead, warmth spread all over me—soft, ridiculous warmth that made my chest feel fizzy.

He carried me out of the waves, water streaming off both of us, his muscles flexing with each step. People watched—smiling, whispering, laughing in that harmless, sun-happy way beach people do. A little boy shouted, “Whoa! He’s strong!” and Damien winked like the show-off he absolutely was.

“Is this necessary?” I muttered into his shoulder.

“Absolutely,” he said. “My wolf is very proud. He wants everyone within a ten-mile radius to know you’re safe and fed.”

“I kinda hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” he said confidently.

“…maybe not.” i giggle

“Mm. I’ll take that.”

He climbed the dune steps two at a time, his grip firm and sure, as if I weighed less than a towel. By the time we reached the condo’s private path, he slowed—not because he was tired, but because his hands had shifted from practical to possessive.

The condo appeared in front of us, glass glinting in the sun, curtains fluttering gently inside.

When we reached the door, he finally let me slide down—but not completely. His hands stayed at my waist until I stood steady. My hair dripped onto his chest, leaving little salt-splotched marks across his skin.

“You could have just told me there was food,” I accused.

He opened the door with one hand, still holding me with the other. “And miss the chance to parade you through the sands? Never.”

“Damien—”

Then I smelled it.

I froze. My wolf purred.

Food.

Real food. Warm. Aromatic. Savory. Something buttery. Something sweet. Something—oh my God—fresh bread?

My head snapped toward the kitchen.

“You made—”

“Everything,” he said lightly. “Or, well… reheated. I can cook, but I didn’t want you waiting too long.”

The kitchen island was covered: croissants, eggs, roasted potatoes, fruit bowls, a stack of pancakes, and something that looked suspiciously like the fancy pastries I used to Google at 3 a.m. but never got to taste.

My hand flew to my mouth.

“You—did all this?” I whispered.

He shrugged with mock modesty. “I was hungry too. And I prefer not to eat alone.”

My eyes stung—annoyingly, traitorously stung.

He noticed.

“Hey.” He stepped closer, thumb brushing my cheek. “Don’t cry. It’s just breakfast.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s not just breakfast.”

His smile softened. “I know.”

The ocean roared outside, the condo glowed, and for the first time since my life began to unravel, the air didn’t taste like fear or silence or waiting.

It tasted like butter.

And fruit.

And safety.

Damien nudged my hip gently. “Eat, mon cœur.”

With a small laugh, I obeyed.

I grabbed a croissant with both hands like a greedy little wolf and tore into it. He watched me with folded arms and something like reverence.

“Oh,” he said dryly. “So this is what rivals your loyalty to me.”

“Shut up,” I said through flaky pastry.

He kissed the top of my head.

“No,” he murmured. “Not when you’re this cute.”

I pretended to glare at him.

But the truth was simple:

I was safe.

I was fed.

I was loved.

And for the first time in my whole life, breakfast tasted like a future I wanted.

But what about last night I need to know what the fuck happened.