I had to ask

I had to ask
Damien excused himself with a soft, warm kiss to my temple—a gesture that was both possessive and respectful. “Back in ten,” he murmured, his voice still slightly rough, and slipped out the sliding glass door, phone already in hand.
I watched him from the cool interior of the condo. Sunlight caught the bright strands of silver in his hair as he settled on the balcony chair, hands resting on my phone. His thumbs flew across the screen like he was born to command logistics, scrolling through lists of shipping companies, printing presses, and influencer shortlists. He looked gloriously ridiculous—shirtless, sweatpants riding low, the very picture of an alpha wolf scrolling TikTok for micro-influencers with 'golden aesthetics.'
My heart swelled, a warm, buoyant ache in my chest. With Damien’s unwavering support, I knew I could do anything. Mon Éloïse wasn’t a fragile dream anymore; it was spreadsheets, mood boards, and tangible, immediate action.
But after the initial wave of relief subsided, a familiar, restless itch began in my mind. Tomorrow, the real work began—the cutting, the stitching, the building. I needed my materials: Italian leather samples, gold thread, durable hardware, charcoal, and my fucking sewing machine.
This condo was perfect—the natural light, the ocean breeze, the drafting table already waiting as if it had anticipated my arrival. I could lose myself in sketching here until the moon bled gold.
Yet, one question began to gnaw, sharp and hot, eclipsing the joy. It was a humiliating, terrifying thought: Why hasn’t Damien tried to mate with me yet? Does he not want to fuck me?
I started pacing, my bare feet whispering on the cool hardwood floor, fingers twisting the hem of his oversized shirt. The mating mark throbbed—a healed, proud claim etched into my neck. He had bitten, shifted, and carried me through fire. But not once had he pushed for more—not in the shower, not in bed, not even when I was dripping wet and laughing in the ocean.
Was I… not enough? Too broken? Too human still?
I flopped onto the expansive couch, my phone buzzing instantly with pre-order pings. 5. 10. 15. Mon Éloïse was alive, but I felt half-lit, a glorious engine running on only half its cylinders.
My gaze drifted to the ceiling—white beams, sunlight dancing like it didn’t know I was spiraling. I just need to make enough bags…
That meant I desperately needed my fabrics here. My swatches, my threads, my machine—all still locked away at the estate. The one place I swore I’d never step foot in again.
I let out a groan—loud, dramatic, pathetic. Dread curled in my stomach like cold smoke. The estate was Shallow’s ghost, blood on marble, a cage of memories I’d rather burn than revisit. But my leather—hand-dyed, gold-embossed, months of work, irreplaceable—was locked in the design studio there.
Fuck.
The glass door slid open. Damien stepped in—sun-kissed, phone extended, a confident smirk on his lips as if he’d just conquered global logistics.
“Done,” he stated. “Three couriers, two printers, five influencers—all wolf-friendly. Samples arrive tomorrow. You’re officially in business, mon Éloïse.”
I took the phone, my fingers brushing his. “Thank you,” I whispered, overwhelmed. “Seriously. You’re… terrifyingly efficient.”
He laughed, low and warm. “Wait till you see me negotiate.”
I bit my lip, the dread intensifying. He tilted his head, his silver eyes narrowing with immediate perception.
“What’s wrong?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Opened it again. “My fabrics,” I blurted out in a rush. “They’re at the estate. I need them. But I can’t—I don’t want to go back. It’s Shallow’s, it’s blood, it’s cages—”
He moved—fast, gentle—and was suddenly kneeling in front of me. His hands settled firmly on my thighs, his eyes locked onto mine.
“You are not going back,” he said, his voice hard, like steel dipped in ice. “Ever. I will send Dante. He will pack, ship, burn the rest if you want. Your studio here will be ready by dawn.”
I blinked, tears pricking my eyes. “You’d do that?”
“I’d burn the estate down,” he said, dead serious, the sheer possessiveness in the statement sending a thrilling shudder through me. “For you.”
I laughed—a shaky, wet, relieved sound. “Don’t tempt me.”
He smiled—soft, but lethal. “Tempting is my specialty.”

I began pacing again—restless, itchy, profoundly alive. Tomorrow I would work. Sketch, cut, stitch, build. But the mating question still gnawed—sharp, hot, and unasked.
He watched me, patient, knowing.
“Ask,” he said quietly, his gaze steady.
I stopped. Faced him. Swallowed hard.
“Why haven’t you… mated with me?” The words felt small and scared. “Fully? Do you not want—”
He closed the distance between us—slow, deliberate, annihilating every inch of space. He cupped my face immediately, his thumbs stroking the curve of my cheekbones, grounding me.
“I want you,” he said, his voice raw, deeply guttural. “So much it hurts. But you just shifted. You’re healing, building, finding yourself. I won’t take until you give—freely, fully, without doubt. Not until you are entirely yours first.”
I searched his eyes—silver, honest, and filled with a patience that was a gift I didn't deserve. “So it’s not… me?”
He shook his head, once, a firm movement. “Never. You are everything. When you’re ready—say the word. I’ll wait. I’ll want. I’ll worship.”
I nodded, tears finally falling, but a genuine smile rising to meet them. “Word,” I whispered. “Soon.”
He kissed my forehead—soft, a holy vow. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Later—the sun was low, the sky bleeding gold into twilight—I was curled on the couch. My phone was buzzing relentlessly with people telling me they would pre-order if they had to. 50. 100. 150. Mon Éloïse was real.
Damien's strong arm was around me, his chin resting gently on the crown of my head. “Dante’s en route,” he murmured, his breath warm against my hair. “Your studio arrives tomorrow. No ghosts. Just you. Just us.”
I leaned into him—safe, whole, home. “Thank you,” I whispered. “For everything.”
He shifted slightly, and I felt the warmth of his lips on my mating mark—a slow, reverent kiss that sank deep into my soul. “Thank you for trusting me.”
I closed my eyes. Tomorrow, I build. Tonight, I rest, held in the promise of silver eyes and steel will.