What was going on?

What was going on?
The serene pulse of the ocean—the sound that had been my heartbeat for the last few days—was suddenly obliterated by the aggressive, metallic rhythm of idling engines.
I froze at the base of the steps, my hands cramping around the handles of my bags. The driveway, usually a pristine strip of private concrete, was choked with black sedans. They were parked haphazardly, encroaching on the carefully manicured bougainvillea. Men in sharp, tactical black suits paced the perimeter, their eyes scanning the treeline with a predatory intensity that had nothing to do with the sleepy, peaceful vibe of Port-Vendée.
The air wasn't right. It was thick with the scent of synthetic oil, burnt rubber, and the sharp, copper tang of agitation.
Shallow.
The name hit me like a physical blow, cold and suffocating. Did he survive? Had he tracked the bond, or worse, had he tracked me? If he was here, he wasn't here to play. He was here to finish what the dagger started.
Damien.
Panic, jagged and hot, clawed its way up my throat. Where was he? Had they gotten to him? My mind raced through the most horrific scenarios: Damien fighting a dozen men, Damien pinned, Damien... gone.
"Oh, mon Dieu..." I whispered, the words barely audible over the sudden roaring in my ears.
I didn't think. I dropped the bags of supplies—the leather, the expensive hardware, the tools for my future—and broke into a run. I scrambled up the white stone steps, my heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs. My wolf was pacing, agitated, her hackles raised, sensing the unnatural tension in the pack-less air.
I burst through the glass entryway, ready to scream his name, ready to fight for every inch of this stolen life.
The living room was chaos. Men were everywhere, holding tablets, speaking into earpieces, their voices overlapping in a dissonant hum of urgency.
And then I saw him.
Damien stood in the center of the kitchen island, his back to me. He was wearing a shirt I hadn't seen before, the fabric strained across his shoulders, his hands gripped so tightly onto the marble edge that his knuckles were bone-white. He was barking orders, his voice a low, terrifying growl—the voice of an Alpha who had been pushed to the brink of madness.
"I want the perimeter swept again. If you haven't checked the cliffs, you haven't done your job. Sweep the coastline, check the bus routes, check the bloody harbor—"
He stopped.
The air in the room didn't just shift; it shattered. Every single man in black suddenly froze, their heads snapping toward me.
Damien didn't turn around immediately. His entire body went rigid, as if he were fighting the urge to tear the room apart. Then, slowly, he turned.
His face was a mask of cold, lethal fury, his silver eyes blown wide, pupils dilated to the point where they looked like dark, bottomless pits. He looked wild—unshaven, his hair disheveled, the calm, measured man who made me salmon and avocado completely gone.
When his gaze landed on me, the fury didn't dissipate. It transformed into something else—a raw, agonizing shock that turned into an overwhelming, desperate surge of possessiveness.
He didn't speak. He didn't even blink. He just stared at me, his chest heaving, his eyes tracking the rise and fall of my breath as if he were trying to confirm, with every fiber of his being, that I was solid. That I was real. That I was there.
"Damien?" I whispered, my voice trembling, my hands still hovering in the air where I’d dropped my bags. "What's happening?"
"Where were you?!" he said under his breath but sounded close to a growl.
I gulped visibly. i am confused, are we in danger? I thought. "I... I just went to the market. Marcel gave me a ride—" I let out but he cut me off because he moved then. It wasn't a walk; it was a blur of predatory grace.
His movement was a blur of predatory grace—a wolf reacting to a scent he’d feared was lost forever. He crossed the kitchen, the floor seemingly shortening beneath his stride, his shadow looming large and dark against the marble.