Chapter 3
Devon
“She looks stunning.”
I reached the alley just in time to see her—Lyia, her blonde hair catching the dim streetlight as she fought back against three men twice her size.
A surge of something raw and unnameable rose in my chest, a mix of admiration and rage.
Even in this desperate moment, cornered and battered, she burned like a defiant flame, refusing to be snuffed out.
“Looking for trouble.” My voice came out low and dangerous, laced with a fury I hadn’t expected as I grabbed the wrist of the man raising a crowbar. My grip was iron, and I felt my wolf stirring, its growl vibrating through my bones.
The greasy bar owner spun around, his face a mask of disbelief that shifted to terror in a heartbeat when he recognized me. “Mr. Sterling?” he stammered, the crowbar slipping from his hand and clattering to the ground. “This is a misunderstanding, we were just—”
“Shut up,” I snapped, my voice cutting through the air like a blade. My wolf was close to the surface now, and I knew my eyes were starting to glow with a golden hue. “Ganging up on a young woman? You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
The two bouncers exchanged uneasy glances. The stockier one, summoning some courage, spoke up. “Mr. Sterling, you might not understand the situation. This girl’s our employee, and she—”
“She’s your employee, not your toy,” I said, stepping forward. My Alpha presence filled the alley, an invisible force that made the three human men instinctively recoil. “What you’re doing is called sexual harassment and assault. That’s enough to land you in prison for years.”
The wiry bouncer quietly tucked away his knife, his eyes wide with fear. Smart move.
“This is an internal matter,” Mark, the bar owner, said, trying to salvage some shred of authority. “Mr. Sterling, I’m sure you don’t want to get involved in—”
“If you’ve got the guts, you can take it up with Sterling Group,” I said, my lips curling into a cold smile. “But I doubt you’d even make it past the front desk, would you?”
My words hit like a sledgehammer, crushing what little pride they had left.
Mark’s face went pale, sweat beading on his forehead.
He glanced at Lyia, then back at me, and finally backed down.
“Let’s go,” he muttered to the bouncers, jerking his head toward the alley’s exit.
They scurried off without looking back, their footsteps echoing in the quiet.
The alley fell silent, save for Lyia’s ragged breathing and the distant hum of traffic.
She sat on the ground, her clothes disheveled, her face smudged with dirt and a trace of blood at the corner of her mouth.
Her injuries were obvious—scrapes, bruises—but those green eyes, fierce and unyielding, still glared after the retreating men, burning with defiance.
“Lyia, are you okay?” I crouched down to meet her gaze, keeping my voice gentle.
She didn’t answer right away, her eyes dropping to her hands. Her knuckles were raw, small cuts oozing blood from the fight. She clenched her fists, as if trying to hold herself together.
“Thanks,” she said finally, her voice hoarse and strained. “But I could’ve handled it.”
“Of course you could,” I said, a teasing edge creeping into my tone. “You’re like a scrappy little cat, claws out and ready to fight. But even the fiercest warriors need backup sometimes, right?”
She looked up, her green eyes a mix of wariness and gratitude.
I offered my hand, gently pulling her to her feet.
Her legs wobbled, exhausted from the struggle, and she swayed.
Without thinking, I scooped her up into my arms, the motion swift and instinctive.
She weighed so little it almost hurt to realize how fragile she was beneath her fierce exterior.
“Put me down!” she protested, squirming, but her voice lacked its usual fire.
“You need to rest,” I said firmly, carrying her out of the alley. The night air brushed against us, her blonde hair tickling my chin, sending a strange, electric sensation through me. “My car’s close. I’m taking you home.”
She went quiet, maybe too tired to argue, or maybe realizing resistance was pointless right now. I settled her into the passenger seat, careful not to jostle her injuries. As I closed the door, she spoke, her voice barely audible. “Why?”
“Because they were hurting you,” I said simply, sliding into the driver’s seat. “And… I owe you an apology. I didn’t make it to the coffee shop today. The board called an emergency meeting, and I didn’t even have time to leave you a note.”
Lyia’s lips twitched, almost a smile, but it carried a bitter edge. “You came all the way to this dump of a bar just to say sorry for missing your bad coffee?”
“No,” I said, starting the engine and pulling onto the dark streets. “I came because I felt you needed help.”
“What does that mean?”
“Instinct,” I said, keeping it vague. I couldn’t tell her the truth—not yet. As her fated mate, I could sense her emotions, especially fear or danger. Tonight, that pull had been so strong it was like a physical force, dragging me here without conscious thought.
If she knew, she’d probably bolt like a startled cat, hissing, “Get out of my space!”
I chuckled at the mental image, and Lyia shot me a suspicious look. “You look like you need more help than I do.”
God, she’s even hotter when she’s snarky.
“How’re those heated seats treating you?” I blurted out, immediately regretting it. What am I even saying?
Lyia froze, then gave me that same look she’d had when she slammed her notepad on my table at the coffee shop—half exasperation, half amusement. “Your face is a lot more charming when you’re not talking,” she said, her voice dry.
We pulled up to her apartment building, and for a moment, we sat in silence. The streetlights cast soft shadows across her face, highlighting the delicate curve of her jaw and the faint tremble of her lips. “Devon,” she said softly, “why me?”
Her voice quivered, caught between a question and a plea for something real, something to explain the chaos I’d brought into her life. I turned to her, watching the light play across her features, her green eyes wide with disbelief, hope, and fear.
“Because of love.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them, raw and honest in a way that startled even me. Her eyes widened, her lips parting in shock. I’d given her the most unexpected answer, one I hadn’t fully understood myself until it left my mouth.
No one had stood up for her in too long—far too long.
The realization twisted in my chest like a knife.
She’d been fighting alone in a world that judged her for her name, her past, her very existence.
Clare. The weight of that name had crushed her for a decade, and yet she kept standing, kept burning.
I reached out, cupping her face gently, my thumb brushing a small scrape on her cheek.
She didn’t pull away, her eyes locked on mine, a storm of emotions swirling within them.
I leaned closer, giving her every chance to stop me.
But she closed her eyes, tilting forward just enough, as if finally letting her guard down.
My lips met hers, and a jolt like lightning shot through me, a warmth and completeness I’d never known filling my chest. But then I tasted salt—her tears. I pulled back slightly, seeing them roll silently down her cheeks.
Lyia, my stubborn, beautiful girl.
My foolish girl, hurt by so many lies.
“…As a result, third-quarter profits rose by 8.7%, surpassing our projected 6% target. The new markets performed strongly, with a 21.3% sales increase in the Asia-Pacific region…”
I stood at the front of the boardroom, presenting the quarterly results to Sterling Group’s board of directors.
This was one of my key responsibilities as the future CEO, a test my father, Richard Sterling, had set to prove my worth.
The board members listened intently, nodding occasionally, but my father sat at the head of the table, his face impassive, his hawk-like eyes scanning for any flaw in my delivery.
“…In summary, all key metrics met or exceeded expectations, and our market expansion efforts have yielded significant results. Thank you.”
Applause broke out, the board members murmuring their approval. I exhaled, a weight lifting off my shoulders. I’d spent two weeks preparing this presentation, triple-checking every chart and figure to ensure my father had no room to criticize.
“The numbers are impressive, Devon,” Richard said, his voice flat but carrying that familiar undercurrent of disdain. “But you failed to address one thing: while Asia-Pacific sales grew, profit margins dropped. What does that mean?”
I clenched my jaw. Of course he’d zero in on that. “It’s a natural phase of market entry,” I said calmly. “We adopted a competitive pricing strategy to gain market share. Our data shows a 17% increase in brand recognition in the region, laying the groundwork for higher margins in the future.”
Richard gave a dismissive hum, clearly unimpressed. “Or you rushed in, trading long-term profitability for short-term gains. Typical youthful thinking.”
The board members shifted uncomfortably. My clashes with my father were no secret, but public confrontations still made them uneasy.
“On the contrary, Father,” I said, emphasizing the word to needle him, “this was a calculated strategy, not an impulse. Our financial models project significant returns within three to five years. If the board wishes, I can provide a detailed analysis.”
Several directors quickly assured me it wasn’t necessary, satisfied with the results. Richard’s eyes narrowed, and I knew I’d scored a small victory.
After the meeting, the board members filed out, but Richard gestured for me to stay. I braced myself for what was coming.
“My office,” he said curtly, striding out of the room.
I followed him to his top-floor office, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a sweeping view of the city. Sunlight flooded the space, but it did nothing to warm the sterile atmosphere.