5. Harper
FIVE
HARPER
Morning light crept through the curtains of Harper's guest room, painting golden stripes across the hardwood floor that Dorian had clearly refinished himself.
The attention to detail in every corner of this estate spoke of a man who poured his restless energy into creation, into building something lasting and beautiful from raw materials.
Harper had barely slept.
Every time she'd closed her eyes, Dorian's face materialized behind her lids—those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see straight through her, and the way his jaw had tightened when she'd pulled her hand away from his touch. The sensation of that handshake still burned along her palm like a brand.
What is wrong with me?
She'd never reacted to a man like this. Not even Matt, who she'd dated for three years and thought she might marry.
Matt had been predictable, the kind of presence that felt comfortable rather than earth-shattering.
But Dorian made her feel like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, simultaneously terrified of falling and desperate to jump.
The rational part of her brain—the part that had survived an abusive stepfather and built a successful career helping traumatized children—knew she was here for one reason only.
Lila needed help, and Harper was damn good at her job.
She wasn't here to develop some ridiculous crush on her client's brother, no matter how devastatingly attractive he was or how his scent of pine and cedar seemed to linger in her lungs.
Harper swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet hitting the cool wood.
Through the window, she could see the mountains like ancient guardians around the valley, their peaks dusted with snow that caught the morning light.
It was breathtaking and wild, so different from her orderly life in Portland where everything was scheduled and controlled and ordinary.
She stood up and dressed carefully in dark jeans and a soft green sweater, choosing clothes that would make her appear approachable rather than intimidating.
First impressions mattered enormously with traumatized teenagers, and from everything Dorian had shared last night, Lila was already primed to resist any attempts at help.
One session. That's what Lila told him she'd give me.
Harper had heard those exact words countless times from reluctant clients and their families.
The idea that healing could be accomplished in a single hour-long session, that trauma could be neatly packaged and resolved with minimal discomfort.
She understood the impulse—vulnerability was terrifying, especially for someone who'd already been hurt.
Opening old wounds to examine them felt like inviting more pain rather than healing.
Hell, Harper knew that resistance intimately.
She'd spent years deflecting her own therapists' gentle probes about her childhood, intellectually understanding what needed to be done while emotionally running from it at full speed.
It was easier to focus on other people's pain, to pour herself into helping children process what she'd never fully processed herself.
That's why her relationship with her mother remained strained and distant.
Too many years of watching Harper endure her stepfather's abuse, too many times her mother had chosen to look the other way rather than protect her own daughter.
Harper had forgiven her intellectually, understood the complex dynamics of abuse that kept victims trapped.
But emotionally? The wound remained raw and unhealed.
That's why she was thirty-three and single, building walls so high that even well-meaning men like Matt couldn't scale them.
She'd never felt truly safe enough with any man to let those defenses drop, never experienced the kind of bone-deep trust that would allow her to be completely vulnerable without fear of that vulnerability being used against her.
A sharp knock on her door interrupted the spiral of her thoughts.
Harper's pulse quickened, and she knew without looking that it would be Dorian. Taking a steadying breath, she opened the door and immediately regretted it.
He stood in the doorway holding a tray laden with what looked like enough food for three people, and Harper's traitorous body responded to his presence like a flower turning toward the sun.
He'd clearly just showered—his dark hair was still damp and pushed back carelessly, and he smelled like soap and that intoxicating combination of pine and cedar that seemed to be his natural scent.
"I figured we could eat breakfast together," he said, his voice rougher than it had been last night. "And I could give you some background on Lila before you meet with her."
The thoughtfulness of the gesture hit her unexpectedly hard. When had someone ever brought her breakfast? When had anyone anticipated her needs without being asked?
"That's very thoughtful. Please, come in."
She stepped aside to let him enter, hyperaware of how his broad shoulders filled his dark henley, and how his presence seemed to shrink the spacious room. He moved with that same restrained power she'd noticed yesterday, like he was constantly holding himself in check.
Dorian set the tray on the coffee table in the small sitting area near the window, and Harper settled onto the couch beside him—a mistake she realized immediately.
The heat radiating from his large frame was enough to make her thoughts scatter like leaves in a windstorm, and his scent wrapped around her like a physical caress.
Focus. You're here to do a job.
"So," she said, reaching for her coffee cup with hands that were steadier than she felt. "Tell me about Lila."
Dorian's expression darkened, pain flickering across his features before he could mask it. "I've been raising her since she was a baby. Well, with help from my grandmother Evelyn. Our parents were murdered in an attack on our territory when I was seventeen."
The casual way he delivered such devastating information made Harper's chest tighten. She'd worked with enough trauma survivors to recognize the emotional distance people put between themselves and unbearable memories.
"That must have been incredibly difficult. Becoming a guardian so young while also dealing with your own grief and taking on leadership responsibilities."
"I did what needed to be done." His voice carried that note of controlled authority. "My grandmother and I managed to keep Lila's life stable and normal. She was thriving—bright, artistic, full of life. Until three months ago when I was out of town on business and—"
"Stop." Harper held up a gentle hand, noting how his entire body went rigid at the interruption. "I appreciate you wanting to help, but I need to get Lila's version of events first. It's important that I hear her story in her own words, without any outside interpretation."
Dorian's jaw tightened, his blue eyes flashing with something that looked dangerously close to anger. The Alpha in him clearly wasn't used to being managed or told what to do, especially in his own home.
"I want to understand her perspective before I hear anyone else's observations," Harper continued, keeping her voice calm and professional despite the way he was looking at her. "Later, I'd love to get your insights about changes you've noticed since the attack."
"You're asking me to trust your methods." The words came out clipped, loaded with frustration.
"I'm not trying to control the situation," Harper said carefully. "I have approaches that work, and part of that is—"
"If I can trust you." The words cut through her explanation like a blade, and suddenly he was leaning closer, his intense gaze boring into hers.
The air between them crackled with electricity, that same inexplicable pull she'd felt yesterday when their hands touched. Harper's breath caught as she found herself drowning in those blue eyes, seeing past the Alpha facade to the exhausted, worried brother underneath.
God, what is happening?
Then Dorian was on his feet so abruptly that Harper startled, the moment shattered by his sudden retreat. He ran his hand through his damp hair, his entire posture radiating tension.
"I can try to trust you," he said finally, his voice rough with something that sounded like barely leashed control. "But letting go of control here is going to be incredibly hard for me."
The vulnerability in that admission hit Harper like a punch. This powerful, commanding man was showing her the cracks in his armor, and it made her want to reach out and soothe the pain she could see lurking beneath his surface.
"I understand," she managed. "And I appreciate you letting me do my job."
"Well then." Dorian's mask of control slipped back into place, but Harper had seen what lay beneath it now. "Let's go have you meet Lila."
Harper soon followed Dorian down the second-floor corridor, her footsteps muffled by the rich hardwood floors that gleamed with the kind of attention to detail that spoke of painstaking restoration.
The estate's architecture was a stunning blend of old-world craftsmanship and modern touches—crown molding that had been lovingly preserved, updated lighting fixtures that enhanced rather than competed with the original design, and wide hallways that managed to feel both grand and welcoming.
They moved toward the west wing, and Harper found herself cataloging the small details that revealed Dorian's handiwork throughout the space.
This wasn't the work of hired contractors—this was the careful attention of someone who understood both the bones of the building and the emotional weight of preserving family history.