Ava’s cheeks burned.
The ugly things she’d assumed about him just moments ago felt shameful now.
She looked away, her voice dropping.
“I’m sorry.
I just—”
She just wasn’t used to trusting people.
Growing up in a pack that treated her as less than, raised by parents who saw her as a burden, a girl who never shifted.
It had left scars.
She’d learned early to expect the worst, to weigh the risk before she ever reached for hope.
“You don’t need to apologize.” Damon closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, whatever storm had been building behind them was gone.
“I haven’t given you enough reason to feel safe.
The way this started between us wasn’t exactly conventional.
I understand why you’d doubt me.”
He paused.
“But Ava, there are lines I won’t cross.
Marriage vows.
Family.
Loyalty to my mate.
I need you to trust that.”
The air in the room thinned.
Ava’s chest tightened.
“I… I should ask the doctor about your condition.
What to watch for.” She stood and all but fled.
Ava leaned against the cool wall outside, dragging in slow breaths.
The raw honesty in that room had been suffocating.
She didn’t know what to do when someone laid themselves bare like that.
Trust.
The word felt foreign on her tongue.
She’d trusted her family once, and they’d bled her dry.
She’d trusted Victor, her fated mate, and he’d shattered her.
She’d learned to build walls first and ask questions later.
She shook her head and made her way down the hall to the nurses’ station.
The attending physician was a Frenchman in his early forties, his English accented but clear.
He pulled up Damon’s chart and walked her through the instructions.
“He needs complete rest.
No strenuous activity.
Light meals, nothing heavy or rich.
The wound must stay dry.
We’ll watch his temperature closely.
If he runs a fever or the pain worsens, call us right away.”
He glanced up.
“The tear was significant, but his recovery rate is… frankly remarkable.
Faster than I’d expect for this kind of injury.
Still, we’ll keep him under observation to be safe.”
Ava nodded, filing away every word.
Werewolves healed far faster than humans.
But the doctor didn’t know that.
To him, Damon was just another wealthy patient with an unusually strong constitution.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
She returned to the room, steadying herself before she pushed the door open.
Damon’s eyes opened the moment she stepped inside.
“Did you get the details?”
Ava crossed to the bedside and set down her notepad.
“You need to rest.
Light food only.
Keep the wound dry.
They’ll keep checking your temperature.”
“Understood.” His gaze lingered on her.
“Have you eaten?”
“Not yet.”
“Neither have I.
Lance arranged for a chef.
Should be here soon.”
“Stay?” He said.
It wasn’t quite a question, more a request he was trying not to make sound like one.
Ava hesitated, then nodded.
“Alright.”
Twenty minutes later, Lance returned with a man in chef’s whites wheeling in a covered cart.
The chef worked quickly and quietly, setting out two portions on the tray table.
Poached chicken in a light broth, steamed vegetables, soft bread, herbal tea.
Lance excused himself and closed the door behind him.
Damon glanced at the IV in his arm, then at the utensils.
His mouth twitched.
Ava moved without thinking.
She uncovered his bowl and set the spoon in his free hand.
“Thanks.” He took a slow sip of the broth.
Ava settled into the chair beside him and picked at her own meal in silence.
By the time they finished, the Paris sky had darkened to indigo.
Ava checked her phone.
Past eight.
She should go.
Let him rest.
But Damon spoke first.
“Do you have more work tonight?”
“Not tonight.
I’m done for the day.
The final presentation’s tomorrow morning.”
“Mm.” He didn’t tell her to stay.
Didn’t tell her to go.
Ava studied him.
He looked pale, drained, but his expression gave nothing away.
And yet.
A strange thought crept in.
Was he… lonely?
This man who commanded entire industries, who could make or break a company with one call, was lying here in a foreign country fresh out of surgery, quietly hoping she wouldn’t leave?
The idea felt absurd.
And yet it tugged at something in her chest.
She stood, walked to the sofa by the window, and pulled her laptop from her bag.
“I need to run through my presentation a few times,” she said.
“I can do it here, if that’s okay.
I’ll keep the volume low.
If you want to sleep, I can—”
“Stay.” The word came out faster than he’d meant it to.
He cleared his throat.
“I mean… do what you need to.
Don’t worry about me.”
Ava’s lips twitched.
She settled onto the sofa, opened her laptop, and got to work.
Damon closed his eyes, but the tension in his jaw told her he wasn’t sleeping.
The hours slipped by in quiet company.
Around nine-thirty, the French doctor stepped back in.
He inspected the bandages and the IV, glanced at the monitor, and nodded.
“No fever.
The wound’s stable.”
His eyes drifted to Ava, still by the window with her laptop open.
He looked between her and Damon.
“Monsieur Sterling, is this your sister?
She’s been very attentive.”
Ava’s head snapped up.
Before she could answer, Damon cut in.
“No.
Not my sister.”
The doctor blinked.
“Ah.
My apologies, I didn’t mean to assume—”
His eyes shifted back to Ava, a question hanging in the air.
Ava’s pulse kicked up.
She could feel Damon watching her, steady and unreadable.
He wasn’t going to clarify.
He was waiting for her to do it.
She swallowed.
“I’m his wife.”
It came out quieter than she meant, but clear enough.
The doctor’s face brightened.
“Ah!
Quelle chance!” He caught himself and switched back to English.
“How lovely.
A devoted wife at your side.
You’re a lucky man, Monsieur Sterling.”
Ava’s face went hot.
Not from being mistaken for his sister, but from the weight of what she’d just said aloud.
I’m his wife.
She’d said it.
Out loud.
To a stranger.
She could have buried her face in her laptop.