Cloe glanced at the slim gold watch on his wrist. Nearly two hours had passed.

Across from him, Eron had drawn his legs even tighter against his chest, burying his face deeper into the soft grey throw. Only the tip of his silver hair peeked above the blanket, motionless except for the subtle rise and fall of his breath.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Cloe said gently, rising from the couch.

He set his notebook on the desk, his elbow brushing against the small photo frame tucked beside his files. In the picture, his two-year-old son sat laughing on his lap, while his Alpha leaned behind them, arms wrapped protectively around them both. Cloe hadn’t meant to look at it, but a small, unbidden smile curved the corner of his mouth.

He allowed himself a few seconds, just long enough to draw in a breath and release the emotional weight of the session, before turning back to his patient.

“You did well today, Eron,” he said softly. “We made progress. Next session, we’ll talk a little more about your family. Nothing too heavy.”

Eron didn’t respond at first.

Slowly, his shoulders slackened. He peeked out from the cocoon of the blanket, red-rimmed eyes meeting Cloe’s with a flicker of hesitant trust.

Relief.

He wasn't ready to talk about him yet.

 And now he didn’t have to. At least not today.

 ***   

A man sat with perfect posture behind a massive, dark oak desk, its surface nearly buried beneath orderly stacks of documents and case files. The room around him was minimalist by design. Still, everything within it was of exceptional quality: sleek black leather seating, a vintage whisky cart untouched in the corner, floor-to-ceiling windows that opened up to the city skyline, and a curated collection of modern art hung between custom-built bookshelves.

Etched in clean gold lettering on the glass office door was his name:

Eamon Sauveterre.

At twenty-six, Eamon had built a reputation most attorneys twice his age could only envy. He brought in high-profile clients on a monthly basis, with a spotless case load and an immaculate win rate. If not for the technicality of his age, he would already be a partner. Not that it mattered; the Sauveterre Law Firm belonged to his father, and eventually, it would belong to him.

Still, privilege had never softened Eamon’s nature. Raised in luxury but forged in discipline, he worked harder than anyone in the firm. Every case was a rung, every challenge an opportunity. Which was why, when a particular file landed on his desk, Omega. Male. Eighteen. Rape victim, he didn’t discard it as his colleagues had.

Rape cases were notoriously difficult, and rape cases against the rich and powerful, even more so. Eamon didn’t flinch; he wanted something brutal. Something real. Something that would test every edge of his training.

He just hadn’t expected him.

Now, hours after dark, the lights from the city glittered like shattered glass through his window. The file still sat open in front of him. The face attached to it was young, fragile, with bruises and swollen cheeks, and it is seared into his thoughts.

He leaned back in his chair, recalling the first time he saw Acheron Desrosiers.

The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the hospital corridors, clinging to the air like fog. Eamon’s polished Oxfords echoed sharply with each step. His custom-tailored navy suit didn’t wrinkle as he moved, every inch of him as composed as a marble statue.

Room 407.

He paused, adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, and knocked once before entering.

The room was dim and cold. Pale light filtered through thin curtains. The steady beeping of the heart monitor was the only confirmation that the figure in the bed still lived.

Eamon’s eyes locked immediately onto him.

Even under bruises, swelling, and bandages, Acheron was devastatingly beautiful. Not in the way that stirred lust, but in a way that rooted itself in Eamon’s chest and refused to let go. If he hadn’t read the file, hadn’t seen the birthdate in crisp black ink, he would have thought him younger. 

His body was so small and fragile.

 Breakable.

A strange pull bloomed in Eamon’s chest. Something similar to protectiveness. He squashed it instantly.

He was here for work and nothing else.

“Mr. Sauveterre,” Oaklen Desrosiers greeted him, rising from the chair beside the bed. His handshake was firm, but strained. His eyes were red at the edges, and his voice betrayed the cracks in his composure.

Eamon nodded, returning the gesture. “Mr. Desrosiers.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Acheron’s mother, Ivy, sitting quietly at her son’s side. Her hand was wrapped around his limp fingers, her body trembling ever so slightly. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him.

Eamon turned back to Oaklen. “Have the police come by yet?”

“Yes,” Oaklen said, jaw tight. “Yesterday, and again this morning. Though they had nothing to ask. Acheron hasn’t woken since the attack.”

The words hit like cold steel.

“They took a sample from the rape kit,” Oaklen continued. “Said we should contact them as soon as he wakes up.”

Eamon gave a short nod. “That’s standard. Did they give an estimate on DNA analysis turnaround?”

“Two weeks,” Oaklen muttered. Then, bitterly: “But the Blackwell family is already trying to interfere.

That name, that Family. Of course, they wouldn't take this lying down. 

Eamon’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained cool. “I’ll put pressure on the lab. See if we can get results expedited.”

He just wanted to meet the Desorsiers, not intending to take the case, but when his eyes found Acheron’s again. His swollen face, the gauze around his throat, the flecks of blood still clinging beneath his fingernails. Something inside him started burning deep, guttural fury coiled in his chest, raw and searing. He hadn’t felt anything like this in years.

He realised, too late, that his pheromones had begun to bleed into the air, low and thunderous like the coming of a storm. It was unacceptable.

Eamon reined them in with a sharp breath. He was always in control. Always. Yet here, in this quiet, broken room, with this bruised boy and two grieving parents, he was unravelling.

For the first time in his career, he hesitated not out of doubt, but out of something infinitely more dangerous.