Just get through dinner. Be a good host. Don't think about how right she seemed in your space.
The dining room glowed with warm light from the chandelier he'd restored last winter, the table set for three with his grandmother's good china. Harper stood near the windows that overlooked the valley, her silhouette backlit by the fading daylight. She'd changed from her travel clothes into a soft sweater that hugged her curves in ways that made his wolf stir restlessly.
Beautiful. Ours.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice rougher than intended. "Lila won't be joining us tonight. She's... having a difficult evening."
Harper turned from the window, and the understanding in her green eyes nearly undid him. No judgment, no frustration at having her professional time wasted. Just compassion for a hurting teenager she hadn't even met yet.
"That's completely understandable. I never push clients into situations they're not ready for. Healing happens on their timeline, not ours."
The relief that flooded through him was so intense it left him momentarily speechless. Every other therapist, every healer and counselor they'd brought in, had expressed frustration with Lila's resistance. But Harper simply accepted it as part of the process.
"She did agree to meet with you tomorrow. One session though, she insists that's all she'll do."
Harper's laugh was like music, rich and warm and completely without mockery. The sound went straight through him, settling in his chest like honey.
"I've heard that before from resistant clients. 'Just one session' often turns into months of productive work once they realize I'm not there to judge or force them into anything."
Dorian pulled out her chair, hyperaware of her nearness as she settled into the seat. Her scent wrapped around him like a physical caress, making his hands shake slightly as he moved to his own chair.
Control yourself. She's here as a professional.
"Lila's been through a lot," he said once they were both seated, grateful when his grandmother's chef appeared with their meal. The distraction of food being served gave him a moment to collect himself. "She's had multiple therapists, pack healers, even a specialist from Seattle. Nothing seems to get through to her."
Harper accepted her wine with a gracious smile that made his chest ache. Everything about her radiated warmth and competence, the kind of steady presence that could calm storms.
"Trauma affects everyone differently. Sometimes it takes finding the right therapeutic approach, the right connection. What works for one person might not work for another."
"I'm starting to feel defeated," he admitted, the words slipping out.
It was more vulnerability than he'd shown anyone in years, but something about Harper made honesty feel safer than his usual carefully maintained control.
"That's completely natural for someone who loves a trauma survivor. Secondary trauma is real, and caregiver burnout is incredibly common. Have you considered talking to someone yourself? Processing your own feelings about what happened to her?"
The suggestion hit him like cold water. Dorian's fork paused halfway to his mouth as he met her knowing gaze. She saw through his Alpha facade as if it were tissue paper, straight to the exhausted man beneath who carried everyone's pain as his own.
"I'm fine," he said automatically. "I can handle my own emotions."
Harper's eyebrow arched in a way that called him a liar without saying a word. That look unnerved him more than any challenge to his authority ever had. She wasn't intimidated by his size or his status or the carefully controlled danger that radiated from him. She simply saw him.
"I'm not here for you, but I'd be happy to have some sessions with you if you're open to it. Sometimes talking through your own trauma responses can help you better support Lila."
The offer hung between them, loaded with possibilities that had nothing to do with therapy and everything to do with the mate bond that hummed like electricity in his veins. His wolf practically begged him to say yes, to find any excuse to spend more time with her.
"I'll... think about it," he managed, though the idea of laying his emotional wounds bare terrified him more than any physical threat ever had.
As dinner progressed, the tension between them built like a gathering storm. Every casual brush of her fingers against her wine glass made him hyperaware of her hands. Every soft laugh sent heat spiraling through his system. Every thoughtful comment revealed layers of intelligence and compassion that made his chest ache with want.
She was everything he'd never known he needed, sitting at his table like she belonged there. Like she'd always belonged there.
Mine.
By the time they'd finished eating, Dorian's control hung by threads so thin a strong wind could snap them. His skin felt too hot, too tight. The mate bond pulled at him relentlessly, demanding he reach across the table and touch her, demanding he stop pretending this was just a professional dinner.
"I should go check on Lila," he said abruptly, pushing back from the table before he did something catastrophically stupid. Like asking her to sit with him on the front porch swing, or confessing that she was his fated mate, or kissing her until neither of them could think straight.
Disappointment flickered across Harper's features so quickly he might have imagined it. But she nodded gracefully, ever the professional.
