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 tohelp, 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 inhis 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.
As they passed another door, Dorian's steps slowed almost imperceptibly, and Harper caught him glancing between her and the closed entrance. The way his gaze lingered, the subtle shift in his breathing, the almost territorial tension that radiated from his large frame—it didn't take much imagination to realize those were his private chambers.
Heat flooded her body at the thought, an unwelcome surge of awareness that made her skin feel too tight and her pulse quicken. The idea of Dorian in that space, perhaps shirtless after a long day of physical labor, that intoxicating scent of pine and cedar?—
Stop it.
Harper forced herself to focus on the hallway ahead, on the reason she was walking through this estate in the first place. But her traitorous body seemed to have other ideas, hyperaware of Dorian's presence beside her, of the controlled power in his movements, of the way he seemed to fill the space around them with an intensity that made the air itself feel charged.
She chalked it up to him simply being an attractive, intensely masculine man. Nothing more complicated than basic biology. It had absolutely nothing to do with the strange electricity that crackled between them, or the way his blue eyes seemed to see straight through her to something deeper and more vulnerable underneath.
They finally reached the end of the corridor, and Dorian stopped in front of a door painted soft lavender—a color that somehow managed to feel both youthful and sophisticated. He knocked gently, his large knuckles barely making a sound against the wood.
"Lila, Harper's here for your first session."
Harper appreciated that he didn't demand entry, didn't use his Alpha authority to bulldoze past his sister's boundaries. In her experience, traumatized teenagers needed to feel some measure of control over their environment, and the simple act of asking permission could make the difference between cooperation and complete shutdown.
