The question flickered through his mind and died as one of the wolves lunged toward Harper.
Dorian's vision went completely red.
He launched himself forward and hit Ronan's Beta like a freight train, his superior size and alpha fury driving the smaller wolf into the ground with bone-crushing force. Fangs found flesh as Dorian's jaws locked around his enemy's shoulder, andthe satisfying crack beneath his grip sent savage satisfaction through his system.
The Gamma circled, looking for an opening, but Dorian spun with lethal grace despite his bulk. These wolves were fast, experienced fighters, but they'd made a critical error—they'd threatened his mate.
The fight was brutal but swift. Dorian's claws raked across the Gamma's ribs with devastating precision, but in the process, the Beta's claws raked across Dorian's shoulder, drawing blood that matted his dark fur. But he barely felt the pain through his protective rage. He caught a glimpse of Harper scrambling away from the battle, pressing herself against a nearby house, and relief flooded him even as he continued fighting.
She's alive. She's safe.
The Gamma recovered and launched himself at Dorian's exposed flank, teeth seeking the vulnerable spot behind his front leg. Dorian twisted, accepting the blow to deliver a devastating bite to his attacker's spine. The Beta seized the opening, leaping onto Dorian's back and driving claws deep into his shoulder.
Where the hell is Marty?
As if summoned by his desperate thought, a large grey wolf burst from the darkness, slamming into the Gamma with enough force to send both animals tumbling across the grass. Marty's arrival shifted the battle's momentum, and within minutes, both of Ronan's wolves were bloodied and retreating, limping back toward the mountains with their tails between their legs.
Dorian shifted back to his human form, his naked body marked with deep scratches and bite wounds. Blood ran down his shoulder and arm in steady streams, and he could feel the sharp ache of damaged ribs, but none of it mattered. What mattered was that Harper was safe.
Harper rushed up to his bloodied form. "We need to get you home," she said, her voice shaking but determined as she reached his side. "I need to treat those wounds."
Home.
She'd called his estate home. His brave, beautiful mate wasn't demanding to leave this dangerous place immediately. She was choosing to stay, choosing to care for him.
"I'll collect Lila and the girls," Marty said after he'd shifted back to his human form. "Get him back to the estate before he bleeds all over the place."
Harper slipped her arm around Dorian's uninjured side, her warmth seeping through his skin like healing balm. She was so much smaller than him, but her presence steadied him in ways that went far beyond the physical support.
"Can you walk to the truck?" she asked, her green eyes scanning his wounds with professional assessment.
"I'm fine," he managed, though his voice came out slightly breathless.
"You're not fine. You're bleeding everywhere," she countered, guiding him toward the parking lot with gentle insistence. "Let me help you."
Dorian allowed himself to lean into her strength, marveling at how natural it felt to accept her care. For eighteen years, he'd carried every burden alone and tended to his own wounds, convinced that needing anyone made him weak. But Harper's steady presence beside him felt completely right.
She helped him into the passenger seat of his own truck, her hands gentle but efficient as she adjusted his position to avoid aggravating his injuries. Then with complete focus, she rounded the truck and climbed into his driver's seat and started the engine. The sight of her behind his steering wheel, taking charge of his safety with calm competence, did something profound to him.
Mine.
For once, Dorian didn't argue with the instinct. As Harper guided them toward home, he closed his eyes and let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he'd found something worth fighting for beyond duty and obligation.
Gravel soon crunched beneath them as she guided the truck to a stop in the estate's driveway, her hands trembling slightly on the steering wheel. Dorian watched her profile in the dashboard's pale glow—the determined set of her jaw, the way she kept stealing glances at his bloodied shoulder as if checking he hadn't lost consciousness during the short drive home.
My brave mate.
The thought hit him with startling clarity. Not his sister's therapist. Not a temporary disruption to his ordered world. His mate, who'd just faced down two enemy wolves, who'd driven him home with steady determination despite the fear he'd felt flooding their bond.
"Can you walk inside?" Harper's voice carried that professional composure he was beginning to recognize as her armor against emotional chaos.
"Yes, I'm fine," he managed, though the deep gouges across his shoulder burned like liquid fire and his ribs protested every breath.
She climbed out of the truck with efficient movements, and within seconds, she was slipping her arm around his uninjured side before he could protest. Her warmth enveloped him, and Dorian found himself leaning into her strength more than strictly necessary.
The front door yielded to her key, and she guided him through the darkened foyer toward the grand staircase. Moonlight streaming through the tall windows illuminated the polished wood and cast their joined shadows on the wall like something intimate and permanent.
"Your room?" she asked, glancing up the stairs with clinical assessment.
