Chapter 7: Wounds and Trust

The first-aid kit was exactly where Kael had said it would be—under the sink in the guest bathroom, untouched, the seal still intact. Elena tore it open with her teeth, her hands steady despite the adrenaline humming through her veins. Damon had followed her without a word, his footsteps heavy and uneven. She could hear him lean against the doorframe, could hear the ragged edge of his breathing. "Sit," she said, pointing to the edge of the marble counter. He raised an eyebrow, but lowered himself onto the cold stone. The wound on his side was worse than she'd expected. A deep gash, still oozing, the edges ragged where claws had torn through fabric and skin. She had seen wounds like this before—on pack enforcers after a territory fight. But never on an alpha. Never on a man who radiated power like a second heartbeat. "You're staring," he said, his voice rough. "I'm assessing." She pulled out antiseptic wipes and gauze. "This needs stitches." "Then stitch it." "I'm not a medic." "You're a Vance. You've seen blood." She met his eyes. There was no accusation in them, only a flat acknowledgment of who she was and what her family did. She chose not to flinch. Instead, she ripped open a wipe and pressed it against the wound without warning. Damon hissed through his teeth. His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. "Easy." "You want me to stop?" He held her gaze for a long moment, his grip tight enough to bruise. Then he released her. "No. Finish." She worked in silence, cleaning the wound with methodical precision. The blood was darker than human blood—a deep crimson that seemed to shimmer under the penthouse lights. She'd heard that alpha blood was different. More potent. More alive. She tried not to think about what that meant. "You're good at this," he said. "I had practice." She didn't elaborate. The memory of her mother's bruises, of hiding medical supplies in her childhood closet, was not something she shared with captors. But Damon seemed to hear what she didn't say. His his face went hard. "Your mother." It wasn't a question. Her fingers stilled for half a second. Then she pressed a fresh gauze pad against the wound and reached for the suture kit. "Hold this." He pressed his palm against the gauze, watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. "I know what it's like," he said quietly. "To be sold by the people who should protect you." She didn't reply. She threaded the needle, her movements mechanical. "My mother was sold too," he said. The needle paused. She looked up, searching his face for a lie, a trick, some angle. But his expression was stripped of its usual arrogance. He looked almost… vulnerable. "She was a beta from a small pack in the north," he continued, his voice low. "My father bought her for breeding. He wanted strong pups, and her bloodline was pure. She had no choice." Elena's throat tightened. She forced herself to focus on the needle, on the first stitch. "What happened to her?" "She died when I was twelve. My father's enemies used her as leverage. He didn't negotiate. They killed her to send a message." "I'm sorry." "I don't want your pity." His voice hardened. "I want you to understand. I know what it means to be a pawn in someone else's game. I know what it costs." She finished the second stitch, her hands steadier now. "Is that why you bought me? Because you think you're saving me?" "I bought you because your father offered a deal I couldn't refuse. But I'm not my father. I don't keep prisoners for sport." "Then let me go." "I can't." The words were flat, final. "Not yet. The contract is binding. If you run, you die. If I release you before the terms are met, my pack loses the territory. There are consequences beyond just you and me." She tied off the suture and cut the thread. "So I'm a hostage with better medical care." "You're a guest who can't leave. There's a difference." "Is there?" He didn't answer. She finished bandaging the wound, her fingers brushing against his skin. His muscles tensed under her touch, and she felt the heat of him, the raw power barely contained. When she leaned in to smooth the last strip of tape, his breath brushed the side of her throat. For one dangerous heartbeat neither of them moved. Damon did not touch her until she looked up. The smallest nod passed between them, almost a challenge, almost consent. Only then did his fingers settle at her waist, steadying rather than claiming, and the restraint in that touch unsettled her more than force ever could. Elena felt the line between enemy and something else go thin as wire. She stepped back before it could snap. "Done." He stood, testing the bandage with a careful movement. "You didn't kill me." "The thought crossed my mind." "Why didn't you?" She looked at him, at the blood on her hands, at the sudden stillness in the room. "Because I want to know why you've been investigating my family." His eyes sharpened. "What are you talking about?" "I found your files, Damon. In the study. You've been tracking the Vance pack for years. You knew who I was before the contract. You knew exactly what you were buying." Silence stretched between them, thick and dangerous. "You shouldn't have gone through my things," he said, his voice dropping to a growl. "And you shouldn't have left them unlocked if you wanted to keep secrets." He took a step toward her, and she forced herself not to retreat. "Those files are classified." "Then unclassify them. Tell me why you've been watching my family." "Or what?" "Or I stop bandaging your wounds and start making some of my own." He stared at her, something flickering in his eyes—respect, maybe, or wariness. Then he laughed, a low, humorless sound. "You have no idea what you're asking." "Try me." He shook his head. "Not tonight. You've done enough for one day. Rest. We'll talk tomorrow." "Damon—" "That's an order." He walked out of the bathroom, leaving her alone with the bloodstained gauze and the unanswered questions. She stood there for a long time, her heart pounding, her mind racing. When she finally moved, it wasn't to rest. It was to find the study again, to open the hidden drawer she'd discovered earlier. The file was still there. She pulled it out, her hands trembling. Inside were photographs, surveillance reports, financial records—all documenting the Vance pack's dealings. But at the bottom of the file was a sealed envelope. She tore it open. Inside was a single photograph. A woman with Elena's eyes, her mother's eyes. And on the back, in His fingerswriting: "Sold to Marcus Vance, 1987. Target: Alpha Damon Blackwood." Her blood turned to ice. Damon hadn't just been investigating her family. He had been hunting them. And her mother—her mother had been part of it. The door creaked behind her. She spun around. Damon stood in the doorway, his face unreadable. "I told you to rest." She held up the photograph. "Who is this woman?" He didn't answer. "Tell me," she whispered, "or I swear I'll burn this entire penthouse down." He stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the photograph. "That's your mother, Elena. And she was the one who betrayed my pack."