His head tipped back, eyes crinkling at the corners.
"You?" he said between breaths. "You knocked me out? See, I was buying your story, Sera, but now that little detail — that's where it all goes up in flames."
"You think I couldn't knock you out?"
"Oh, sweetheart," he said, still grinning as he took a step closer. "I am the strongest man you'll ever meet. And your story is that you hit me with a lamp to stop me from fucking you?"
"Y–yes!" she stammered. "You were beyond reason! I couldn't get through to you! You were muttering nonsense and then you just… passed out!"
"Oh, that's rich."
"I'm telling you the truth," she insisted.
The laughter faded from his face. He stopped right in front of her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him. His eyes softened, but only just.
"I want to believe you," he said quietly. "I really do. You seem… innocent."
He raked a hand through his hair and began pacing, his long strides agitated. "But my mum's shenanigans are getting more desperate by the day," he muttered. "And I fear this might be another one of her games."
"So you think I'm part of some family scheme?"
"Honestly?" He looked back at her, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "You walked into my bedroom, called me a rapist, and claimed you took me down with a lamp. Forgive me if I'm skeptical."
"Please… I just want to go to my mum," she begged.
"She will be here soon," he said quietly. "Benedict went to fetch her already. But… you still aren't leaving. I cannot let you. I'm sorry."
The apology scraped against the edges of his control, and Sera's heart thudded erratically. He was dangerous, undeniably so. "Why?" she whispered.
"I just… can't." His hand lifted, motioning toward the plaster on her forehead. "Miss Duvall did that to you?"
"Yes."
Slowly, carefully, his fingers reached for the plaster, thumb brushing against the edge. The warmth of his touch lingered longer than it should have, sending an involuntary shiver through her. She didn't breathe, waiting for him to withdraw his hand, but his gaze held hers — steady, probing, and… different now.
"Have we met before?" he asked.
Sera blinked, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Again with the familiar stranger act. "No," she said, keeping her tone neutral, even as her pulse hammered erratically against her ribs.
"You just seem so… familiar," he murmured.
"Maybe I have one of those faces?" she offered, attempting lightness.
"Maybe." Then, abruptly, he snatched his hand away, leaving her skin tingling and exposed.
"You are free to move around the estate," he said stiffly, "but you cannot leave."
"You're keeping me here? Like a prisoner?"
"Think of it as… protection," he said, lips quirking into the faintest smirk.
"How long do I have to stay here?" she asked.
"I'm guessing a month," he replied smoothly, gaze sweeping over her in a way that lingered far too long to be purely formal. "We should be sure you're not pregnant by then."
Then, just like that, he straightened, shuttering the intensity in his expression as if it had never existed, and turned sharply on his heel. Sera's chest constricted in frustration — the maddening, inexplicable urge to follow him thrummed beneath her skin.
Eric lingered in the hallway, just beyond the door, leaning lightly against the frame.
He'd intended to interrogate her, maybe intimidate her, assert the dominance expected of him. But the moment he saw her — half-buried in the soft sheets, a lock of hair clinging to her cheek, a faint whimper escaping her parted lips — every trace of anger, every plan to dominate, evaporated.
Instead, he found himself watching. She was fragile.
He exhaled slowly, pressing his back against the wall, trying to tamp down the heat that rose in his chest. Control, Eric. You need control.
Benedict had arrived shortly after, escorting Mrs. Hart. She moved slowly, a faint wince in her step. Eric descended the stairs, his tall frame cutting a commanding figure, and as he entered the living room, his sharp silver-edged eyes found her immediately. Mrs. Hart's face brightened in relief and maternal warmth.
"Oh, my boy," she breathed, limping forward. e felt a rush of conflicting emotions — guilt, frustration.
"You truly did have an accident," he said. His gaze swept her carefully, noting every twitch of discomfort, every small movement she tried to mask with poise.
"It's just minor," she said, brushing off the concern.
"Why didn't you ever tell me you had a daughter?"
"Honey, it never came up," she said softly. "And I thought you knew." Her gaze lingered on him, dark eyes thoughtful, filled with the memory of a past carefully hidden.
"It's good to see you. I asked Benedict to bring you."
"I shouldn't have sent her here," she admitted. "I have never let her out of my sight since she was born. But Eric… she cannot stay here. She… she is delicate."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hart. I would do anything for you, you know that," he said. "But I cannot let her leave. She may be carrying my child, and that child cannot live."
"Eric…" she began softly.
He raked a hand through his hair, his broad shoulders coiled tight. "I'm sorry," he said. "I really am. As soon as I'm sure, I'll send her back to you. Maybe this will serve as a lesson to my mum — to stop interfering in my life." His eyes flicked back to his mum.
Mrs. Hart's lips thinned into a knowing smile. "You also need to understand your mother, Eric," she said gently. "We both know the pressure she's under from the Werewolf Council. You are her only son. The last living heir of the Blackwood bloodline. The one who was supposed to take over as alpha but shut out his wolf."
"Then the Werewolf Council should find a solution to my madness!" he snapped.
Mrs. Hart reached out her hand and placed it gently against his chest.