The air between them grew sharp, almost unbreathable. The photograph lay on the desk, its edges curling in the lamplight, but it might as well have been a blade pressed to Dominic's throat.
Victor Moretti.
A name soaked in betrayal, blood, and w
Dominic turned his back to Adair, pacing the narrow room like a predator caged too long. His fists clenched and unclenched, every muscle taut with restraint.
"You knew," he growled at last, voice breaking through the silence like thunder.
"I didn't," Adair whispered. Her chest heaved, words tumbling over one another. "Not really. I knew my father was dangerous, yes—but I never knew the truth of what he'd done. I never knew he was your enemy."
Dominic spun on her, eyes blazing. "You expect me to believe that?"
The sharpness of his tone cut her deeper than any blade. For the first time since she'd met him, Dominic Wolfe wasn't just cold—he was distant.
"I don't lie to you," she said fiercely, stepping toward him. "Not now. Not ever. Everything I've given you, Dominic, it's been real."
His jaw worked, as if the beast inside him wanted to believe her but the man could not. "You carry his name. His blood. Don't you understand what that means? The world doesn't care what you want to be. To them, you'll always be his daughter."
Adair's eyes burned with unshed tears. "And to you?"
The question froze him. For a long, agonizing heartbeat, Dominic said nothing. His silence was worse than anger—it was doubt, and it carved through her like fire.
At last, he turned away, shoulders rigid, voice quieter than she'd ever heard.
"To me… I don't know."
Adair's breath hitched, the weight of his words crushing her. For the first time, she felt the true danger of her past—it wasn't just the enemies hunting her. It was the man she loved, the only man who had ever truly seen her, now questioning if she was worth the risk.
And outside, beyond the thin walls of the warehouse, the city stirred restlessly—as if it too sensed the fracture between wolf and flame.