Damien.

I slammed my fist against the wall again.

The impact sent a sharp sting shooting through my knuckles, vibrating up my arm, but I barely registered it anymore. The skin had already split slightly from the first hit. I could feel the warmth there, raw and throbbing, but it was distant. Insignificant.

The dull ache in my hand was nothing compared to the one clawing viciously at my pride.

I lost.

In our territory.

On our ground.

In front of our pack.

In front of my brothers.

The humiliation of it burned deeper than any physical wound could. I dragged a hand down my face, fingers pressing hard against my eyes as if I could wipe the memory away. My breath left me in a harsh exhale, uneven and heavy, before I leaned forward and rested my forehead against the cold stone wall.

The chill seeped into my skin.

It should have cooled me down.

It didn’t.

The stone grounded me physically, but it did nothing to quiet the storm raging inside my chest. My jaw tightened as the scene replayed again and again in brutal clarity.

How could I let that happen?

I had taken the lead.

I remembered the surge of adrenaline, the power beneath me as the horse responded flawlessly to every subtle shift of my weight, every quiet command. I had felt untouchable in that moment, like the victory was already sealed.

The rhythm had been perfect.

The crowd had been chanting my name.

"Alpha Damien... Alpha Damien..."

Their voices had rolled over the field like thunder, fueling me, strengthening me. I had felt their faith. Their expectation.

Their certainty, and then...it slipped.

My fingers curled into a fist again at my side, enough for my brothers to notice.

That thought hit harder than anything else.

They wouldn’t say it. They never did. They were too disciplined for open criticism in moments like this. But I knew them. I knew the way their eyes sharpened when something didn’t meet expectations. I knew how they evaluated everything, strength, dominance, control, performance.

Authority wasn’t inherited, It was proven, over and over again. This competition wasn’t just a game, It wasn’t just about speed or skill, It was pride, reputation and authority.

And I had stumbled in the first round.

The first.

A leader doesn’t stumble where everyone can see.

Frustration surged through me again, hot and suffocating. I lifted my fist and drove it into the wall once more. Pain flared brighter this time, sharper, but still not enough to drown out the bitterness coiling inside me.

"Damn it," I muttered under my breath, the words scraping out of my throat.

The sound of my own voice in the empty space only made the defeat feel more real.

I straightened slowly, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling with controlled but heavy breaths.

Aside from the humiliation, there was something else that unsettled me more deeply.

Maria.

Her name alone shifted the weight in my chest.

The image of her standing there, watching, silent, unreadable, refused to leave my mind. But it wasn’t just that. It was the thought of what this loss could mean. The unspoken consequence hanging over everything.

The thought of her being taken away, of another Alpha claiming her under the guise of victory, ignited something sharp and possessive inside me. It wasn’t calm. It wasn’t rational. It was instinctive. Primal.

This was our land.

Our pack.

Every tree, every stone, every path carried our scent, our history. And she....She belonged here.

The idea of her standing at another Alpha’s side, being paraded as a prize earned through triumph, made something dark twist in my stomach. My chest tightened at the mere possibility.

I didn’t care how complicated things were between us.

I didn’t care about the distance. About the tension. About the way she sometimes looked at me like she was trying to decide whether I was worth the fight.

None of that mattered in this moment.

What mattered was that the idea of losing her to someone else’s victory was unacceptable.

My jaw tightened until it ached.

I should have won.

I should have secured the first point.

That was my responsibility. My role. My duty, not just as Alpha, but as a man who refused to let something that was his slip through his fingers.

Instead, I was standing here punching walls like a reckless teenager, letting frustration bleed out through bruised knuckles instead of strategy.

Another frustrated exhale left my lips, heavier this time. The sound of the door opening behind me barely registered at first.

"Damien?"

Vanessa’s voice cut through the silence softly.

Concerned.

I didn’t turn around immediately. I kept my gaze fixed ahead, jaw still set, shoulders rigid. I didn’t trust my expression. I didn’t trust the tightness in my chest to remain hidden if I looked at her.

"Are you okay?" she continued gently, her heels clicking lightly against the floor as she stepped further inside. The sound was measured, unhurried. "You’re hurt."

Only then did I glance down at my hand.

My knuckles were scraped raw, thin streaks of red marking where skin had split against stone. The sight barely stirred anything in me.

"It’s nothing," I replied flatly.

The words came out colder than I intended, stripped of emotion.

But she moved closer anyway.

Vanessa had always known how to make her presence feel deliberate. Slow, careful steps. Gentle movements. She never rushed. Never imposed too aggressively. It was almost strategic, the way she eased herself into space.

She reached for my hand without hesitation, her fingers were cool against my warm skin, a stark contrast to the heat still simmering beneath the surface of my anger.

"You’re bleeding," she murmured, her voice lowering slightly.

I didn’t pull away.

But I didn’t lean into her touch either.

I allowed it.

Nothing more.

She guided me toward the couch with a light pressure against my arm, and I sat down without protest, my body heavier now that the surge of rage had dulled into something more controlled.

She retrieved a cloth and ointment from the nearby cabinet, her movements efficient yet careful. When she returned, she crouched slightly in front of me, lifting my hand with quiet focus.

The cloth pressed against my knuckles.

It stung.

Still, I didn’t react.

Her touch was tender, almost as if she were handling something fragile, something that might shatter if she wasn’t careful.

"You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself," she said quietly as she cleaned the wound. "It was only the first round."

Only.

The word echoed in my mind, sharp and grating.

As if the first round didn’t set the tone. As if it didn’t shape perception. As if it didn’t give people something to whisper about when backs were turned.

I felt irritation flicker through me, brief but intense. My jaw tightened slightly, but I kept silent. There was no point snapping at her. She wasn’t mocking me. She was trying to soothe me.

That almost made it worse.

She dabbed at the cut carefully, her brows knitting together in concentration. The way she focused on my knuckles, the faint crease between her brows, the gentleness in her movements, it was as if my scraped skin personally offended her. As if my pain was something she could wipe away with enough patience.

"You’ll win the next one," she added, her tone firm with certainty. Not hopeful. Not doubtful. Certain.

I didn’t respond.

Because I wasn’t thinking about the next round.

My mind was somewhere else entirely.

I was thinking about the look in Maria’s eyes during the race. Not cheering. Not fearful. Just watching. Measuring.

I was thinking about the way the crowd had split their chants, how my name had once thundered without question, and now there had been another voice rising against it.

How close everything had felt to slipping out of my control.

Vanessa leaned closer, finishing with the cloth before placing it aside on the table. I felt her shift in front of me, and then her fingers brushed lightly against my jaw. Her touch was soft, almost hesitant, as she tilted my face toward hers.

"You’re still the strongest," she whispered.

The words were meant to anchor me.

Before I could react, before I could even decide whether I wanted to respond, she leaned in and pressed her lips against mine.

The kiss was soft, intentional, claiming. Her lips lingered just long enough to make a statement. To remind me of something unspoken.

But I didn’t kiss her back.

I didn’t deepen it.

I didn’t respond at all.

I remained still, my hands resting at my sides, my mind distant.

After a second, she pulled away slightly. I could feel her studying my face, searching for something, validation, perhaps. Reassurance.

"I’m tired," I said simply.

Vanessa held my gaze for a moment longer, as if deciding whether to push further. Then she nodded slowly.

"Of course," she replied gently.

There was no anger in her tone. No sharp edge of rejection. Just quiet understanding.

She picked up the ointment again and resumed tending to the remaining abrasions along my arm and knuckles. Her touch remained careful, attentive, smoothing over small cuts with deliberate patience.

I stared ahead blankly, letting her work in silence.

The room was quiet except for the faint rustle of cloth and the sound of my steady breathing.

But inside, my thoughts were anything but calm.

They were tangled.

Restless.

Unfinished.

This wasn’t over.

Not the competition.

And certainly not my need to prove, to myself, to my brothers, to the pack that losing once did not define me.

It wouldn’t.