Damien Wolfe
His pups.
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They called him the Beast of Wall Street. Young, handsome, a billionaire with wolf’s blood in his veins—blood he had learned to conceal beneath designer suits, luxury cars, and a smile cold enough to cut glass. He was a predator—in business, in life, in bed. Promises bored him. Sentiment was weakness. Only instinct, action, conquest—that’s what mattered to Damien Wolfe.
That night in the bar, the music was pure fire. A DJ with short red hair and a rebellious gaze played pounding techno that stirred something primal in him. She smelled like danger and freedom. He took her the way a wolf takes—without asking, without regret. And by morning, she was gone. No name. No trace. No scent.
Three years passed.
He was in the park—not because he liked parks, but because his driver had messed up the address for a meeting. And that’s when it hit him. First a faint shift in the air. Then a punch to the chest. Warm, dry, familiar.
The scent of pups.
He turned—and saw her. A girl in a simple dress and worn sandals, standing in the grass while two small boys ran circles around her. Fast, agile, wild—like forest shadows. They smelled like him. His blood.
His pups.