Chapter 3
1232words
Ferocious wolf heads adorned the iron gates, while flags bearing the Frost family crest fluttered above.
A biting wind cut into her neck, carrying the Northern District's distinctive scent of pine and rust.
Servants in identical uniforms kept their heads down, walking hurriedly and breathing softly, creating a suffocating atmosphere of oppression.
As she walked the long corridor, a beast-like roar of anger erupted from somewhere distant.
It was followed by the sound of something heavy being violently smashed.
Aurora trembled involuntarily.
The butler continued without breaking stride, turning his head slightly, his voice barely audible.
"Mr. Frost has been... volatile lately. Exercise extreme caution."
Outside Damian's study, two bodyguards in black suits stood like iron towers, fresh bloodstains still visible on their clothing.
The door creaked open slightly.
No lights illuminated the room; darkness devoured everything within.
As the door opened, the thick scent of gun oil mixed with sharp pine incense assaulted Aurora's senses.
To her, it was an aggressively masculine aura. To Damian, the mixed scents and sudden light change pierced his damaged senses like steel needles, sending pain shooting through his skull.
Darkness filled the room like a living entity, too thick to penetrate.
Behind the massive desk, a tall figure sank into the leather chair, only a dangerous silhouette visible in the gloom.
He didn't move—didn't even seem to breathe—yet the entire space hummed with tension like a fully drawn bow.
Aurora felt her blood freeze in her veins.
This was no man but a predator lurking in darkness, ready to pounce at any moment.
"You dare return?"
The deep, hoarse voice cut through the silence like ice-coated sandpaper, each word grinding against her eardrums.
Her heart seized, crushed by an invisible hand.
Cold sweat instantly soaked Aurora's back; she could hear her own teeth chattering.
*Run!*
Every cell in her body screamed the command.
But her brother's pale face flashed through her mind, chilling her resolve like ice water.
She couldn't run.
Aurora took a deep breath, fighting nausea from the smell of blood and disinfectant.
She raised her head, straining to penetrate the darkness with her gaze.
Following her rehearsed script, she forced her stiff vocal cords to produce a soft, wounded yet stubborn tone.
"I... I missed you, Damian."
Her final syllable trembled, nearly inaudible.
Deathly silence.
The figure moved.
He leaned forward slightly, a stray beam of light illuminating one eye.
What eyes they were.
Devoid of human emotion—only the cold, cruel gaze of a predator.
He examined her like an object—an annoying one at that.
Suddenly, he laughed—a soft, chilling sound.
That laugh raised goosebumps more effectively than any roar.
"Miss me?"
He repeated her words with deliberate slowness, his tone dripping mockery. "Do you miss me dead, or do you miss me... wringing your pretty neck with my bare hands?"
Murderous intent surged like floodwaters, threatening to drown Aurora completely.
All her rehearsed lines became worthless in that moment.
Her mind went blank before survival instinct kicked in.
Crying or begging would only seal her fate. According to her briefing, Seraphina Monroe was proud to the point of recklessness.
Aurora's palms bled from her nails digging in. She used the sharp pain to steel herself, lifting her head to stare directly into the bottomless darkness.
"I just wanted to see you."
Her voice sounded dry and hoarse to her own ears.
Dead silence.
The tall silhouette stiffened momentarily, the oppressive atmosphere growing even heavier.
Aurora felt certain her head would be crushed like an overripe melon in the next second.
Staking everything, she continued in Seraphina's tone: "My neck is right here. But remember, I once took a bullet for you. If you want to kill me, I can't stop you."
She transformed that year-old incident—the one that had marked their "official relationship"—into her shield.
The figure remained silent for so long that Aurora wondered if she was already dead.
"Get out."
Two words, ice-cold, slammed into the floor.
Aurora felt as if granted a royal pardon. When she turned to leave, her legs had gone so weak she nearly tripped over herself fleeing the study.
...
Every day at Winter Fortress felt like walking a knife's edge.
Aurora learned from an old servant that the Wolf Pack maintained a strict hierarchy, with the Godfather wielding absolute authority—his moods determining life and death for everyone.
She gradually discovered Damian's dual nature.
When lucid, he was a taciturn emperor with penetrating eyes, maintaining an icy distance while handling family affairs.
More often, severe PTSD tormented him, transforming him into a beast that knew only destruction.
Strangely, whenever he verged on losing control, Aurora's gentle voice or mere presence would significantly calm his agitation.
She carried no pungent perfume like high-society women—only a faint, clean soap scent. Her voice held no ulterior motives. For Damian, with his hypersensitive senses, this "simplicity" was the only presence he could tolerate.
Aurora realized she felt sympathy for this notoriously brutal crime lord.
He wasn't a monster.
Just a lonely man tormented by severe trauma.
Once, as Damian cleaned his dagger, flashbacks of the gunfight invaded his mind. His PTSD triggered, and the blade sliced his palm.
Blood welled immediately.
Thinking Damian was having another episode, Aurora instinctively rushed to take the dagger from him.
"Damian, stop! Look at me! Listen to my voice!"
When her fingertips touched his wound, Damian's tall frame shuddered violently.
He lowered his head, dark green eyes fixed intensely on their joined hands. Her voice washed over him like cool water, extinguishing the flames in his mind.
The burning pain and restlessness that had tormented him day and night miraculously eased under her touch and voice.
From that day forward, Damian developed an unhealthy dependence on her company, obsessively keeping her within sight.
Aurora remained oblivious, believing her care simply provided psychological comfort.
Another high-risk PTSD period arrived during a violent thunderstorm.
Lightning flashed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating Damian's anguished features.
His breathing grew labored, eyes bloodshot, as if transported back to that bloody dock.
"Get out!"
He roared at Aurora with his last shred of rationality.
The next second, he snapped, violently destroying everything in reach. Solid redwood furniture splintered like matchsticks under his hands.
His agonized, frenzied roars made the entire manor tremble.
Terrified servants kept their distance, none daring to approach.
Aurora was knocked to the ground, watching the horrifying scene unfold, her body ice-cold with fear.
But when Damian smashed his head against the wall with a sickening thud, fear gave way to something else entirely.
She rushed toward him without hesitation.
"It's okay... I'm here... You're safe..."
In the moment Damian paused from pain, Aurora wrapped her trembling arms around his shaking body from behind.
With profound tenderness, she comforted this man trapped by his demons.
A miracle occurred.
Under her gentle voice and embrace, the frenzy gradually faded from his crimson eyes.
His tall frame slowly stilled, growing quiet.
Moonlight revealed the crisscross of old and new scars covering Damian's body.
He clutched Aurora with crushing force, as if trying to meld her into his very bones.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.
Finally, the world in his vision was no longer a blood-red haze.
