"Eamon, I know you’re worried, but trust me. And trust Snowball here."
Ronan’s voice is light, teasing, but firm.
"You know better than anyone just how absolutely insane she is."
We’re parked at the edge of White Stone Pack’s territory, just outside the barrier. To human eyes, it’s nothing more than a dense cluster of trees. Unremarkable. Ordinary.
But we know better.Beyond this point, the human world begins.
I stay seated inside the sleek black Range Rover, arms folded, my fingers tapping against my thigh.I know better than to step out.Because if I do, my father will never let me leave.
Eamon is silent, tense.
From my vantage point in the back seat, I can see his broad shoulders, the stiffness in his posture. He hasn’t said much since we told him the plan.But I can feel his unease.He doesn’t , not because he doesn’t believe in me.
But because he is still a father watching his daughter walk into the unknown.I exhale slowly, forcing myself to push down the flicker of guilt curling in my stomach.
He doesn’t look at me, but I know he’s listening.
I grin, rolling down the window and blowing him a dramatic kiss.
He groans. Ronan cackles.
"I raised a menace," Eamon mutters, shaking his head.
"And yet, you still love me." I smirk.
With one last glance at the trees that have kept me caged for so long, Ronan shifts the car into gear.
He drives straight toward the tree line.To any outsider, it would look like we were about to crash into solid wood.
But the second the car touches the barrier, a ripple spreads across the air. Like the surface of a still lake breaking apart under a single drop of rain.
And then, we pass through.For a split second, it feels like being pulled through something thick, almost like wading through water.
The road is rough at first, thick tree roots and uneven terrain making the wheels jolt beneath us.
But Ronan is a skilled driver. He navigates effortlessly, hands steady, gaze focused.
I settle back into my seat, my heartbeat quieter now.
Operation Bring Back My Mate is in full commencement.
I can’t explain it.For months, I have felt... off.Like I don’t belong here.
Like my penthouse, my office, my very existence is somehow detached from the ground beneath me.
It’s a ridiculous thought. I’ve lived in luxury and power for years, built my empire with my own hands. I should feel untouchable.
Instead, I feel unsteady.Like a man standing on a sheet of ice, waiting for the cracks to form beneath his feet.
And then, there are the dreams.
I can still smell her, even when I’m awake. Still feel the press of her body against mine, the way her gray eyes burned into me, the way my name sounded in her voice.
It hasn’t been the same since.It’s been months, and I have the worst case of blue balls in human history.
No amount of distraction, no one-night stands, no amount of work has made a dent in this constant, gnawing frustration.
I am irritable, short-tempered, constantly on edge.And not that my assistant gives a single fuck.The office door swings open without warning.
"You look like shit."A voice cuts through the tension in the room like a knife.
I don’t even have to look up.
There is only one person in the world who would barge into my space , completely unbothered by the fact that I’m the CEO of a multibillion-dollar empire.
Only one person who could say whatever the hell she wants to me and get away with it.
"I don’t pay you to insult me." I mutter, not bothering to lift my head from where I’ve been rubbing my temples.
"Then you’ve been wasting money, because that’s basically my job."
I glance up and there she is.Simone Vaughn.
My assistant, my best friend, my only real connection to the world before I became Cameron Anderson, billionaire, to be honest even way before that.
She stands in the doorway, arms crossed, unimpressed as always. Her colorful braids are threaded with an assortment of beads, charms, and tiny gold cuffs, shifting as she moves.
She’s dressed in one of her usual indie, earthy-style outfits, flowing fabric, layered jewelry, and an effortless bohemian confidence that somehow fits every occasion.
I don’t even know how to describe her style properly.
I just know that it suits her.Better than the corporate suits and pencil skirts she refuses to wear.
Simone has never played by anyone’s rules but her own and she’s the only person alive who keeps me grounded.
We met at a prestigious boarding school, both of us charity cases surrounded by the rich and entitled.We were two outsiders in a world of privilege, and we stuck together like glue.
I wouldn’t be Cameron Anderson, billionaire, without her.
And she knows it,which is why she takes absolutely none of my bullshit. I think she’s my assistant just to boss me around because she has shares and several millions of dollars.
She walks toward me, setting a black folder down on my desk with a little too much force, proving my point.
I arch an eyebrow. "Since when do I have a folder? I thought we went paperless."
She shrugs. "I needed something to throw at your head if necessary."
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
"Still having those dreams?"
Simone’s voice is casual, but the way she leans against my desk—**arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in quiet judgment—**tells me she already knows the answer.
I don’t even bother lying.
She’s the only person I’ve told about this.
The only person I can tell.
Because who the hell else would believe me?That for months, I’ve been dreaming of a white-haired woman with storm-gray eyes.
That I wake up aching, my body tight with a need I can’t explain.That I swear I can still smell her when I’m awake—a scent like the forest after it rains, fresh and wild and untamed.
That I feel off, like my penthouse is too high, my world is too distant, my life is somehow... wrong.
She watches me for a moment, then clicks her tongue.
"I’m telling you,you’re possessed. We should burn some sage or something."
I exhale sharply, running a hand down my face.
"I’m not possessed, Simone."