He Tried to Reject Me, But I Was His Fated Mate

　　Yorkshire was supposed to save us.

　　That was what my mother said when our old life in Cornwall finally became too dangerous to survive. She said a new town meant new walls, new locks, new names on official papers, and enough distance between us and the man who had turned our home into a battlefield.

　　I wanted to believe her.

　　I wanted to believe a mansion with empty rooms and dark chocolate walls could become a sanctuary just because we crossed miles of road to reach it.

　　But the second I stepped inside, the silence felt wrong.

　　Too big. Too cold. Too expensive for two women who had left half their lives behind in boxes.

　　“My name is Eleanor Vale,” I reminded myself under my breath, as if saying it would make me brave. “Eighteen. Tall. Ash-blonde hair. Blue eyes. Quiet. Studious. Professional overthinker.”

　　And, apparently, the kind of girl who ran from one nightmare straight into another.

　　Because there was already something in Yorkshire watching me.

　　I had felt it before, deep in the forest, when a wolf as black as midnight appeared between the trees. It had been enormous, impossible, with golden eyes that burned through the dark. One moment it was there. The next, it vanished.

　　Since then, I had not slept properly.

　　Those eyes followed me even here.

　　“Eleanor!” my mother called from the front door. “The truck is here.”

　　I turned away from the empty living room. Margaret Vale stood in the doorway with a smile that tried very hard to look normal. It failed. My mother was beautiful in a way that made people stare. Light brown hair, bright blue eyes, curves, and a face that looked years younger than forty-six. But beneath the beauty, exhaustion clung to her like a second skin.

　　“I’ll help,” I said.

　　She caught my arm before I could pass. Her fingers were gentle, but the tremble in them was not.

　　“I know you are wondering how I paid for this place,” she said quietly.

　　I looked at the marble floor, the high ceiling, the stairs sweeping up to the second floor. “The thought crossed my mind.”

　　“An old friend helped me. He was selling it, and we needed somewhere safe.” Her voice dropped on the last word. “Your father will not find us here.”

　　My throat tightened. The last time Ambrose Vale came home angry, my mother could barely stand by morning.

　　“He won’t touch you again,” I said.

　　She pulled me into her arms so suddenly I almost stumbled. For one second, she was not my reckless, glamorous, chaotic mother. She was just a woman who had survived too much and was terrified survival would not be enough.

　　Then she let go, wiped under her eyes, and clapped her hands.

　　“Come on. If we are going to be poor in a mansion, we should at least unpack like queens.”

　　That was Margaret. Crying one moment. Making jokes the next.

　　We dragged boxes, directed movers, and tried to make the enormous house look less like a museum and more like a home. The living room furniture looked tiny against the walls. The kitchen looked like it belonged to a chef, which was convenient, because cooking was the one place my mother never failed.

　　My stomach growled loud enough for her to hear.

　　She laughed. “Hungry?”

　　“I am wasting away.”

　　“You ate three hours ago.”

　　“Exactly. A tragedy.”

　　She started searching the counters, frowning. “Where is the sound system?”

　　I stared at her. “We just ran for our lives and your priority is music?”

　　“My priority is atmosphere.” She pulled out her phone. “I’ll call Damian.”

　　The name hit the air between us like a match striking.

　　“Damian?” I asked.

　　“The friend who helped with the house.”

　　I narrowed my eyes. “How old is this friend?”

　　She gave me a look over her shoulder. “Do not start.”

　　“I am simply asking whether I should prepare myself to thank a generous gentleman or a suspicious old man with too much money.”

　　“He is not old.” Her mouth curved. “He is twenty-four.”

　　That stopped me.

　　Twenty-four was not old. Twenty-four was dangerous territory. Old enough to own things. Young enough to be trouble.

　　“And he is coming for dinner,” she added.

　　“What?”

　　“Tonight. So wear something nice.”

　　I stared at her. “We moved today.”

　　“And?”

　　“And my room has boxes instead of furniture.”

　　“Then choose from the boxes.”

　　I pointed at her. “This is emotional blackmail.”

　　“This is hospitality.”

　　I went upstairs muttering under my breath, but I still searched until I found a black dress. It was simple, fitted, and a little too pretty for a dinner I claimed not to care about.

　　When I held it against myself in the mirror, my reflection looked back with wide blue eyes and a nervous mouth.

　　“Relax,” I told myself. “It is just dinner.”

　　But somewhere deep inside me, the memory of golden eyes flashed.

　　And for the first time since arriving in Yorkshire, I wondered if Damian Ashford had been waiting for us long before we ever reached his door.