Someone From Her Past

The polished glass doors of the hotel slid open, and a gust of chilled night air swept through the lobby. The doorman tipped his cap, stepping aside just as a sleek black limousine pulled up to the curb.

Winter followed Darren, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. The sound of city life sang outside—luxury engines, distant laughter, the low throb of music spilling from the building across the street. But nothing compared to the man walking a few steps ahead of her.

Darren Riggs.

In a wine-red tux that hugged his lean, muscular frame like it was crafted by the gods themselves. The streetlights caught the slick comb-back of his dark blonde hair, the edges of his angular jaw, and the gleam in his deep blue eyes that barely flicked in her direction when he opened the door for her.

"After you," he said coolly.

"Thanks." Her voice was barely above a whisper as she stepped inside.

The leather interior of the limousine was soft and warm, the lighting dim but intimate. Darren climbed in beside her, taking the corner seat and crossing one leg over the other as he pulled out a sleek silver tablet from his coat.

Winter settled beside him, keeping a polite amount of distance between them, though every nerve in her body screamed to close it. Her fingers itched to reach out. To touch. To trace the sharp angles of his face.

But most of all, her eyes wouldn't leave him.

He looked... unreal.

His lashes were long, unnaturally so for a man. They pointed downward, fanning over the intensity of his gaze as he focused on whatever filled the screen of his tablet. There was something about how effortlessly elegant he was, how entirely unaware of the way he drew attention.

Winter bit her lip, fighting the heat rising to her cheeks. Her gaze drifted—down the curve of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, the soft deep of his throat where the first button of his shirt remained undone. Then her eyes caught something she hadn't noticed before.

A tiny mole.

Just at the corner of his lips. Hidden unless someone was truly looking.

Her breath caught.

"You keep staring like that," Darren said suddenly, without lifting his head, "and I might begin to think you're obsessed with me."

Winter's heart thudded in her chest. Her mouth parted slightly, and just as she was about to look away, he raised his eyes.

They locked.

She expected to be met with annoyance—or amusement—but what she found was tension. Pure, simmering tension. The kind that made her forget what air tasted like.

"I—" she began, but the words didn't come. She didn't avert her gaze.

Neither did he.

Silence fell between them.

"You have beautiful eyes," Darren whispered, his voice low, velvety.

Her heart nearly exploded in her chest. She blinked. "Thank you," she murmured, lips curling into a soft smile. Then, as if she couldn't help herself, she bit her bottom lip gently.

His gaze dropped.

And stayed there for a heartbeat too long.

The car slowed to a stop outside an extravagant hall glowing under golden lights. Darren broke eye contact, snapping his tablet shut and sliding it into the pocket of his tux.

"It's a partnership party," he said, turning toward her as the chauffeur opened the door. "My clients from Italy are in town."

Winter nodded slowly, gathering her composure. "Any of them bite?"

He smirked. "Only if you ask nicely."

Outside, the air was cooler, crisper. The building ahead sparkled like something out of a royal fantasy—arched doorways, ivory columns, and gold accents that glittered beneath crystal chandeliers hanging just beyond the entrance.

Darren held out his elbow. "Shall we?"

Winter slipped her manicured hand into the crook of his arm. His body heat radiated through his suit, and she could feel the hard muscle beneath the fine fabric. "You clean up nice," she said softly.

"Only for you."

She laughed—quietly, disbelievingly—but the way he said it, so nonchalantly, made her stomach twist. Either he was playing a game… or he was dangerously serious.

They walked through the arched entrance together.

Winter could barely catch her breath.

The hall was stunning. The kind of luxury people wrote sonnets about—marble floors that reflected every light, chandeliers that looked like falling stars suspended in time, and walls painted with intricate golden leaf designs. Music swirled in the air, soft piano notes twinkling amidst the hum of quiet conversations and clinking champagne glasses.

And everyone bowed.

Not deeply. Not like peasants to a king. But there was deference in the way people moved aside as Darren passed, heads tipping respectfully—whether young or old, woman or man.

Winter felt the weight of those stares on her, but Darren was calm as ever, unreadable.

They reached a secluded corner where three chairs circled a small glass table, untouched.

"Reserved," Darren said under his breath, noticing her curious glance. "We'll sit later. For now, we blend."

A tall man in a sharp suit approached them with a confident stride and a bright smile. "Riggs," the man greeted warmly, shaking Darren's hand.

"Marco," Darren returned, nodding. "Grazie per essere venuto."

The man beamed, clearly pleased. "You've made many friends in Milan, my friend."

Darren tilted his head toward Winter. "This is Winter Davis, my personal assistant."

Winter extended her hand, her smile polite but warm. "Pleasure to meet you."

Marco looked thoroughly impressed. "Beautiful and intelligent," he said with a wink, shaking her hand.

"She's very intelligent," Darren said, cool voice laced with something else—pride? Possessiveness?

Marco excused himself a few minutes later, heading toward a cluster of other sharply dressed men.

"I'll grab us champagne," Darren said, brushing his hand briefly against her back. "Don't move."

Winter nodded.

But her skin burned where his fingers had touched.

He returned moments later with two flutes of golden champagne, handing one to her. He leaned in—close enough for her to smell the cedarwood and rose on his skin—and whispered, "I'll be right back. Stay where you are."

His voice was low, rough, intimate. It grazed over her neck like silk.

She shivered.

As he strolled away, she watched the room—trying not to think about how good he looked from behind. Her eyes dropped to her glass as she took a sip, the bubbles tickling her tongue.

She leaned against a nearby high table, her thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm.

And then—

"Winter?"

The name was spoken softly.

Too familiar.

She froze, slowly turning toward the voice. Her stomach dropped.

A tall, graying man stood just feet away, dressed in a dark brown suit, his eyes piercing despite age. The same sharp eyes that once stared down her adoptive father across countless battlefields.

"Alpha Cornelius," she breathed.

Her voice was barely audible.

He used to live in their Pack.

He used to be friends with Vincent Cross.

And the last time she'd seen him… was when she was ten.

The champagne flute trembled slightly in her hand.

Cornelius stepped forward slowly, as though afraid she might vanish.

"My god," he murmured, taking in her face, "you've grown."

Winter couldn't move. Her mind raced with confusion and warnings and questions that had no answers.

And somewhere behind her, across the sea of glittering suits and gowns—

Darren Riggs was returning.