Since that impulsive kiss in the parking garage, my relationship with Ethan entered uncharted territory.

Put simply: the almighty CEO of Crescent Group, with his trademark take-no-prisoners attitude, essentially invaded my apartment.


His justification was so absurdly formal I couldn't even argue.

"Our company recently intercepted a security threat targeting senior executives. My residence's security system requires a month-long emergency upgrade." Ethan, impeccably dressed in a bespoke suit with two bodyguards hauling his minimalist luggage, stood at my doorstep and announced with a straight face: "Security protocol dictates I must temporarily relocate to a Blackwood property with the highest security rating in the city. Aurora, your apartment is the only suitable option."

I glanced from him to his Men-in-Black-style bodyguards, then thought about Mr. Zhang—our building's security guard who claimed to be a "Blackwood kickboxing champion"—and found myself utterly speechless.


Ethan in public versus private might as well have been different species.

When my nosy cousin and friends came for an impromptu "housewarming," he instantly transformed into the cold, austere business magnate who spoke in perfectly measured sentences.


My cousin nudged him with a wink: "Hey man, since you're in the investment game—got any hot tips? What should we buy to get rich quick?"

Ethan barely glanced up from his coffee: "Invest your time in education. The returns are unmatched."

With that single sentence, he simultaneously murdered the conversation and delivered a life lesson, leaving my friends so intimidated they sat ramrod straight, as if attending a board meeting rather than a casual gathering.

Meanwhile, I struggled to maintain the facade of "independent woman who's merely accommodating a business associate," saying things like "he's just staying temporarily, make yourselves at home"—while my toes curled so hard inside my shoes they could've sculpted a Barbie dream house.

But the moment the door closed behind our guests, the transformation was immediate.

He'd wrap himself around me like an oversized puppy while I watched TV, burying his face in my neck and inhaling deeply as if I were some addictive substance, making contented rumbling sounds deep in his throat.

When I worked, he'd silently wheel his ridiculously expensive ergonomic chair beside my desk and just… watch me. Not speaking, not interrupting—just observing with laser focus, as if I were a billion-dollar merger that required constant monitoring.

My jacket would "mysteriously" appear on my coat rack; my water cup would be joined by his matching one in a different color; even my favorite pillow would somehow smell of his cedar-and-musk cologne every morning.

He was marking his territory with primitive, instinctual determination.

"Ethan!" I finally snapped, confronting him on the sofa while clutching my pillow—which I'd once again found on his side of the bed. "This is my personal space! I have the right to maintain it as I choose!"

He loomed over me in his casual loungewear, his tall frame blocking the light. He said nothing, just leaned down slightly, those intense amber eyes fixed on mine without a hint of compromise.

"Yours," he said, his voice deep and resonant. "Everything here is yours."

"But…" he paused, then gently but firmly extracted the pillow from my grip and placed it on his side, "you are mine."

I was instantly speechless, my traitorous heart racing.

His domineering yet oddly pure logic was impossible to argue against.

Nighttime created the most charged atmosphere between us.

That evening, after my shower, I deliberately slipped into a silk camisole nightgown. I reclined on the bed, pretending to scroll through my phone while actually hyper-focused on the bathroom's frosted glass door.

The water shut off. The door slid open.

Ethan emerged with just a towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets traced paths down his broad shoulders, along the lean muscles of his back, across his sculpted abs, before disappearing beneath the towel's edge. His hair was still damp, dark strands clinging to his forehead. Through the lingering steam, his amber eyes had lost their businesslike sharpness, replaced by something primal and hungry that fixed on me without pretense.

I felt heat rush to my face with embarrassing speed.

He approached the bed and leaned down, his warm breath carrying the clean scent of his body wash. His lips met mine in a gentle kiss that quickly deepened, becoming hungry and demanding.

Just as things were heating up, the atmosphere charged with electricity, I felt a familiar, unwelcome cramping sensation in my lower abdomen.

Damn it! My period had decided to make its early appearance at this exact moment!

In my moment of dismay, Ethan froze completely.

He jerked his head up, brows furrowed in concentration. His nostrils flared slightly—once, twice—and his expression shifted from confusion to sharp concern.

"What's wrong?" His voice tightened with worry. "Are you… injured? I smell blood."

Me: "…"

In the midst of such an intimate moment, to have him announce this fact with the clinical detachment of a crime scene investigator made me want to disappear through the floorboards.

My face burned crimson as I stammered: "It's n-nothing… just… you know, my monthly visitor arrived."

He blinked twice before comprehension dawned. Instantly, the hunger in his eyes vanished, replaced by awkward concern and a touch of panic.

"Stay right there!" he commanded, then bolted from the room.

Minutes later, he returned with a steaming mug that filled the air with the sweet-spicy scent of brown sugar and ginger.

He pressed the mug into my hands, then wordlessly slid under the covers. Through the blanket, he placed his warm palm against my lower abdomen and pulled me against his chest.

"Drink, then sleep," he ordered, his tone brooking no argument while his touch remained impossibly gentle.

Nestled against his solid chest, listening to his steady heartbeat while sipping that overly sweet ginger tea, I felt something in my heart surrender completely.

The next day, we silently agreed to continue our "strictly business roommates" charade in front of my friends. I decided it was time to score some points in this little game.

I sprawled across the sofa, munching chips while casually remarking: "You know, Ethan, I once had a pet that reminded me a lot of you."

Ethan, deep in a financial report, froze mid-page-turn. He glanced up, a flicker of tension in his eyes. "Oh? Really?"

"Mmm-hmm," I drawled. "A little wolf cub named Milo. Just like you—acted all aloof but was actually controlling and needy." I deliberately stretched out my words: "I wonder whatever happened to him."

Ethan's expression became carefully neutral. He set down his report and deflected: "Pets… generally have short lifespans."

"Not necessarily," I smiled sweetly. "What if he wasn't an ordinary pet? Maybe he grew up, turned into a human, and now he's camping out in my apartment, refusing to leave."

Ethan was instantly speechless, a telling flush creeping up his neck. He grabbed his water glass and coughed awkwardly, trying to mask his discomfort.

Watching him squirm, I finally asked the question that had haunted me for so long.

"Ethan, back then… why did you really leave?"

His body tensed visibly, any trace of composure vanishing, replaced by raw, complicated pain.

He remained silent for what felt like forever before answering in a strained voice: "Because of… my family's curse. Because I was losing control of myself."

He finally told me everything—about his ancient werewolf lineage, the brutal power struggles between heirs, his unstable transformation abilities, and why he'd appeared in my life as a desperate wolf cub.

"I was terrified I'd hurt you, Aurora." His eyes held such profound regret and tenderness. "Leaving was the only way I could think to keep you safe."

I listened silently, years of hurt and confusion melting away with his explanation.

I reached out to touch his cheek, just as I'd once comforted that wounded wolf cub.

"You idiot," I said, with a tenderness that surprised even me. "I've known all along."

He stared at me, stunned.

"From the moment you shredded that business card and deleted our photos, I knew." I smiled, though my eyes grew misty. "I accept you, Ethan—whether you're human, wolf, or that jealous little troublemaker."

He lost all composure, sweeping me into his arms and holding me against him as if he could somehow merge us together, make us inseparable.

"Aurora…" He buried his face against my neck, his voice trembling with emotion.

I wrapped my arms around him and whispered: "Welcome home, my… Milo."