Oliver's POV
I stood there for a second after she left, just staring at the empty doorway. The room suddenly felt too quiet, too big, and all those trophies around me—things that were supposed to mean something—felt useless. My hands were still clenched at my sides, and my wolf wouldn't settle; he kept pacing, restless and irritated.
I exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through my hair. I messed up. I pushed too hard. I thought I was helping, doing what I always do—fixing the problem, taking control, protecting what's mine. But in the process, I scared her.
My jaw tightened as anger flickered through me again, but this time, it wasn't at her. It was at the men who did this to her, the ones who put that fear and pain in her eyes. I wanted their names. I wanted to find them, torture them, and make them understand what it means to touch something that belongs to me.
But standing there, staring at that empty doorway, I realized I had messed up.
