The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of salt and distant rain. Ayla stepped out of the house, her legs unsteady beneath her. She had barely eaten in days, and the alcohol in her system wasn't helping. The weight of everything—the tension, the expectations, Silver's presence—pressed down on her chest like a stone. Her breath came shallow, her pulse a quiet drum in her ears.

She didn't know where she was going. She just walked. Away.

From a distance, Wolf watched her slip into the night. His sharp eyes followed her as she moved, her steps uneven, her shoulders hunched. He didn't need to ask where she was heading. He already knew.

Larusso's voice came from behind him. "Why are you following her?"

Wolf smirked, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Just looking after a student." His voice was laced with amusement, but there was something else beneath it—something unreadable. He didn't wait for a response before turning on his heel and heading after her, silent as a shadow.

Ayla stood at the edge of the shore, the tide rolling in and out in a rhythmic whisper. Moonlight traced silver lines along the water's surface, and the ocean stretched before her, vast and endless. She wrapped her arms around herself, but it wasn't the cold that made her shiver.

The waves lapped at the sand, the sound mingling with the ghost of another memory—rushing water, the scream of tires, the sickening crash of metal against stone. The river had swallowed her mother whole, pulling her down into the dark, uncaring depths. Ayla had been too young, too small to stop it. To stop any of it.

Now, standing here, she felt the same fear coil in her stomach, tightening its grip.

Ayla turned her head slightly, already knowing who she'd find behind her.

Wolf stood a few feet away, hands still in his pockets, watching her with that ever-present smirk. His dark eyes, however, held something else. Something sharper.

She exhaled, turning her gaze back to the waves. "What do you want?"

Wolf took a slow step forward, the sand shifting beneath his boots. "Like I said. Just looking after a student."

Ayla let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. "You don't have to. I'm not your problem."

Wolf tilted his head, considering her for a moment. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he dropped down onto the sand beside her, stretching his legs out. "Yeah, well. I'm not the kind of guy who likes loose ends."

Ayla frowned, glancing at him. "Loose ends?"

He leaned back on his elbows, looking at the ocean as if it were nothing more than a backdrop to his amusement. "You. Wandering around like some tragic ghost, looking like the wind could knock you over." His voice was lighter now, but there was a sharpness beneath it. "Besides, if you collapse, who's gonna carry you back princess? Larusso?"

Ayla rolled her eyes, but she didn't argue.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the waves, the wind, and the distant hum of the city behind them.

Then Wolf broke the silence. "You afraid of water or something?"

Ayla's breath hitched. She didn't answer right away. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost lost in the wind. "Something like that."

Wolf didn't press. He just nodded, as if that was all the answer he needed. Then, after a pause, he smirked again. "Well, good news, princess. You're on land. So unless the ocean suddenly grows legs and drags you in, I'd say you're safe."

Ayla shot him a glare, but this time, there was the faintest flicker of something else in her expression. Not quite amusement. But not as lost as before.

Wolf caught it. And for now, that was enough.

Wolf stretched his arms, letting out a dramatic sigh. "Alright, princess, fun's over. It's late."

Ayla didn't move. She kept her gaze fixed on the waves, her jaw tightening. "I'm not going back."

Wolf raised an eyebrow, his smirk fading slightly. "Yeah, you are."

Ayla shook her head. "No."

Wolf exhaled through his nose, already losing patience. "I'm not leaving you out here alone in the middle of the night. In Barcelona. After you've been drinking." His voice was sharper now, his usual amusement thinning.

Ayla crossed her arms. "I can take care of myself."

Wolf scoffed. "Oh, sure. That's why you're swaying on your feet like a damn ghost." He paused "I didn't see you eat anything"

Ayla glared at him, but he wasn't backing down. His expression shifted—less teasing, more serious. "Enough, Ayla." His voice was low but firm, the tone of someone who wasn't asking anymore. "You're coming with me. Now."

Ayla clenched her fists. She hated this. Being told what to do, being treated like she was weak. But when she looked at Wolf, there was no cruelty in his gaze, no condescension. Just something solid, unmoving.

She tried to step back, but Wolf was faster. He grabbed her wrist—not rough, but firm enough that she knew resisting was pointless.

"Let go."

"Get in the car."

She gritted her teeth. "I don't—"

Wolf didn't wait for her to finish. He started walking, pulling her with him. "You can fight me on this, but it's happening either way," he said flatly. "You can walk, or I can carry you. Your choice."

Ayla let out an exasperated breath. "You wouldn't dare."

Wolf glanced at her, his smirk returning. "Try me."

She stared at him, debating, but there was no winning this. With an annoyed huff, she yanked her arm free and stomped ahead toward the car, making sure to walk as heavily as possible on the sand.

Wolf chuckled, following behind. "See? That wasn't so hard."

Ayla didn't answer. She just yanked the passenger door open and threw herself inside, arms crossed, staring out the window.

Wolf slid into the driver's seat, smirking as he started the engine. "You're real fun when you're pissed, you know that?"

Ayla shot him a glare, but he just chuckled again and pulled onto the road.

The drive back was silent.

Wolf kept one hand on the wheel, eyes flicking between the road and Ayla. She sat rigid in the passenger seat, arms crossed, her gaze locked on the city lights flashing past the window. But she wasn't really looking at them—she was lost somewhere else, deep in whatever thoughts had taken hold of her by the ocean.

For once, Wolf didn't comment. He just drove.

When they finally pulled up in front of the hotel, Ayla opened the door without a word and stepped out. Wolf followed, watching as she walked toward the entrance. She moved slower now, exhaustion finally catching up to her.

He didn't leave her. Not yet.

They rode the elevator in silence, and when they reached her floor, Ayla dug into her pockets, only to stop short. Her stomach dropped.

"Shit," she muttered under her breath.

Wolf raised an eyebrow. "What now?"

Ayla exhaled sharply, looking at the closed door of her room. "I don't have my key. Zara still isn't back."

Wolf didn't even hesitate. "Come on."

Ayla blinked. "What?"

Wolf had already turned, heading toward the elevator. "You're not standing in the damn hallway all night. You're coming with me."

There was no room for argument in his tone. Authoritative. Final.

Ayla hesitated for a split second, then sighed, rubbing her temple. "You really love bossing people around, don't you?"

Wolf smirked but didn't look back.

She rolled her eyes but followed him.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, silence fell over the room like a thick, suffocating fog. The dim lighting cast elongated shadows across the walls, the air heavy with something unspoken.Ayla brushed her fingers over the fabric of her dress as she tried to smooth out the creases—an automatic gesture, almost as if she could erase everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

Wolf stood a few feet away, watching her closely. He didn't miss the way her hands trembled slightly as they moved, or how she avoided meeting his eyes. Without a word, he walked over to a small dresser, pulling out a black t-shirt and holding it out to her.

"Change into this," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "You'll be more comfortable."

Ayla hesitated before taking it, fingers brushing against the worn cotton. She turned her back to him and began unbuttoning her dress, but the moment the fabric slipped from her shoulders, Wolf's body went rigid. His breath hitched.

There, across her back, were deep bruises. Ugly, dark smudges painted across her pale skin like cruel reminders of someone else's rage. They hadn't been visible before—hidden under the layers of her dress. His grip on the t-shirt tightened, knuckles turning white as fury surged through his veins like wildfire.

"Who did this to you?" His voice was low, dangerous, the kind of quiet that signaled the storm before destruction.

Ayla flinched, her entire body tensing. She yanked the dress back over her shoulders, trying to cover herself, as if that would make it disappear. "It's nothing," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Wolf's jaw clenched. "Nothing?" he echoed, disbelief dripping from the single word. His gaze burned into her, demanding an answer she refused to give.

Then, as he stepped forward, the light hit her face at a different angle, and something shifted. His sharp eyes caught it—something just slightly off. The smoothness of her skin wasn't quite natural. He reached out, his fingers barely grazing her cheek before she instinctively jerked away.

Wolf didn't hesitate. With the precision of someone who had seen too much, he wiped his thumb along her cheekbone. The foundation smeared away, revealing the faint traces of yellowing bruises beneath.

His chest tightened painfully. "You covered them up." His voice was softer now, but no less intense. His free hand curled into a fist at his side. "How long were you planning to keep this to yourself?"

Ayla took a step back, then another, until her spine met the wall. "Wolf, just drop it,please" she pleaded.

But he wasn't letting this go. Not now. Not after what he'd seen.

Wolf took another step forward, closing the space between them until there was nowhere left for her to retreat. He caged her in with nothing but his presence, his frustration, his concern. "Tell me who did this," he demanded.

Ayla shook her head, pressing her hands against his chest as if to push him away, but he caught her wrists gently, holding her still.

"Ayla." His voice softened, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it. "Tell me the truth."

She struggled against his hold, not violently, just enough to show she wasn't ready to break. Not yet.

"I can't," she finally whispered, her voice cracking.

"Why?"

She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing hard. "Because if I do, he will come after you... and Robby."

Silver he thought. The name alone sent a bolt of rage straight through Wolf's spine. He didn't need her to say anything else. He already knew. The bruises, the way she recoiled, the fear in her eyes—it all made sense now.

Silver had done this.

The realization hit him like a freight train, and for a moment, all he could see was red. His grip on her wrists tightened just slightly, but he forced himself to let go. He wasn't angry at her. He was angry at the bastard who had done this to her.

"Has he done this before?" His voice was quiet, but beneath it, there was a tremor of barely contained rage.

Ayla hesitated—then, finally, she shook her head. Not as a denial, but as confirmation.

Wolf's stomach twisted.

Ayla's body trembled as she lowered her gaze to the floor, her walls crumbling in front of him. Her breathing grew unsteady, and then, like a dam breaking, the tears finally came. She let out a choked sob, her hands clutching onto the fabric of his hoodie as if it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Wolf didn't think. He simply moved.

Without another word, he pulled her against his chest, arms wrapping around her as if he could shield her from all the pain, all the memories. She didn't fight it this time. She let herself collapse into him, her tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt.

Wolf exhaled slowly, his fingers threading through her hair, his jaw tight with the effort it took to stay in control. He wanted to put his fist through a wall. He wanted to hunt Silver down and make sure he never touched her again.

But right now, Ayla was his priority.

He gently guided her toward the bed and sat down, keeping her in his arms. She curled against him, shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs.

"It's over," he murmured, his voice steady. "He's never laying a hand on you again. Not while I'm here."

His words weren't just comfort. They were a promise. And he intended to keep it.