Chapter 21
I heard the distinctive rumble of the Range Rover’s engine long before it pulled into the driveway.
Werewolf hearing might not be my forte, but I’d spent enough years cataloging the sounds of their arrivals to recognize it anywhere.
My body reacted before my brain could intervene—heart racing, skin flushing, fox ears threatening to pop out in excitement.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
A month of falling asleep in their beds—alternating between Cade’s commanding presence, Logan’s protective embrace, and Keir’s playful affection—had turned me into a lovesick puppy who couldn’t wait five minutes for them to walk through the door.
Thirty days of morning kisses over coffee, of being pulled into laps and against walls for impromptu makeout sessions, of feeling wanted and cherished had apparently erased years of independence.
The acceptance letter from Seattle Art Institute sat on my desk, a reminder that the future I’d planned had turned my world upside down.
I’d been so excited yesterday when it arrived, had immediately shown them, expecting…
what? Disappointment? Arguments? Instead, they’d seemed almost relieved, congratulating me with kisses and promises to help me move.
That should have been my first clue, but I’d been too wrapped up in their attention to notice.
“This is embarrassing,” I muttered to myself as my feet carried me toward Cade’s office. “You saw them three hours ago. You have paint to mix. Compositions to plan. Some dignity to salvage.”
My body didn’t care. It wanted what it wanted, and apparently what it wanted was another fix of alpha pheromones and possessive touches. I was halfway to Cade’s office before my brain caught up with my feet.
I paused outside the heavy oak door, hand raised to knock.
Through the wood, I could hear their voices—deep, resonant, achingly familiar.
I hesitated, fingers hovering inches from the polished surface, suddenly feeling silly.
They’d just returned from whatever wolf business had called them away.
They probably needed to shower, to decompress.
I could wait until dinner to throw myself at them like the shameless creature I’d apparently become.
But then I heard my name, and curiosity got the better of me.
“…worse than we thought…” Cade’s voice drifted through, fragments of conversation reaching me.
I leaned closer, straining to hear more, my fox ears manifesting without my permission, swiveling toward the sound.
“…How can it be him? He’s just a kid, a bratty little fox who can barely control his shift…” Logan’s irritated tone cut through clearly, each word a knife in my chest.
Wait. What?
“…Fate has a twisted sense of humor…” Keir’s resigned sigh followed.
My heart stuttered, then began pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
This couldn’t be what it sounded like. There had to be context I was missing.
After everything we’d shared—the intimacy, the laughter, the countless moments where they’d made me feel like I was the center of their universe—they couldn’t be talking about me like this.
“…have a duty to him…” Cade’s authoritative voice concluded.
Duty.
The word echoed in my mind, shattering everything I’d allowed myself to believe over the past month. Not desire. Not affection. Certainly not love. Duty.
I stumbled back from the door, my hand pressed against my mouth to stifle the sound that threatened to escape—something between a gasp and a sob. My mind raced, desperately trying to find an alternative explanation, anything that would make those words mean something different.
Maybe they were talking about someone else?
But Logan had specifically mentioned a fox who couldn’t control his shift. That was me. Unmistakably me.
Maybe I’d misheard?
But Keir’s “twisted sense of humor” comment and Cade’s “duty” response fit too perfectly together. The universe had played a cruel joke by making me their mate, and now they were stuck with the obligation.
For a moment, anger flared hot and bright, burning away the shock.
How dare they? How fucking dare they touch me, kiss me, make me believe I was wanted, all while seeing me as nothing but an inconvenient obligation?
All those nights, all those whispered words, all those moments I’d treasured—were they just going through the motions, fulfilling their “duty” to a mate they never wanted?
The anger collapsed as quickly as it had risen, leaving a hollow ache in its place.
Of course they didn’t want me. Why would they?
Three perfect alpha specimens saddled with a half-breed fox who couldn’t even shift properly.
The runt of the supernatural litter. The charity case they’d taken in as a child and now were bound to by cosmic forces beyond their control.
God, I’d been so stupid. So pathetically, embarrassingly stupid.
The hallway blurred around me as I turned and fled, my socked feet silent against the hardwood floors. I made it back to my room before the first sob escaped, collapsing onto my bed in a heap of misery and crushed dreams.
Mochi immediately jumped up beside me, his small warm body pressing against my side.
Pixel appeared from nowhere (as cats do) to sit on my pillow, her one eye regarding me with what I chose to interpret as feline sympathy.
Even Boba, normally too preoccupied with food to notice human emotions, flopped dramatically across my feet.
“At least you guys love me for me,” I mumbled into my comforter, which was already damp with tears. “Not because some cosmic practical joker decided it would be hilarious to magically bind you to someone you never wanted.”
I curled tighter into myself, mind replaying every moment of the past month in a new, horrible light.
Every kiss, every touch, every time they’d pulled me close—had they been thinking about their duty then?
Had they been mentally gritting their teeth through the mate bond’s demands while touching the body they’d never truly desired?
The memory of this morning flashed through my mind—Cade’s arms around my waist as I made coffee, his lips against my neck, his whispered “I missed you” even though he’d only been gone an hour for a run.
Had that been obligation too? A performance for a role he’d never auditioned for but was forced to play?
And Logan—gruff, intense Logan who’d spent hours helping me organize my studio last week, his large hands surprisingly gentle with my canvases, his eyes softening whenever I explained a piece I was working on. Had he been counting the minutes until he could escape?
Keir, who brought me coffee in bed and sketched alongside me in comfortable silence, who seemed to genuinely enjoy my company—was he just better at hiding his resentment?
A month of memories, tainted and twisted by three sentences overheard through a door.
I buried myself under the covers, creating a nest of blankets that smelled like me and not like them. Not like cedar and ocean and leather-bound books. Not like home and safety and everything I’d ever wanted but could never truly have.
I shouldn’t be surprised. This was exactly what I’d feared from the beginning, from that very first morning when Elder Miriam had announced the mate bond. The looks on their faces then—resignation, not joy—had told me everything I needed to know.
For a brief, foolish moment after that night at the beach, I’d let myself believe things might be different.
I’d chosen to ignore the obvious truth, to pretend that their desire was more than biology, that their attention was more than obligation.
I’d buried those initial doubts beneath a month of touches and kisses, convincing myself that maybe, just maybe, I could be more than a duty to them.
But deep down, I’d always known. The voice of doubt had never truly quieted; I’d just gotten better at drowning it out with the physical evidence of their desire. I’d chosen the beautiful lie over the painful truth.
But desire wasn’t love. Biology wasn’t choice. And duty certainly wasn’t devotion.
A knock at the door interrupted my spiral into misery.
“Go away,” I called, not bothering to emerge from my blanket cocoon.
“It’s Drew,” came the reply. “Can I come in?”
“No.”
A pause. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fantastic,” I said, my voice muffled by layers of Egyptian cotton. “I’m having the time of my life under here. It’s like a blanket festival, and you’re not invited.”
Another pause. Drew knew me well enough to recognize when my sarcasm reached terminal velocity—the point where humor became my only defense against complete emotional collapse.
“Finn,” he said, his voice softer now. “Whatever happened?—”
“Nothing happened,” I cut him off. “Nothing at all. Just me having an artistic temperament moment. Now please, Drew. Just… go.”
I heard him sigh, then the soft sound of his forehead thunking against my door. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”
His footsteps retreated down the hall, and I burrowed deeper into my blankets.
Drew and I had grown up together, shared rooms during thunderstorms, whispered secrets after lights-out.
He knew when to push and when to back off.
Right now, he was giving me space, and I was pathetically grateful for it.
I don't know how long I stayed there, drifting in and out of a miserable twilight consciousness while my pets maintained their vigil.
The light in the room changed, afternoon sliding into evening.
I should have been hungry, but my appetite had vanished along with my dignity.
When the next knock came, it was different—three sharp raps, confident and demanding. I knew that knock.
“Go away, Keir,” I called, not bothering to hide the thickness in my voice.
The door opened anyway. Of course it did. Alphas and their complete disregard for basic privacy concepts.
“I said go away,” I repeated, still hidden in my blanket fort.