Chapter 12
Iwoke up alone.
Alone in the way a woman wakes when she knows the man she chose is somewhere in the house—awake before her, deliberate, already thinking.
The bed was still warm on his side.
The absence didn’t feel like rejection.
It felt like design.
For a moment, I lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet. Snowlight filtered through the curtains, pale and clean. My body felt different this morning. Not wrecked. Not trembling.
Claimed.
There were faint reminders of the night before—tenderness between my thighs, the lingering sensitivity of my breasts where he had marked sensation without leaving visible proof. But the ache wasn’t frantic anymore.
It was rooted.
That should have frightened me.
Instead, I felt … steady.
My phone buzzed.
The sound cut through the silence like a blade.
I turned my head slowly, heart ticking once, twice, before I reached for it.
Harper.
Three missed calls.
A text.
Call me. Not urgent. Just want to hear your voice.
My stomach tightened.
I hadn’t called her after the keynote.
I’d meant to. I had.
But I’d come back to the house, and Cassian had pulled me into something deeper than distraction.
He’d pulled me into recalibration.
I sat up slowly, dragging a hand through my hair.
My phone buzzed again.
Another notification.
Unknown number.
I stared at it longer than I should have.
Then opened it.
Your mother has been looking for you.
My breath caught.
That wasn’t just unusual. It was rare.
Another message appeared.
She called your aunt in Saratoga last night. She left a message.
My throat tightened.
Aunt Mabel.
Of course, she had.
Mabel was the only person in upstate New York who still had my cell number written in an address book instead of saved in a phone. The only one who would answer on the second ring and listen longer than she spoke. The only one who never asked why I’d stopped coming north for Christmas.
My mother never called her unless something was wrong.
Or unless she couldn’t reach me.
I hadn’t answered her last two texts.
I hadn’t called for a while.
I’d been … occupied.
How do you know that? I typed.
There was a pause.
Longer this time.
Then:
Because when someone starts asking questions about you, I pay attention.
A chill slid down my spine that had nothing to do with the snow outside.
She wouldn’t panic, I told myself.
My mother didn’t panic.
She organized. She contained. She managed optics.
But she also hated not knowing where I was.
And I hadn’t told her I was staying in the woods with a man whose name she absolutely should not know.
The room felt smaller.
This wasn’t coincidence.
It was ripple.
And for the first time since I’d written that letter to Alpha Mail, I felt the edge of something pressing back.
I hadn’t spoken to my mother in months.
Our relationship had calcified into polite distance years ago, after she remarried a man who preferred silence to conflict and then quietly withdrew into that silence herself.
Growing up, she had always loved me best when I was self-contained.
Low maintenance.
Brilliant but not messy.
Capable but not emotional.
I learned early how to be digestible.
How not to overwhelm.
How not to need too much.
Which meant when I finally did need something—anything—I didn’t know how to ask.
Maybe that was why I’d written to Alpha Mail instead.
My phone buzzed again.
Cassian’s name.
Just the name.
No message.
I stared at it.
The shift hit me.
He wasn’t watching my location anymore.
He was watching my emotional state.
He knew that message would destabilize me.
He wanted to see what I did with it.
I stood and padded toward the bathroom, phone still in my hand.
I dialed Harper.
She answered on the first ring.
“Lia.”
Her voice was tight.
“I’m here,” I said quietly.
There was a pause.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“Really?”
I leaned against the counter and closed my eyes.
“Yes,” I said again, more firmly. “I’m working. It’s remote. I needed space.”
“You said it was just the summit.”
“It was.”
“And then what?”
I didn’t answer immediately.
Harper exhaled slowly.
“Your mom called me.”
Ice slid down my spine.
“She what?”
“She couldn’t get you. She said you didn’t answer. She sounded …” Harper hesitated. “… worried.”
That word felt foreign attached to my mother.
“She doesn’t get worried,” I said automatically.
“She did.”
Silence stretched between us.
I pictured my mother in that tidy Albany kitchen, fingers curled around a mug she didn’t drink from, staring at the clock and convincing herself she wasn’t overreacting.
She had always worried about reputation.
About image.
About control.
Maybe now she worried about something else.
“Did she say why?” I asked.
“No. Just that she hadn’t heard from you. And that you were in New York and she thought you might …” Harper hesitated again. “… be seeing someone.”
My stomach dipped.
“What?”
“She asked if I knew a man named Cassian.”
The room tilted.
I straightened slowly.
“No,” I said too quickly.
“Lia.”
“I didn’t tell her.”
“I know you didn’t,” Harper replied softly. “That’s why I’m asking.”
My pulse thudded in my ears.
“How would she know that name?”
“I don’t know,” Harper said. “That’s what’s scaring me.”
Scaring.
Not frustrating.
Not irritating.
Scaring.
My mind raced.
Had Cassian told her?
No.
He didn’t play that way.
He was precise.
Calculated.
If my mother knew his name, it wasn’t an accident.
“Did she sound angry?” I asked.
“No. She sounded … unsettled.”
That was worse.
Harper lowered her voice.
“Lia. Are you safe?”
The question landed harder than anything Cassian had said in the last forty-eight hours.
Safe.
“Yes,” I said.
And for the first time in my life, I meant it in a way that had nothing to do with comfort.
I meant it in the way prey feels safe because the predator has chosen not to strike.
Harper was quiet for a long moment.
“I need you to promise me something,” she said.
“What?”
“If this stops being something you want … you leave.”
My throat tightened.
“I will.”
“Swear.”
“I swear.”
Another silence.
Then, softer:
“I trust you. I just … don’t trust what you’re stepping into.”
“I know.”
When I ended the call, I stood there for a long time.
My reflection looked the same.
But my eyes—
There was something new there.
Awareness.
Choice.
Consequence.
The door behind me opened without sound.
Cassian.
I didn’t turn immediately.
I felt him.
He didn’t touch me.
He waited.
“You spoke to Harper,” he said.
“Yes.”
“About your mother.”
“Yes.”
“Are you destabilized?”
The directness almost made me laugh.
“I’m … aware.”
“Of what?”
“That this is bigger than just us.”
He stepped closer.
“It was always bigger than us.”
I turned then.
His gaze was steady.
Unflinching.
“Did you contact my mother?” I asked.
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
“Did you tell anyone about me?”
“No.”
“Then how does she know your name?”
A flicker passed through his eyes.
Not guilt.
Calculation.
“She didn’t know it before?”
“No.”
“Then someone else does.”
The words dropped heavy between us.
Alpha Mail.
The service wasn’t supposed to leave fingerprints.
No names.
No records.
No bleed-through.
But my mother asking about Cassian Locke meant something had shifted.
“Are you afraid?” he asked quietly.
I searched myself.
“No,” I said honestly.
His jaw tightened slightly.
“You should be.”
“Of you?”
“Of systems reacting when they’re disturbed.”
My chest tightened.
“You think someone is watching this?”
“I think,” he said carefully, “that women like you don’t move without ripples.”
He stepped closer, lifting a hand to my jaw—not possessive.
Grounding.
“You’re not just a woman on a retreat,” he continued. “You’re a public figure. You work in violence prevention. You’ve spoken against hunting culture. Against men like me.”
“I know.”
“And now you disappear into upstate New York with one.”
I held his gaze.
“I didn’t disappear.”
“No,” he agreed quietly. “You chose.”
My breath slowed.
“Do you regret it?” he asked.
“No.”
Not even a second’s hesitation.
His thumb brushed lightly across my lower lip.
“Good.”
He stepped back.
“Get dressed.”
“For what?”
“We’re driving.”
“Where?”
“To Saratoga.”
My heart stopped.
“Aunt Mabel?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if your mother is asking questions, we don’t leave threads loose.”
The shift was immediate.
This wasn’t seduction.
This was strategy.
“You’re coming with me?” I asked.
“I don’t send you into uncertainty alone.”
The words did something dangerous to my chest.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
That was the problem.
I showered, then dressed quickly.
Jeans. Sweater. Boots.
He watched, not hungrily this time.
Assessing.
Protective.
When we stepped outside, the snow had thinned into a soft drift.
The air felt different.
Charged.
As if something had shifted in the ecosystem.
In the car, I stared out the window as trees blurred past.
“Do you think my mother knows what Alpha Mail is?” I asked quietly.
“Yes.”
My head snapped toward him.
“She does?”
“I think she knows more than you realize.”
My stomach dropped.
“She’s not the woman you think she is,” he continued.
“You don’t know her.”
“I know women who build reputations on restraint.”
The words hit too close.
“She spent her life maintaining appearances,” I said.
“Exactly.”
Silence.
A thought began to take shape in the back of my mind.
One I didn’t like.
“What are you not saying?” I asked.
Cassian’s jaw flexed once.
“Alpha Mail isn’t as random as it appears.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” he said slowly, “that the women who are approved aren’t accidents.”
My pulse spiked.
“You’re telling me someone vetted me.”
“Yes.”
“Based on what?”
“Influence. Risk. Public presence. Psychological profile.”
The air left my lungs.
“So this wasn’t just me sending a letter into the void.”
“No.”
It was a selection.
A targeting.
A deliberate pairing.
“And my mother?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer immediately.
“I think she’s closer to the architecture of this than you’d like.”
The world tilted.
“You’re saying my mother has something to do with Alpha Mail?”
“I’m saying,” he replied evenly, “that you didn’t stumble into this alone.”
My chest tightened painfully.
That email I’d written.
The secrecy.
The thrill of thinking it was anonymous.
Had it ever been?
We drove in silence after that.
The snow thinned as we neared Saratoga.
Familiar landmarks began to surface—roads I hadn’t taken in years, shops that looked smaller than I remembered.
When we pulled into Aunt Mabel’s driveway, my heart pounded.
Cassian cut the engine.
“You don’t have to go in,” I said.
“Yes,” he replied calmly. “I do.”
I looked at him.
“You’re not afraid of what she’ll think?”
His mouth curved faintly.
“I’m not concerned with being liked.”
That, at least, hadn’t changed.
We stepped out into the cold.
The house looked the same.
Yellow siding. White shutters. Lavender wreath on the door.
I rang the bell.
Aunt Mabel answered in slippers and a cardigan, eyes widening when she saw me.
“Lia.”
Her voice trembled.
Then she saw him.
Her gaze sharpened.
“Hello.”
My stomach dropped.
“You know him?” I asked.
Aunt Mabel looked between us slowly.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said softly. “I don’t know him, personally. I know his type. They’re all the same.”
Cassian didn’t react.
He simply stepped forward, calm and steady.
“May we come in?” he asked.
Aunt Mabel nodded.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Come on.”