Chapter 14 Marcus #2
I shake my head. “It’s all sorted.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.
My gaze sweeps the table, the tangle of notes and names, Esmerelda in front of the board with that sharp focus that never seems to waver, Leonard’s restless tapping, Min’s determined scrawl.
The air in here is thick with ink and exhaustion.
“How’s it going here?” I ask, but what I really mean is tell me you’ve found something, anything, because, gods, I need this not to be another dead end.
“We’ve made some significant progress,” Min says.
Every muscle in my body protests as I drag the chair closer, the scrape of wood on tile loud in the heavy quiet. I’m nowhere near top form—hell, I feel like I’ve been wrung out and left to dry, but I can’t sit this out.
I drop into the seat, forcing myself upright when my body wants to fold. My fingers drum once on the table, grounding me. “Who’ve we got left?” My voice comes out rougher than I’d like, gravel threaded through the words, but it carries. It has to.
“Oh no you don’t.” Esmerelda’s voice cuts across the room, sharp enough to halt me mid-motion. “Firstly, you stink. You could use a shower.” The words could sting, but her mouth curves into that teasing smile that manages to undercut the sting and hit somewhere else entirely.
“And you look dead on your feet,” she adds, softer this time. “Shower, then rest. You’re no good to us if you’re exhausted. We’re ready to quit for the night anyway.”
The fight in me flares, wolf bristling at the suggestion of stepping back, of leaving the hunt unfinished. But her gaze holds steady, not challenging, not mocking. Just steady. It unravels something in me I didn’t know I was holding together.
Min crosses to the kitchen, casual as anything, and pulls a sandwich from the fridge. “I didn’t want to disturb you when you were on the phone.”
Her tone is light, but I catch the flicker of worry in her eyes. They all noticed how long I’d been gone. How hard I’d been pushing.
“Thanks, Min,” I murmur, though my voice feels rough, like gravel in my throat. Gratitude, exhaustion, and stubbornness all scrape together in the same breath.
“By the way,” Leonard pipes up. “Esme’s not wrong about the stink. You smell like wet dog.”
I flip Leonard off on my way down the hall, too tired to waste words. Truth be told, I’m proud I’m still upright. There was a moment back there where crawling looked like a real possibility.
The cool tiles and faint tang of soap greet me as I enter the bathroom.
As I strip down, I smell myself and wrinkle my nose.
Damn! I step under the spray. The water is almost scalding, but I don’t bother adjusting it.
I’ve learned the hard way that nudging the dial a smidge either way will make it either glacial or volcanic.
So, I let it burn against my shoulders, the heat sinking deep into the ache of my muscles.
The water cascades over me in a steady rhythm that drowns out all thought.
My wolf stretches under it, soothed by the weight and warmth even as exhaustion drags at every limb.
For the first time today, I don’t have to answer questions, or fight, or hold myself together for everyone else.
It’s just me, the steam, and the water washing away the grime.
And if it could scrub grief as easily as sweat, I’d stand here forever.
My treacherous mind goes back to when Leonard called Esmerelda Esme.
When did he start calling her that? The name rolled off his tongue like he’d earned the right.
I choke on her full name half the time, the syllables catching in my throat because they carry too much weight.
Esmerelda demands reverence. Esme feels like a shortcut, and I’m not sure I’ve earned that.
I come to the conclusion that I have become deliriously tired.
No more profound thoughts for me tonight. I need to focus on the here and now.
The hot water eventually sears my weary muscles, and the knots slowly loosen.
It does nothing to dissolve the ball of nerves in my stomach.
The long list of enemies has me thinking.
I don’t like it. I don’t like that the people responsible for the petrification of my family could be one of over fifty people.
The fact that my enemy doesn’t have the guts to show themselves frustrates me even more.
If you’re going to wipe out an entire family, at least show your face so I can stare you down like a man.
But my enemy chose to keep themselves hidden.
A silent and deadly threat. But I will expose them for the cowards they are.
I grab the body wash the hotel provided us.
The soap smells faintly clinical, like something you’d find in a public bathroom, but I don’t care.
I need to remember to bring my toiletries in here.
I’m surprised Esmerelda’s products aren’t scattered all over the place, but then I remembered lecturing her on our honeymoon about keeping her things contained.
Huh, did she actually take that to heart? I was just being a dick.
My palms press against the tiled wall as I hang my head, letting the spray drum against my back.
Gods, it feels good. But I can’t forget what waits for me outside.
The endless list of enemies gnaws at me, names I can’t ignore, threats I can’t push aside.
I glance at the tiles under my feet and, for a fleeting second, I wonder if I’m tired enough to just collapse right there and sleep on the floor.
The thought is dangerously tempting. But I know better than to test the limits of exhaustion.
The couch, uncomfortable as it is, is still safer than the shower tiles.
I can’t remember the last time I had a real night’s sleep. Weeks, at least. Not since the betrothal. Not since her.
Having Esmerelda in the next room is a torment my wolf and I can’t agree on.
He paces, restless, ears pricked toward her door like he expects her to come through it at any moment.
Part of me wonders if it’s because she could slip a blade into my heart while I sleep—an entirely reasonable concern—but that’s not what keeps me staring at the ceiling night after night.
It’s her laugh echoing down the hall, her scent clinging to the sheets, the mental image of her mouth, her hands, her body pressed against mine.
My imagination is relentless, and my body betrays me every damn time.
The constant ache between my legs has become my nightly companion, reminding me that I am losing control.
Sleep isn’t just elusive—it’s impossible when the very thing that could kill me is also the thing I can’t stop wanting.
If I’m having these kinds of thoughts, it’s time to get out of the shower. When I finally emerge from the bathroom, I stop short. Esmerelda is standing at the foot of the bed, blankets in her arms.
“What’s this?” My voice cracks like a teenager’s. Fucking great!
“You need a good night’s sleep,” she says firmly, her chin tilted, eyes daring me to argue. “It’s your turn to take the bed.”
All I can do is stare at her. The bed. Her bed. My wolf presses forward, ears pricked. He likes the idea far too much. Heat flickers low in my gut, equal parts temptation and unease.
“No.” The word grinds out harsher than I meant. I shake my head, jaw tight. “I can’t. You—”
The rest tangles on my tongue. She doesn’t understand.
She can’t. Sharing her space, sinking into her scent where it clings to the sheets, would undo me.
It isn’t about comfort. It isn’t even about rest. It’s about the fact that sleeping in her space would feel too much like claiming something I have no right to.
And gods, the way my wolf growls at the thought of refusing her… it’s almost louder than my own voice.
“Don’t be silly. I’ve been sleeping in luxury for weeks now. You deserve it.”
Before I can get another word out, she turns and slips into the living space, vanishing from sight. Her absence hits harder than it should, leaving the air heavier and emptier. My wolf paces restlessly, wanting to follow, wanting her near.
I clench my fists against the urge. Part of me itches to chase her down, to argue, to insist she take the bed.
To prove I’m still the one in control. But the other part, the quieter, more dangerous part, knows this is the first scrap of kindness she’s offered me since the wedding. A gift wrapped in her stubbornness.
If I push, if I force it, I’ll shatter that fragile thread between us before it even has a chance to hold. And gods, I can’t bring myself to throw that away. Not when things finally feel a fraction less strained, less sharp-edged.
So, I let her go. For now.
I slide between the sheets, surprised and, gods help me, disappointed that they don’t smell like her.
That wild, sharp, intoxicating scent of hers would have been a comfort and a curse.
Instead, I get starch and soap. A kindness, maybe.
Or maybe a rejection, her way of stripping herself from my world. I can’t decide which cuts deeper.
As I settle in, I notice she’s also unpacked my suitcase and neatly arranged my clothes on the dresser. That unsettles me more than it should, warming something in my chest I don’t want to acknowledge.
I don’t let myself linger on it. Exhaustion drags at me, heavier than stone, pulling me under the instant my head hits the pillow. My body gives in, but my mind claws for one last hold. And, as always, it catches on the same thought, the same nightly torture that refuses to let me rest in peace.
She’s right there. Just beyond the wall. Close enough that if I reached out, I swear I could feel her warmth. Close enough that my wolf presses against the inside of my chest, whining low, desperate to close the gap.
And yet, she might as well be on the other side of the world. The distance between us has nothing to do with space or walls or doors. It’s older, deeper, carved into us like a canyon.
That truth haunts me in the last breath before sleep takes me—this aching, impossible closeness. So near, and still untouchable.