Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Darius
Two weeks.
I’ve managed to keep my distance for two whole weeks. The longest fourteen days of my life.
Every morning, I arrive before dawn, before she gets in. Every evening, I stay until she leaves, watching from my office as she packs up her things and heads out alone. I track her movements through the glass wall like a stalker, unable to help myself.
The routine is killing me.
But it’s necessary. After the incident with Marcus, after the way my control shattered so completely, I know I need space. I need to rebuild the walls I spent six years constructing.
It’s not working.
My wolf is a constant presence now, pacing beneath my skin. Demanding. Restless. He doesn’t understand why we’re denying ourselves. Why we’re sitting in this office when our mate is right there.
I grip my pen hard enough that it creaks.
Through the glass, I watch Violet at her desk. She is bent over a report, her hair falling forward to hide her face. The bandages are gone from her hands now; the small crescents have healed like she said they would.
But I can still see them when I close my eyes. Still feel my fingers shaking as I cleaned them.
A burst of laughter pulls my attention.
Rachel and her cluster are gathered near the break room, talking in those animated tones that mean they’re planning something. Sarah joins them, then Julian. Then half the department.
My jaw tightens. Marcus is gone now—fired three days after the copy room incident once HR finished their investigation. Ethan made sure the security footage was reviewed thoroughly, along with complaints from two other women who finally felt safe enough to come forward.
Good riddance.
But his absence hasn’t changed anything else for Violet.
Rachel gestures broadly, her voice carrying across the floor to me even through the glass. “Seven-thirty at Lorenzo’s. Don’t be late!”
The group disperses, everyone heading back to their desks with excited energy.
Everyone except Violet.
She doesn’t look up from her work. Doesn’t acknowledge the conversation happening twenty feet away. But I see the way her shoulders tense. The way her fingers go still on the keyboard for just a moment before resuming their steady rhythm.
She heard them. They didn’t invite her.
My heart twists in my chest.
This isn’t the first time. Over the past two weeks, I’ve watched this same scene play out repeatedly. Happy hour invitations. Lunch plans. Coffee runs that somehow never include her.
They’re not cruel about it. Not obvious. They simply forget she exists. Or they pretend to.
Because Violet keeps her head down. Eats lunch at her desk instead of joining the others in the break room. Stays silent during team discussions unless directly asked a question. She has isolated herself. Or maybe they have isolated her. I can’t tell anymore which came first.
The afternoon drags on. Work continues. Reports get filed. Calls get made. But I can’t focus on any of it.
By five-thirty, people start packing up. The exodus begins slowly, then picks up speed as six o’clock approaches.
Rachel’s group leaves first, laughing and chattering about dinner plans. Sarah follows with a few analysts. Julian gives Violet a small wave goodbye that she returns with a polite nod.
By six-fifteen, the floor is empty. Except for Violet.
She’s still at her desk. Still typing away like she has nowhere else to be. Like sitting here alone in an empty office is preferable to going home.
To the estate. To her mother’s cold stares and my father’s awkward concern. To the isolation that waits for her there.
I lean back in my chair, studying her through the glass.
She reaches up to rub her eyes, and the gesture is so tired, so defeated, that it physically pains me to see it.
Then, she glances toward the elevator where the last of her colleagues just disappeared. Her expression shifts, just for a moment. A raw look crosses her face before she locks it down again.
Longing.
That’s what it is. Pure, unguarded longing to be included. To belong somewhere. Not to be the one left behind.
The pen splinters in my grip.
She wanted to go with them. And they didn’t even think about asking her.
I should let it go. Should respect the distance we’ve established. Should stay in my office and pretend I don’t see the isolation she’s drowning in.
But I can’t. I’m on my feet, moving toward my door when her cell phone rings.
I freeze with my hand on the knob.
Violet glances at the screen, and her entire face transforms.
She smiles.
Not the small, professional smile she gives colleagues. Not the tight, controlled expression she wears like armor. This is genuine. Bright. A smile that lights up her entire face and makes her eyes sparkle.
I haven’t seen her smile like that since before she left six years ago.
She answers, pressing the phone to her ear.
I can’t hear what she’s saying from here, can’t make out the words through the soundproof glass.
But I see her body language. She leans back in her chair, relaxed in a way I’ve never seen her at work.
She laughs, the sound silent from this distance but visible in the way her shoulders shake, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.
She starts gathering her things, phone tucked between her shoulder and ear. Still talking, still smiling.
I crack my door open, just enough.
Her voice drifts across the empty floor, warm and excited: “I can’t wait. I’ll be there soon.”
She hangs up and practically runs to the elevator, her earlier exhaustion completely forgotten.
The doors close behind her.
And I’m standing here like an idiot, jealousy burning through my veins like acid.
Who the fuck was that?
I grab my jacket and keys.
I know this is wrong. I should let her have her privacy. I know following her is crossing every line we’ve drawn.
But my feet are already moving.
By the time I reach my car, Violet’s rental is pulling out of the parking garage.
I keep my distance as I follow her, staying back far enough that she won’t notice.
My wolf paces beneath my skin, agitated and demanding.
Her scent trail is faint through the closed windows, but it’s a thread I could follow in my sleep.
She drives for fifteen minutes, heading toward the human district. The buildings are older here, less polished. Small businesses and restaurants line the streets instead of corporate towers.
She pulls up to a small cafe with outdoor seating. Parks and gets out, her phone in her hand.
I find a spot across the street and crack my window. Her scent grows stronger, mixing with coffee and exhaust and humanity.
A man steps out of the cafe.
Human. I can smell it from here, that distinct lack of wolf that marks him as prey. Mid-thirties, dressed casually in jeans and a button-down. Brown hair, friendly face. The kind of non-threatening appearance that probably puts people at ease.
My wolf snarls.
Violet’s face lights up when she sees him. She rushes forward, and he opens his arms, catching her in a hug that makes me see red.
She hugs him back. Wraps her arms around him like he’s someone she knows well. Someone she trusts. Someone who makes her smile like that.
The steering wheel creaks under my grip, leather compressing beneath white knuckles.
They separate after what feels like an eternity, and he says something that makes her laugh. That genuine, bright laugh I haven’t heard in years.
Then, they get into her car together, and she drives off.
My heart is pounding so hard, I can hear it in my ears. Blood rushes past, a roar that drowns out the street noise. I have to go after her. Drag her out of that vehicle and away from that man who has no right to be near her.
She’s ours. OURS. How dare he touch her. How dare he make her smile.
I tail them at a distance, tracking her scent more than her car now. It’s there, under that horrible perfume, growing fainter as she puts blocks between us but never disappearing entirely. My wolf claws at my chest, demanding I go faster, get closer, eliminate the threat.
She pulls into an apartment complex. Nothing fancy, but clean. Well-maintained. The kind of place where young professionals live when they’re starting out.
They head inside together.
Air won’t come. My lungs refuse to expand properly, like someone’s sitting on my chest.
I’m out of my SUV before I realize it. My hands shake as I pull out my wallet, barely registering the parking lot beneath my feet or the other cars I pass. The desperation rolling off me must be obvious because an elderly woman with groceries gives me a wide berth.
The security guard at the desk looks up as I approach, his greeting dying on his lips when he sees my face.
“Sir, you can’t—”
I slam three hundred-dollar bills on the desk between us. The sound echoes in the small lobby. “I need to get upstairs. Now.”
He glances at the bills. At my face, which must show exactly how close to the edge I am. Back to the bills.
“Look, I’m not supposed to—”
I add two more hundreds. His hand moves toward the money. He pockets the cash quickly, glancing around to make sure no one saw. “Go right in, sir.”
I don’t waste time. I follow her scent through the building, up the stairs, down a hallway. The trail is fresh, strong. Her scent mingles with his, and that proximity makes rage cloud my vision.
Third floor. The scent leads me around a corner and stops at apartment 304. The door is closed but not locked.
I don’t knock. I shove it open hard enough that it bangs against the wall.
Violet jerks upright, the pen she was holding clattering to the table at which she is seated. The man standing beside her stumbles back a step, his hand going to his chest.
They both stare at me, shock freezing them in place.
Violet speaks first. “Wha–What are you doing here?”