Chapter 10 #2
I trace her features with my free hand. The curve of her cheek. The slope of her nose. The bow of her upper lip that I can still feel against mine.
“What am I going to do with you?” I murmur, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
She sighs in her sleep, a small, contented sound.
I could stay. I could hold her like this all night, and I’d never want to leave.
But she’ll wake up eventually. And when she does, she’ll probably kick me out. Or worse, look at me with that confused hurt in her eyes that destroys me every time.
I need to go. But first…
Gently, I slip out from under her and lift her in my arms. She’s lighter than I expected, all soft curves and warmth against my chest. She produces another small note of protest before tucking her face against my neck, her breath hot on my skin.
I catch her scent again. No amount of perfume will be able to hide her from me anymore.
Not after tasting her. Not after having her pressed against me.
Underneath the wine and the faded perfume, there’s wolf.
Yes. But it’s barely there. Muffled somehow, like her natural scent is wrapped in layers of cotton.
All of a sudden, I catch a whiff of a faint, chemical aroma that doesn’t belong there. My head tilts in my confusion.
What is that? And why is Violet’s natural scent so weak?
I carry her to the bedroom and lay her gently on the bed. Pull the covers up over her sleeping form, dress and all. Tuck them around her shoulders in a way I think she’ll like.
For a moment, I just stand there, watching the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. The peaceful expression on her face. The way her lips are slightly parted.
Then, I make myself turn away.
The apartment is a mess, but I can fix that. I roll up my sleeves and get to work—washing dishes, wiping counters, taking out the overflowing trash.
My mother’s recipe comes to mind as I work, the one she would make for me when I was sick. A rich beef broth with noodles that settles the stomach and makes you feel cared for.
I find ingredients in her well-stocked fridge and start a pot simmering while I finish cleaning.
The rhythmic work helps settle the restlessness inside me.
This is what I’m meant to do. This is my purpose: to protect and provide for my mate.
Care for her even when she doesn’t know it. Even if she never knows it’s me.
By the time the noodles are done and portioned into containers with reheating instructions, the apartment is spotless. I mix a hangover remedy and leave it next to her bed, where she’ll see it first thing.
I stand in her kitchen at three a.m., surrounded by the evidence of my obsession. Clean apartment. Home-cooked meal. A mate who doesn’t know I exist beyond the surface.
This can’t last. I know it can’t. Eventually, I’ll slip. Eventually, someone will notice. Eventually, she’ll put the pieces together.
But not tonight. Tonight, I can pretend everything is fine.
I slip into her room one more time.
She’s still sleeping peacefully, curled under the covers. The glass of hangover remedy sits within easy reach on the nightstand.
I move to the bed and crouch beside it, unable to resist touching her one more time. My fingers brush her cheek lightly.
“Sleep well, baby.” The endearment slips out before I realize I’m saying it.
She doesn’t wake up. Just sighs and nestles further into the pillows.
The ache spreads through my ribs, settling deeper. Taking root.
I stand and take one last look at her sleeping form. Memorize the peaceful expression on her face, the way her hair spreads across the pillow, the gentle sound of her breathing.
Finally, I leave. I lock the door behind me and test it twice to make sure it’s secure.
The elevator ride down feels different than the one going up. Lighter somehow. Like something inside me has finally found its place.
I get in my car and sit there for a moment, staring up at the penthouse windows.
My mate is in there. Safe. Cared for. Everything she needs is waiting for her when she wakes up.
And she’ll probably never know I was here. But that’s okay. Because taking care of her is enough.
For now, it has to be enough.
I start the car and drive home, the taste of her still lingering on my tongue, the feeling of her nestled against me still warming my chest.
And for the first time in six years, I really let myself smile.
The week after the party becomes an exercise in restraint.
I watch Violet through my glass wall as she arrives early at the office every morning.
I watch her leave late, after I’ve already gone to my car only to circle back and park where I can see her drive away safely.
I watch her have lunch at her desk or disappear to different cafes, blocks away, always checking over her shoulder like she’s running from something.
From someone.
From me.
When we pass in hallways, she keeps her eyes forward, her expression always neutral. Like I’m just another colleague. Like my mouth wasn’t on hers just a few days ago. Like she didn’t tear at my clothes with desperate hands that left marks on my skin I still haven’t let heal.
The beast inside me is miserable. Constantly agitated, demanding I go to her. Demanding I fix what I broke.
But I can’t. Because fixing it would mean explaining things I’m not ready to explain. Things she’s not ready to hear.
So, I watch her from my office, my hands clenched on my desk, fighting the urge to cross the floor and corner her. To make her look at me. To make her acknowledge what happened between us.
Every time she walks past my office, pressure builds in my chest. Every time I catch her scent in the hallway, my hands shake. Every time I see another male talk to her, smile at her, exist near her, rage builds behind my sternum to the point that I have to force myself to breathe through it.
This is torture.
It’s worse than the six years she was gone. At least then, I could pretend distance made it easier. Could lie to myself that not seeing her every day helped.
But now, she’s here. Right here. Close enough to touch, yet further away than ever.
She hasn’t confronted me about what happened at the penthouse. Hasn’t demanded explanations for the furniture discounts or the way I orchestrated everything. Hasn’t mentioned that I was in her apartment while she slept, cleaning and cooking and taking care of her.
I expected anger. Expected her to storm into my office and throw it all in my face.
But she does nothing. Just avoids me like I’m contagious. Like the memory of that kiss tortures her as much as it does me.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ethan: Stop glaring at Julian. He’s just asking her about a file.
I force my eyes away from where Julian is leaning against Violet’s desk, a friendly smile on his face that makes rage surge through me.
Another text: You’re going to give yourself away if you keep this up.
I don’t respond. Just turn back to my computer and try to focus on work.
Try and fail.
On Friday, HR sends out an email about tomorrow’s mandatory inter-pack combat training event.
I read it three times, dread building in my chest.
Combat training. Hand-to-hand drills. Sparring exercises with both Moonvale and Ravenhood wolves.
Violet will be there. Has to be there. It’s required for everyone in the division.
And she can’t shift. Can’t defend herself properly if someone gets too rough. Can’t tap into wolf strength if things go sideways.
Heat crawls up my spine at the thought. I pull up Ethan’s contact and call him, tapping my pen nervously against my desk.
He answers on the second ring. “Let me guess. You saw the email.”
“Tell me there’s a way to get her exempted.”
“There isn’t.” His voice is apologetic. “It’s mandatory. Besides, making an exception for her would draw more attention than just letting her participate.”
“She can’t shift, Ethan.”
“I know. But the exercises are mostly hand-to-hand anyway. She’ll be fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You don’t that she won’t.” He pauses. “Look. I’ll keep an eye on things, make sure no one gets too aggressive with the matches. But you need to stay calm tomorrow. Can you do that?”
No. Absolutely not. The thought of watching wolves spar with my mate makes violence surge through me so intensely, I have to put my pen down to keep from crushing it.
“I’ll try,” I manage.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s the best I’ve got.”
He sighs. “Just don’t do anything that’ll make the situation worse, okay? We’re trying to build unity with Ravenhood. Attacking one of their wolves mid-training would be bad.”
“I won’t attack anyone,” I tell him.
The lie tastes familiar.
On Saturday afternoon, I arrive at the training grounds early to help Ethan set up equipment and mark off sparring areas.
In between tasks, my nails dig into my palms. Blood wells; I’ve broken skin. The scent of it is sharp in my nose, mixing with earth and sweat and the damp air.
“You look like shit,” Ethan observes as we drag training mats into position.
“Thanks.”
“Did you sleep at all last night?”
“No.”
He studies me for a moment, concern etched in his features. “Maybe you should sit this one out. Let me run it.”
“Not a chance.”
“Darius—”
“I’m fine.” I throw the mat I’m holding to the ground altogether too forcefully. “I can handle this.”
“Can you?” He crosses his arms. “Because right now you look about two seconds from shifting, and I don’t even know why.”
I don’t answer. Don’t need to. He knows why. Ethan knows the things I’ve kept hidden from everyone else for six years.
Wolves start arriving. First in pairs, then groups. Moonvale and Ravenhood mixing, chatting and laughing as they stretch and warm up.
My eyes are tracking every Ravenhood wolf. Cataloging them. Assessing threat levels. Deciding which ones would be easiest to eliminate if they touch what’s mine.
Jesus. I need to get in control.
Then, she arrives.