Rosalie lingered another moment, watching him as though waiting for more reassurance. When none came, she lowered her head and slipped quietly back into the guest room.
I had no strength left to continue.
I brushed past Lucian, entered my room, and shut the door behind me.
A moment later, he knocked.
“Selene.”
Then again, sharper.
“Selene, open the door.”
I ignored him.
After a while, the knocking stopped. Through the door, I could hear the faint murmur of his voice, followed by Rosalie’s softer replies from the other room. Eventually, even those sounds faded.
The house had two bedchambers.
I took the master chamber.
Rosalie remained in the guest room.
And the Alpha of the pack, left between the two, spent the night on the sofa.
The next morning, he was already awake.
Or perhaps he had never slept at all.
He sat on the sofa in yesterday’s clothes, shoulders slightly hunched, dark shadows beneath his eyes. His hair was faintly disordered, and there was tension in the line of his jaw, as though he had spent the night stewing in irritation rather than resting.
The moment he saw me step out of my room, he straightened.
“You’re awake,” he said. “I reserved passage to Blightmoor. You once said you wanted to go there, didn’t you? I’ll accompany you. Ask for leave from the hall today.”
His tone was almost casual, as though nothing had happened the night before. As though bringing Rosalie into our home, arguing at the door, and leaving me to shut myself away had been nothing more than a passing inconvenience.
“I cannot go,” I replied.
His brows tightened immediately.
“Are you still angry?” he asked, impatience creeping into his voice. “Selene, we’re already betrothed. We are not some young wolves in courtship. Must you be so childish?”
I said nothing.
I only looked at him quietly.
Then, very suddenly, a realization came with startling clarity.
When I argued, I was wrong.
When I stayed silent, I was wrong.
When I yielded, it was expected.
When I resisted, it was unreasonable.
No matter what I did, I was always the one expected to bend.
Perhaps the mistake had never been in my words at all.
Perhaps the mistake was loving him.
“Fine,” he exhaled at last, as though granting me a concession. “My fault, then. Is that enough?”
I shook my head faintly.
“You did nothing wrong,” I said calmly. “And I am not angry. Let us not speak of it anymore.”
I moved past him and went to the hearth to make coffee.