He once told me, “I just sleep better alone.” But the way he said it—the way he wouldn’t even look me in the eye—told me what he really meant. He didn’t want to sleep beside me. Me, specifically.
Today, as the late sun cast long shadows through the tall windows of the pack house, Ethan stood in the middle of the hall and announced that Farah would be staying for a while. Not just staying—she’d be taking the Luna quarters.
My quarters.
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t argue. I gave a small nod and murmured, “Alright.” I could feel his eyes on me, waiting for a reaction, probably even expecting a fight. But I was too tired. There was no point fighting for a place I was already being pushed out of.
When I turned away to begin packing, his footsteps echoed down the corridor—and just like that, he was gone. Again. With Farah.
In my old room, sunlight streamed through the windows, painting golden streaks on the carpet. I stood in the middle of the space I once tried so hard to make feel like mine. Now, it just felt hollow.
I pulled down a framed photo from the shelf—our wedding photo. The same one Farah knocked over earlier that morning. The glass was still cracked, but I hadn’t had the heart to throw it away. As I laid it flat inside the box, I didn’t see the broken edge sticking out.
My hand slipped.
“Shit—” I gasped as I fell to the floor, my knee landing squarely on the jagged glass. Pain shot up my thigh like fire, hot and biting. Blood immediately began to trickle down my leg, staining the hem of my dress. The wound wasn’t small—it was deep, and I could already feel the skin around it swelling.
But when I looked toward the door, it was empty. No footsteps. No scent of my so-called mate. He hadn’t even noticed I’d hurt myself. He hadn’t bothered to check on me.
I bit down hard on my lower lip, swallowing the sob that threatened to escape. My fingers trembled as I pressed the edge of my shirt against the bleeding wound. This pain was nothing compared to the one in my chest.
Not once in two years had he offered me comfort. Not when I had nightmares. Not when I was sick. Not even when I was kidnapped and thrown to rogues like a piece of meat.
Farah waltzes in and he hands her my bed, my room, my title—like it all belonged to her all along.