He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. All I heard was the quiet rise and fall of his breathing—steady, patient, real. It anchored me, like the rhythm of a pack heartbeat I had once turned my back on. I ended the call before my resolve could falter, before I could say words that might shatter me if spoken aloud.
The door opened with a slow groan, and Alpha Thorne stepped inside as if he owned the very air in the room. He moved like a shadow that refused to leave, one that had grown too comfortable in the dark. His scent reached me before his voice ever did—sour wine tangled with lies, ambition drowning out loyalty. His gaze pinned me in place, sharp and probing, as though he could already smell my escape clinging to my skin.
“You saw the plane passes, didn’t you?” he said, lips curving into a cruel half-smile. “Six seats. That’s all. Me, Camille, Julian, Corinne, and the twins. No more.”
My throat tightened painfully, but I forced the lump down, refusing to let him see the crack.
“You were never part of the plan,” he added flatly, his tone eerily calm, like ice fracturing beneath your feet without warning.
Then came the lie disguised as generosity. “When I’m back, I’ll spoil you. Diamonds. A trip to Hawaii.” As if glitter and distance could erase exclusion. As if I were some neglected she-wolf desperate enough to be pacified with shiny distractions.
Without another look, he turned away. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound final and hollow—less like closure, more like a coffin being sealed.
The following morning, I drifted through the kitchen like a spirit haunting its own ruins. I cooked without thought—eggs folded into omelets, bacon sizzling, toast popping up warm and golden. The smells filled the air, taunting me with the illusion of togetherness. From the living room, the twins’ laughter burst out, loud and unrestrained, like pups discovering the thrill of a chase.
“This cruise is going to be legendary!” Julian shouted. “Best trip ever!”
Their excitement was pure. And that purity made it hurt all the more.
Camille swept in not long after, arms heavy with takeout bags. She dropped them onto the counter with deliberate force, her smile sharp and satisfied.
“I can’t stand Nyx’s food,” she declared loudly. “It’s either tasteless or unbearably salty. Like chewing paper or licking a salt block. No creativity at all. Honestly, it suits her.”