I didn’t chase after Alpha Thorne Darkhowl.
He left still laughing, his voice pitched too loud, too careless, murmuring about champagne and bikinis into Camille Hartclaw’s ear as if I were already erased—as if I were nothing more than the mat beneath his boots. He walked like a man reborn, posture straight, steps confident, while I stayed collapsed on the floor, knees screaming, pride splintered, spirit cracked open. It felt as though the ground itself had claimed me, swallowed me whole, while he strode away untouched.
Eventually, I pushed myself upright, slowly, with intention. My joints protested, creaking like rusted hinges. I dragged my palm across the tile, smearing dust and grit and whatever scraps of dignity still clung to me. I made my way to the bathroom and closed the door quietly, careful not to disturb the sleeping house.
The mirror offered no mercy.
Bloodshot eyes. Puffy skin. Hair loose and feral. I looked like someone who had tried to scream underwater—someone who had already drowned but kept breathing out of habit alone.
There was no coffin waiting for me. No candles burning low. No whispered prayers or mourning veils. And yet I was grieving. Not for him. Not even for the ruin of our marriage. I mourned myself—the girl I used to be. The reckless flame who laughed too loudly and loved too fiercely, before I dimmed her light for his comfort. Before I clipped my wings, blunted my claws, and bent myself smaller so I could fit inside his expectations.
I mourned every piece of myself I buried in quiet compromises. Every version of me that faded when I chose him over my own blood and fire. Until all that was left was a hollow thing—a shadow drifting through the remains of the wolf I once was.
His footsteps passed the door. His laugh followed, low and cruel. He was still on the phone, but he paused just long enough to bark, “Pack my bags. It’s business mixed with pleasure. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
No glance.
No courtesy.
Only command.
I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. When his voice disappeared down the hall, I dried my hands on the crooked towel and walked into his room like a servant answering her master’s call.
His closet was a disaster—suits tangled with shirts, shoes buried beneath dirty socks. A grown man with the habits of a spoiled pup who believed himself a ruler.