163

163


ALTHEA

I didn’t sleep again after that.
I lay there, stiff and wide-eyed, every nerve in my body still humming like I’d been struck by lightning. My arm rested across my stomach, whole and warm and perfect, as if it had never been shattered at all.
As if he had never shattered me with it.
The door creaked.
I bolted upright. “I told you to go away.”
“I did,” Alpha Collin said calmly, stepping inside anyway and closing the door behind him with deliberate care. “Then you cried again.”
“I was in pain,” I snapped.
“You weren’t,” he replied. “Not physically.”
That made my chest tighten. “You don’t get to decide that.”
He leaned against the door, arms folded, mask off for once. His eyes weren’t glowing now—but that somehow made it worse. They were dark. Watchful. Too aware.
“I can smell it when you’re in pain, Althea,” he said quietly. “Your fear smells different from your anger. And different from this.”
“This?” I demanded.
His gaze dropped—slowly, deliberately—down my body before lifting again to meet my eyes.
“Confusion,” he said. “Desire. Hatred. All tangled together.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “Get out.”
Instead, he walked closer.
Each step felt like a challenge. My back pressed into the headboard again, heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it.
“Stop,” I warned.
“You’re shaking,” he said, voice almost gentle. “Still afraid of me?”
“Yes,” I said instantly.
A pause.
“Good,” he murmured.
I stared at him. “Good?”
His mouth curved slightly. Not a smile. Something darker. “Fear keeps you honest. Keeps you from lying to yourself.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You are,” he said softly, stopping beside the bed. “You’ve been lying since I healed you.”
I curled my fingers into the sheets. “You had no right.”
“I know.”
That answer stole my breath.
He sat down on the edge of the mattress—slowly, carefully, like he was approaching a wild animal. The bed dipped beneath his weight, and my body reacted before my mind could stop it, muscles tightening, breath shortening.
I hated that he noticed.
His eyes flicked to my throat. “Your pulse just spiked.”
“Don’t,” I whispered.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t talk like that. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you already own me.”
Silence fell between us, heavy and electric.
“I do,” he said at last. “But I don’t want to.”
My laugh came out broken. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“No,” he said. “It’s supposed to be the truth.”
I tried to slide away from him, toward the other side of the bed. He caught my wrist—gentle this time, but firm enough that escape wasn’t an option.
My breath hitched violently.
“I’m not hurting you,” he said immediately, sensing the shift. “Look at me.”
I didn’t.
“Althea,” he warned, not angry—pleading. “Look at me.”
Slowly, I did.
His expression wasn’t teasing now. It was raw. Taut. Like something inside him was barely being held back.
“You pull away,” he said quietly, thumb brushing the inside of my wrist where my pulse throbbed. “But your body leans in anyway. Do you know how loud that is to a wolf?”
“Stop talking,” I whispered, shame burning through me.
“Why?” he asked softly. “Because it’s true?”
My throat tightened. “Because I hate it.”
His thumb stilled.
“You hate that you want me,” he said.
“I don’t—”
“You do,” he interrupted gently. “And you hate yourself for it.”
Tears filled my eyes. “You don’t get to do this to me.”
“I already did,” he said. “And I hate myself for that more than you ever could.”
I yanked my hand free and pressed it to my chest. “Then leave me alone.”
He stood abruptly, turning away like he needed distance just as badly as I did. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
“I should,” he said hoarsely. “But every time I do, you break a little more.”
“I’m breaking because of you,” I shot back.
He turned, eyes burning. “And yet your scent says otherwise.”
“Don’t,” I begged.
He crossed the distance again in two strides, stopping inches from me. He didn’t touch me—but his presence was overwhelming, Alpha power rolling off him in waves.
“Your body responds to safety,” he murmured. “Even when your mind screams danger.”
“That’s not safety,” I whispered.
“It is to your wolf,” he said. “She knows mine.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “I hate her.”
A soft sound escaped him—almost a laugh, almost a groan. “I know.”
I felt it then. The awful truth. The part that made me furious with myself.
Despite everything—despite the fear, the pain, the memories—my body was still responding. Still warming. Still aching.
And I hated it.
“I won’t touch you,” he said quietly, as if reading my thoughts. “Not unless you ask.”
“That doesn’t make this better.”
“No,” he agreed. “It makes it harder.”
He stepped back at last, giving me space—but the tension lingered, thick and suffocating.
“You should rest,” he said. “Healing like that takes more than bones.”
“And you?” I asked bitterly.
“I’ll stay away,” he said. “Until you tell me not to.”
He paused at the door, hand on the handle.
“Althea,” he said without turning. “Hate me if you must. But don’t hate your body for surviving.”
The door closed softly behind him.
I collapsed back onto the bed, shaking, tears sliding silently into my hair.
I hated him.
I hated myself.
And I hated that, even now, my skin still remembered his warmth