Chapter 49
Fiona's POV:
I positioned myself artfully on the living room sofa, a glass of Ethan's favorite whiskey prepared for him on the side table, soft music playing in the background.
Everything was perfect.
Nine o'clock came and went. Then ten. By eleven, my confidence had begun to waver, the glass of whiskey still untouched on the table.
When my phone finally rang at midnight, my heart leapt—but it wasn't Ethan's name on the screen. It was his pack friend.
"Ms Price," the voice came through, carefully formal. "I apologize for the late hour."
"Where's Ethan?" I asked immediately, not bothering with pleasantries.
There was an awkward pause.
"That's why I'm calling. We're at The Silver Moon downtown, and Ethan's... had quite a bit to drink. He's in no condition to drive himself home."
Another pause. "Would you be able to come get him?"
"Of course," I said, my voice controlled despite the anger simmering beneath. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
I hung up and stared at my reflection in the nearby mirror.
The carefully applied makeup, the expensive lingerie under my robe, the hours spent preparing—all wasted.
I quickly slipped into a simple black dress and heels, snatched my car keys from the counter, and stormed out the door.
The Silver Moon was one of the more upscale establishments in Moonhaven's entertainment district, but at this hour it had devolved into exactly what you'd expect—loud music, rowdy patrons, and the unmistakable scent of alcohol and desperation.
I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the appreciative glances and occasional whistles from intoxicated wolves.
I spotted clearly inebriated Ethan at a corner table. His hair was disheveled, his expensive shirt partially unbuttoned and stained with what looked like whiskey.
His normally sharp eyes were unfocused, staring vacantly at the table.
"Fiona," his friend nodded when he saw me, relief evident on his face. "Thanks for coming."
"What happened?" I asked coldly, scanning Ethan's condition.
He was well beyond typical drunkenness; this looked like something more concerning.
"He started drinking after a big argument with his father," the friend explained, lowering his voice. "He wouldn't talk about it."
Ethan finally seemed to notice my presence, his eyes struggling to focus on my face.
"I've got him from here," I replied, sliding an arm around Ethan's waist to support his weight. "Thank you for calling me."
With a nod, he handed me Ethan's wallet and phone before disappearing into the crowd.
"Let's get you home," I murmured to Ethan, who was now leaning heavily against me, his body radiating unnatural heat.
As I half-carried, half-dragged him through the exit, a thought occurred to me. Ethan maintained a downtown apartment just a few blocks from here.
"Ethan," I said clearly, trying to break through his drunken haze. "We're going to your apartment. It's closer."
He mumbled something incoherent but didn't resist as I guided him toward the apartment building.
"Key," Ethan mumbled as we reached his apartment door, fumbling unsuccessfully with his pockets.
I found his apartment key on the same ring as his car keys and unlocked the door, practically dragging him inside.
The apartment was clean and cozy, with subtle touches that spoke of frequent use—a half-read book on the coffee table, a jacket casually draped over a chair, the lingering scent of Ethan's cologne in the air.
Unlike the formal, almost sterile environment of the Grayson estate, this space felt lived-in and personal.
I'd been to this building before—several times, in fact.
Each time I'd call Ethan, saying I was in the area and wanted to see him. Each time he'd come down to the lobby, always with an excuse for why I couldn't come up.
Now, standing in his personal space for the first time, I felt like an intruder and a fool all at once.
I helped him to the bedroom, where he collapsed onto the mattress fully clothed.
I sat beside him, concern temporarily overriding my anger.
His breathing was shallow, his body temperature far too high. This was beginning to look like the early stages of lunar madness, which was extremely rare outside the full moon period.
"Ethan," I said, placing a cool hand on his forehead. "When did this start? Are you feeling the shift coming on?"
His only response was to turn away from my touch, murmuring something incoherent. I caught only a few words—"regret," "truth," and what sounded like "wrong choice."
I stood up to get him some water when something on his desk caught my eye—a black leather portfolio, partially open with sketches spilling out from its edges.
Curiosity overrode my immediate concerns, and I flipped the portfolio open wider.
My blood ran cold at what I found.
Sketches. Dozens of them. All of Tori Sullivan.
Her human form, her wolf form, close-ups of her face, her eyes. In one particularly detailed drawing, her eyes were colored in a beautiful silver hue with the words "my moonlight" written beneath.
My blood ran cold as everything clicked into place.
The lack of temporary marks. The distancing. The way he sometimes called me by the wrong name in moments of distraction.
Ethan still loved her.
Rage surged through me, but I forced it down.
I looked back at Ethan on the bed, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his breathing shallow as the fever took hold.
"Since that's how it is," I whispered, my fingers curling into fists at my sides, "you can't blame me for what comes next."
I reached into my purse, fingers closing around the small vial I always carried—essence perfume, designed to trigger a mate's protective and mating instincts. It was manipulative, even borderline unethical, but I was beyond caring.
I dabbed the scent behind my ears and wrists before approaching him.
"Ethan," I whispered, leaning close. "Mark me. It will help with the madness."
His eyes snapped open, glowing with feral intensity as the scent reached him.
Before I could react, he growled—a deep, primal sound that vibrated through the room—and lunged forward, pinning me to the mattress with supernatural strength.
My heart raced, a mixture of fear and triumph coursing through me.
The lunar madness had taken hold completely now, stripping away his civilized facade and leaving only the wolf—raw, instinctual, and desperate for release.
His fangs elongated as he buried his face in my neck, his body burning hot against mine.
I closed my eyes, surrendering to the inevitable victory.
Then, just as his fangs grazed my skin, he froze.
"No," he growled, his voice barely recognizable. "Not... right."
He pulled back, his eyes clearing slightly as he stared down at me. "You're not... Tori," he mumbled, the words slurring but unmistakable. "Need Tori... only Tori."
With a violent motion, he shoved himself away from me, nearly falling off the bed in his haste to put distance between us.
"Get out!"
I stumbled backward, humiliation burning through me like acid. Even in his most primal state, with artificial pheromones clouding his senses, he had rejected me.
As I fled his quarters, tears of rage blurred my vision.
The rejection stung worse than any physical pain—a female, rejected by a male in his most instinctual state.
It was the ultimate insult in wolf society.
Back in my car, hands shaking on the steering wheel, I could barely contain the humiliation burning through me.
Why agree to marry me if he was still obsessed with her?
I was just his second choice. After all my efforts, all my careful planning, I was still losing to Tori Sullivan.
Fine. Very well.
Just wait, Tori. Just you wait. If I can't have what I want, neither will you.