Chapter 28
Violet's POV:
"Zane," I muttered, swirling the ice in my glass. "Why are you working tonight? Didn't I just deposit five thousand dollars into your account?"
Zane paused, his cheeks flushing a faint pink under the dim neon lights. "I... I’m saving it. I want to pay you back as soon as possible. And Celeste’s birthday is coming up next week. I saw a necklace she liked in a window downtown. It’s not much, but I want to get it for her."
I stared at him, a sudden, sharp laugh bubbling up in my throat.
Here was this boy, scrubbing sticky counters and serving drinks to criminals, exhausting himself to buy a trinket for a girl who was currently being hunted by the most powerful Alpha in the region. My husband had just offered Celeste a blank check and a threat that could level a city, and Zane was worried about a birthday necklace.
"You're a fool, Zane," I said, my voice heavy with a pity I had no right to feel.
He frowned, looking hurt. "Because I want to make her happy?"
"Because you think effort is enough," I whispered, lifting the glass to my lips. The burn was immediate and welcome. "Zane, look at this drink." I pointed a manicured finger at the swirling liquid. "Some wolves... they have a taste for raw, bloody steak. The expensive kind. The kind that fights back. That’s what they crave. That’s the instinct."
I leaned forward, my eyes locking onto his confused gray ones. "But some wolves? They just want a warm bowl of stew. Something safe. Something that feels like home. The problem is, when a beast who eats steak decides he wants to try the stew... he usually knocks the bowl over and breaks it."
Zane stopped wiping the glass. He leaned in, his expression earnest and remarkably dense. "Luna... are you talking about Alpha Daemon? I saw the news about the models. If he’s hurting you... if he doesn't appreciate the—the stew... then he’s blind. Someday he’s going to regret losing the most precious thing he has."
I looked down, a bitter smile twisting my lips. He thinks I’m the stew, I realized. He thinks Daemon is ignoring me.
"He won't regret anything, Zane," I murmured, the alcohol finally starting to blur the sharp edges of my reality. "He’s not losing anything. He’s hunting."
Before Zane could ask what I meant, the heavy oak door at the front of the bar slammed open. A gust of cold night air cut through the smoke, followed by voices that were far too loud and far too arrogant for this establishment.
"God, it smells like wet dog and desperation in here," a voice drawled. Lucian Cross.
My spine stiffened. I didn't need to turn around to know who was with him.
"That's the point, Lucian," Felix Hunt laughed, the sound grating. "It’s authentic. The girls here are wilder. Less... structured than the ones in the city."
Panic, cold and instantaneous, sobered me up faster than any antidote. If Evan saw me here—if he saw me with Zane again—the narrative would be set in stone. The hospital visit, the warehouse rescue, and now a clandestine meeting in a dive bar? It didn't look like charity anymore. It looked like an affair.
I shot a hand across the bar, gripping the back of Zane’s neck and forcing his head down.
"Duck!" I hissed.
"What—?"
"Get down! Hide behind the bar! Do not stand up, do not make a sound, and for the love of the Moon Goddess, do not let them see your face."
Zane, to his credit, didn't argue. He sensed the genuine fear in my voice and dropped into a crouch, disappearing behind the taps just as the trio of high-born wolves sauntered deeper into the room.
I hunched over my drink, letting my hair fall forward to curtain my face, praying to a deity I no longer believed in that they would just grab a bottle and leave.
"Let's grab a booth in the back," Lucian suggested. "The service here is terrible, you usually have to yell for a bartender."
"I'm not staying," Evan said, his voice drifting closer. "I have rounds in the morning. I’m just going to grab water and—"
His footsteps stopped.
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with recognition. I didn't move. I stared at the condensation dripping down my glass, counting the drops. One. Two. Three.
"Violet?"
The jig was up. I slowly swiveled on the stool, fixing a mask of bored intoxication onto my face.
Evan took two long strides, closing the distance, his voice dropping to a furious whisper. "What are you doing here? Didn't Daemon drive you home?"
"I wanted to get drunk, Evan." I raised the glass. "This was the only place open."
"So you came to a place crawling with unregistered Rogues? Do you have any idea how dangerous this is for you?" Evan shook his head, reaching out to grab my arm. "You're leaving. Now."
"I'm not done."
"Yes, you are." His eyes narrowed, shifting past me to the space behind the bar.
Zane.
Curiosity is a fatal flaw in young wolves. Zane, hearing the commotion and perhaps worried about me, had raised his head just an inch above the counter to peek.
It was enough.
Evan went rigid. His gaze locked onto the terrified boy, then snapped back to me.
"Him?" Evan let out a short, incredulous laugh that lacked any humor. "Zane Carter. Again?"
"Evan, it's not—"
"Don't lie to me, Violet," he hissed, his voice dripping with disgust. "Are you sleeping with him? Is that it? Are you keeping a Delta boy on the side to get back at Daemon?"
"I am not sleeping with him!" I snapped, keeping my voice low so Lucian wouldn't hear from the back booth.
"Then what is this?"
He reached for his phone. "I'm calling Daemon. He needs to come get you before you do something irrevocable."
"No!"
Adrenaline spiked through my veins. I couldn't let him make that call. If Daemon came here, he’d see Zane. He’d connect the dots. He’d realize I’ve been interfering with Celeste’s life.
I moved on instinct. I slid off the stool, stumbling forward, and grabbed Evan by the lapels of his expensive coat. I yanked him down, hard, until our faces were inches apart.
The sudden proximity froze him.
"You listen to me, Evan Thorne," I whispered, my voice trembling with a mix of alcohol and calculated madness. "You put that phone away."
"Let go of me, Violet," he warned, his hands hovering over my waist, unsure whether to push me away or hold me up.
"If you call him," I breathed, my eyes wide and unblinking, "I will scream. I will throw myself onto the floor, tear my dress, and scream that you touched me."
Evan’s face went pale. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me," I challenged, tightening my grip on his tie until I was practically strangling him. "The pristine Dr. Thorne? The moral compass of the pack?"
I glanced around the bar at the watching eyes of the patrons.
Evan stared at me, his chest heaving against mine.
"You're insane," he breathed.
"Now, put the phone away. You didn't see Zane."
Evan gritted his teeth, his jaw working furiously. He looked at Zane, who was cowering behind the bar, then back at me. Slowly, reluctantly, he slid his phone back into his pocket.
"Fine," he spat.
"And if Daemon asks why I was always with you," I leaned back, smoothing his lapels with exaggerated care. "I’m sick, and you are my doctor."
"I'm a neurologist, not a psychiatrist," he countered sharply.
I watched him, my head lolling against the palm. The alcohol made my thoughts drift, unmooring them from the present. I looked at Evan and didn't see the man who had just teased me; I saw the man from my past life. The man who had eventually fallen quietly, hopelessly in love with Celeste Morrison, only to stand aside and watch Daemon claim her.
Evan was a good man. A tragic, rule-following fool, but a good man.
"Evan..." I mumbled, reaching out. My hand landed on his shoulder, clumsy and heavy.
"She's not worth it," I whispered, my eyes closing.
Evan frowned, glancing at me. "Who?"
"Celeste," I slurred. "You're too clean for this mess. There are plenty of other flowers... don't get hung up on that one."
"You're drunk," he said, his voice softer now, tinged with confusion. "You don't know what you're talking about."
At this point in time, he barely knew who Celeste was. He certainly didn't love her.
I passed out before I could see the troubled look that lingered in his eyes.
I woke up to the shrill sound of a generic ringtone and a headache that felt like someone was taking a jackhammer to my skull.
I cracked one eye open. I wasn't at the manor. I was in a hotel room.
My phone was buzzing on the nightstand. I groaned, reaching for it.
There was a text message from Evan Thorne.
Dr. Thorne: You have an appointment at my clinic at 10:00 AM. Neurology department. Don't be late.
I smiled. He had accepted the lie.
I typed back a simple reply.
Violet: On my way, Dr. Thorne.