Chapter 86 His worry, My worry.
Malia's POV
The night is so silent when I open my eyes.
Moonlight floods the room in thin sheets of light, tinting everything silver. Aiden’s arm is still resting heavily on my waist, his breath slow and steady at the nape of my neck. For a half moment I let myself think I dreamed it — that faint persistent buzzing that pulled me out of bed.
But then it happens again: a soft rumbling from the nightstand. His phone, face-down, lighting up once, twice, then going dark.
I move a little, slow and careful, trying not to wake him. The screen glows once more and this time I catch a glimpse of the name that is displayed: Mom
He doesn’t stir.
I’ve been noticing it all week — little things that are easy enough to write off if you’re not paying attention. The way he flips the phone when it lights up. The quick thumb swipe to silence incoming calls. The way his shoulders hunch, just the teeniest bit, every time the screen wakes up.
He never answers. Never mentions it. Just keeps smiling that same easy smile, kissing my temple as he leads me into the water, like nothing was ever wrong.
But something is. I am lying still, listening to the waves outside and the gentle cadence of his breath. The phone buzzes one more time—shorter this time, like a voicemail alert. He exhales through his nose, rolls onto his back, and reaches for it without opening his eyes.
He presses the side button to dismiss it entirely, then puts it face down once more. Too much effort.
I furrow my eyes because I am tired pretending to be asleep.
He stays still for a long minute. Then he sighs — quiet, tired — and slips out of bed. The mattress dips then raises. Bare feet pad across the wood floor. With a soft click the balcony door slides open.
I wait ten heartbeats, then follow.
He’s leaning on the railing, elbows braced, staring at the black ocean. Moonlight highlights the sharp line of his jaw and the tense set of his shoulders. The phone rests his hand, its screen dark now. He doesn’t touch it.
I step up beside him, barefoot, clad in nothing but his hoodie. Cooling night air against my legs.
“Hey,” I whisper.
He’s not alarmed. Without turning his head, he looks sideways and gives me that half smile that never quite makes it to his eyes anymore.
“Hey.”
I lean my forearms on the railing next to his. Our elbows touch.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
He shrugs. “Something like that.”
The waves keep coming in, They’re calm and ranged, and indifferent.
I’m not pushing right now. I just stand there.
“You’ve been doing that a lot,” I say softly. “The phone. Cutting calls. Looking at it like it’s going to bite you.”
He exhales through his nose—a noise that’s nearly a laugh but isn’t quite.
“Yeah.”
Another long beat. “Is it your mom?”
His fingers flex on the railing. “Yeah.”
I nod as if I had expected it. “She’s been calling all the time we’ve been here.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just stares at the water.
“How many times?”
“Every day since the second week.” His voice is flat. “Sometimes twice.”
I swallow. “And you’ve not picked a single time.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He’s quiet so long I think he won’t answer. Then—
“Because I know what she’s going to say.” He finally looks at me. “And I don’t want to be subjected to that.”
My stomach twists. “About what.”
“About us.” He turns fully now leaning one hip against the railing now so he's looking straight at me. “About the three of us. About how the pack council is already whispering. About how she’s ‘concerned’.” He puts air quotes around the word, bitter. “She’s not concerned. She’s pissed.”
I wrap my arms around myself. The hoodie suddenly feels too thin.
“Did she say that? When she called?”
“She didn’t have to.” He looks away again. “I let the first few go to voicemail. Listened to them later. Same thing every time. ‘Aiden. Call me. We need to talk about your… situation.’ ‘Your brothers are avoiding me too.” ‘This isn’t a game.’”
He laughs once—short, humorless.
“Then today she stopped asking. Just said, ‘You have until the end of the week. Or I come get you yourself. I’d hate to get you... if you get me.”
My breath catches.
“She knows where we are?” “She always knows where we are.”
His voice drops. “Pack bonds. Alpha tracking. She’s the Luna. She could probably draw a map of this island in her sleep.”
I feel suddenly exposed, even though we’re alone.
“What if you don’t go back?”
He shrugs, jaw tight. “She sends someone. Or she comes personally. Or she calls Dad.” Here he pauses. “Dad is worse.”
I have never met their father, the Alpha. Aiden has mentioned him perhaps twice- always in passing, always with the same flat tone he uses now.
“What will he do?”
Aiden’s jaw tightens. “He enforces. No discussion. No second chances. If Mom’s the soft glove, Dad’s the hand.”
I reach for his hand. He lets me take it, but his fingers are not clenched.“We still have a couple of days. We can work something out.”
He gazes on our joined hands. “Yeah.”
But he doesn’t sound convinced.
We stand like that for a long time—listening to the ocean, feeling the night press in. Then he turns his hand in mine, laces his fingers properly with mine and draw me into his chest. I place my cheek on his heart. It’s beating too fast.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into my hair.
“For what?”
“I was sorry for…for pulling you in to this.”
I pull back just enough to look at him. “You didn’t.”
His eyes search mine—dark, tired, scared in a way I’ve never seen before.
“I know,” he says quietly. “But perhaps I sometimes think that means you should not have.”
“Don’t say that.”I look into his blue eyes and for a second I was lost in it's beauty.
He exhales. “I’m not trying to push you away. I just… I don’t want you to get hurt because of us.”
“I’m already in,” I tell him. “All the way.”
He stares at me for one more long moment. Then he leans down and kisses me — slow, precise, as though he’s memorizing the contour of my mouth. When he retreats his forehead collides with mine.
“I love you,” he says. Simple. Raw.
“I love you too.” I said.
We remain out there until the moon sinks lower and the air grows crisp. He never lets go of me pressed to his side that whole time, one arm snaking around my shoulders, that other hand still clutching mine. The phone remains face-down on the railing. It doesn’t buzz again.
When we return inside, he locks the balcony door behind us. I crawl into bed. He follows, drawing me close until my back is pressed to his chest.
“Try to sleep,” he whispers.
“You too.”
He kisses the nape of my neck. “I’ll try.”
But I sense him gazing at the ceiling well beyond the time my breathing evens out.
The phone stays silent…For now.