Chapter Eighty-Three: Carol's POV

Chapter Eighty-Three: Carol's POV
Just for a second.
Confusion flashed across his face, or maybe surprise. His brow furrowed slightly, his mouth opened as if he was about to say something.
"It was nothing," he said. "Just a moment of weakness. An impulse I should have controlled. That's all."
Those words should have shattered me completely. But in that instant, I suddenly realized something.
That barely perceptible hesitation before he answered.
And something more important—his entire demeanor had been off from the moment I got in the car.
Simon would never say these things to me. Not like this.
He wouldn't speak so hurtfully, not sentence by sentence, deliberately designed to crush me.
Simon could be harsh, could be demanding, could be stubborn to the point of maddening.
But even at his angriest, even if I'd caused serious trouble and put the entire pack in danger, he would never deliberately hurt me.
He would punish me, make me run laps, do extra training, or confine me to the manor.
But he would never attack me as a person, never tell me I'd be better off dead.
And his eyes. Oh god, his eyes.
I forced myself to truly look at him, not through the haze of tears and pain.
Simon was watching me with that cold assessment, waiting to see if his words had completely broken me.
But there was something missing in those golden eyes.
Something that shouldn't be absent, even when he was angry with me.
Warmth.
In that moment, I suddenly realized I was talking to something wearing Simon's skin.
Even when Simon was angry, even when I'd done something incredibly stupid and put myself or others in danger, beneath his anger there was always a thread of warmth.
That burning thing that said he cared.
He was angry because he cared, because he couldn't accept me getting hurt.
That warmth was like his scent or his Alpha aura, part of his instinct, at the core of his protectiveness, always there in every look he gave me.
But the eyes looking at me now had none of that warmth. They were cold, not looking at a person, looking at a nuisance.
These weren't Simon's eyes.
My heart pounded in my chest. If this wasn't Simon, then who was this person—
His face began to change.
It wasn't the slow transformation I'd seen in old movies.
The bones didn't creak, the flesh didn't writhe inch by inch. It was more like an illusion being withdrawn, revealing what had been hidden underneath all along.
The sharp line of Simon's jaw softened slightly.
His nose was no longer so angular, his cheekbones shifted, protruding slightly outward.
His hair faded from dark brown to a lighter brown-grey.
And those golden eyes that belonged to Simon—were fading.
They grew dim, then turned to a pale, almost whitish yellow-green.
I recognized those eyes. I'd seen them across the Council chambers just days ago.
Elder Grey.
Just days ago, he'd been challenging Simon's authority in front of everyone, driven from the pack like a beaten dog after losing.
But now he sat in the driver's seat, wearing Simon's face like a stolen coat.
My hand moved, faster than my brain. I reached for the door handle, my fingers slipping on the cool chrome surface, panic flooding through me like a bursting dam.
The lock clicked open. That soft sound hurt my eardrums in the sudden silence. I shoved against it with my shoulder.
The evening wind rushed in, and I almost fell out.
Before my feet were steady on the gravel ground, Grey's hand had already locked onto my wrist. His grip was iron-tight, nothing like Simon's careful touch.
He yanked me back, and I crashed into the door frame, my shoulder hitting painfully. I bit down on my teeth, didn't let myself cry out.
"Very clever, Carol," he said. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever figure it out. Simon always said you were smart, but I had my doubts."
His words were full of mockery, as if he was enjoying the moment of revealing the deception.
My other hand instinctively lifted, fingers curling into a fist, and I swung at his face with all my strength. My fist hit his cheekbone, the impact sending sharp pain through my knuckles.
Grey's head snapped to the side with a grunt, blood blooming at the corner of his mouth, and for that instant his grip loosened, surprise flickering across his face.
I seized that moment, wrenched myself free, stumbling backward until my heels hit the gravel ground outside the parking area.
Grey slowly turned his head, spat a mouthful of blood onto the leather seat, that splash of red obscenely vivid against the black interior, as if reminding me in this way—everything that just happened was real.
The man who had told me in Simon's voice that I should die was now climbing out of the car, movements unhurried, yet carrying that predatory pressure unique to hunters.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, crimson smearing across his skin.
When he looked at me again, there was something wild in his eyes, his wolf pushing out, not the human part.
"That was stupid." His tone was very calm, as if the punch I'd just landed on his face wasn't worth mentioning.
He stepped toward me, then another step, making me instinctively feel danger.
"You think a human girl can fight a wolf? Even if Marcus and Jack trained you, you're still just flesh and bone, Carol. Soft. Breakable."
I backed away, my feet slipping on the gravel, trying to create distance.
But Grey's legs were long, he caught up in one stride. Behind me the waves crashed violently against the rocks, and I realized—he'd driven me to the cliff edge. Just the fall alone would be deadly enough.
"Want to know something interesting?" Grey continued, still advancing step by step. "Simon won't even notice you're gone, and when he remembers it'll be too late. He's on the East Coast now, probably stuck in Andreas family politics, and by the time someone finds your body, the tide will have washed you to Alaska."
But these words didn't break me.
Because it was Grey saying them, not Simon. The grief pressing on my chest turned to anger.
My hand dropped down, reaching for the silver blade in my boot.
Grey saw that movement. The corner of his mouth pulled into a smile full of teeth.
"Come on," he spread his arms, striking a false welcoming pose.
"Let me see what your little knife can do against a full-grown wolf. At least I can tell the pack you died fighting, much more dignified than throwing yourself off a cliff in despair."
I didn't speak. Didn't argue, didn't plead, didn't waste any strength.
Just as his weight shifted forward, preparing to lunge, I moved.
My knee hit hard and precise between his legs, that kind of pain even werewolf healing couldn't immediately withstand. He doubled over with a choked gasp.
I dodged to the side, rushing past him. Toward a direction away from the cliff, running desperately.
Just as I broke away, his hand shot out like lightning and grabbed my ankle. The ground rushed up to meet me, I went down face-first hard on the gravel, the rough stones embedding into my palms, tearing the skin.
Before I could push myself up, he was already on top of me.
His breathing was heavy and hot on the back of my neck, carrying the metallic smell of blood I'd drawn from his mouth.
"You're going to regret that," he growled.
His hand grabbed my hair, yanking my head violently backward.
Pain shot up my spine like electricity.
Tears burst out immediately, but I bit my lip, didn't let myself cry out. I wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
He dragged me backward, pulling me toward the cliff edge. My feet kicked wildly, gravel crunching under my knees, kicked loose by my feet, rolling into the air below.
Below there was nothing. Just rocks and cold seawater.