Chapter 75: Unspoken Truths

Audrey remained still, neither moving nor speaking, and he mirrored her silence. The air between them felt thick, charged with unspoken thoughts. They avoided looking at each other, each moment stretching until Audrey suddenly realized she had been holding her breath.

She inhaled deeply, taking in a lungful of air. When she glanced at him, she noticed the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Well rested?" His voice was both amused and knowing. "I have to say, I’m surprised—but not too surprised."

He was leaning casually against the counter, yet there was something about the way he stood that pulled at her attention. His presence was magnetic, and she couldn't shake the feeling that he belonged exactly in that pose, utterly effortless yet striking. She swallowed, trying to regain her composure, and let her gaze flick toward the stainless steel fridge.

Without a word, he followed her glance, retrieving a glass and filling it with ice and water before handing it to her.

Audrey hesitated before accepting it. As her fingers brushed against his, a small, unexpected jolt of warmth shot up her spine, startling her with its intensity. She took a sip of the cool water before finding the courage to speak.

"Why?" she asked, voice soft. "Should Guinevere have put me in her room instead?"

She kept her eyes trained downward, fixating on his bare feet resting against the tiled floor. He was only three feet away from her now—so close that she dared not lift her gaze, knowing it would send her heart racing.

His next words made her breath hitch, forcing her gaze upward until it landed somewhere along his torso.

"No," he murmured, his voice carrying a husky edge. "But I assumed you wouldn’t want my room."

Audrey closed her eyes briefly at the way his voice lingered between them, rich and deep, pulling her in like gravity. The memory of his scent wrapped around her in his bed, the peaceful comfort it had given her, floated to the surface.

"It was nice enough," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Opening her eyes again, she risked another glance at his face, catching the way his own gaze danced away from hers. And was that the faintest hint of color rising on his cheeks?

"I'm glad for that," he murmured.

Her heartbeat pounded erratically as she struggled to stay grounded. Her thoughts flickered to the moment from earlier, when he had been flustered about her love for coffee and pastries. The way his gaze had trailed over her form in his oversized T-shirt—it had been just long enough to make her breathless.

"Thank you for not crawling into bed with me," she blurted out, trying to steady herself.

"I wanted to," he admitted, his voice low.

Her stomach twisted at the confession, and her heartbeat stumbled. The thought of him lying beside her, close enough to feel his warmth, made something stir inside her that she wasn’t ready to face.

It wasn’t just the idea that he had considered it—it was the realization that part of her had wanted him to.

The notion of waking up in his arms, wrapped in his embrace, with nothing but his T-shirt separating their skin—it made her dizzy. Flushed, she lowered her gaze, trying to escape the overwhelming sensation washing over her.

"T-Thank you for not…" she stammered.

"You already said that," he reminded her, his lips curving into a slight smile.

"I mean it," she insisted, gathering herself. "You could have taken advantage of me, but you didn’t."

"I'm an old soul, as you well know," he said, looking briefly at the floor. "I have my honor—and yours—to protect, respect, and uphold."

His words settled over them, and for a moment, neither spoke. Then, clearing his throat, he asked, "Do you resent me now?"

Audrey blinked, caught off guard. Her eyes lifted to meet his intense gaze, but she had no answer. Her mind flickered back to the infirmary in Vincent’s palace—the moment he had feared her rejection.

"I can't afford for you to resent me now."

She pulled herself from her scattered thoughts, her face warm with uncertainty. Shaking her head, she finally replied, "No."

"If I may speak freely," he continued, exhaling softly, "I’m relieved. Yesterday, you were so upset that I was sure you’d reject me."

Her grip tightened on her glass as her thoughts swirled. How could she reject him now? She needed him—not just for protection, but for something she wasn’t ready to put into words.

Her voice came out small, nearly a whisper. "Why would I reject you?"

He stiffened slightly. Though she kept her gaze lowered, she noticed his hands curling into fists at his sides before he took a step back, deliberately putting space between them.

"You’re engaged," he said finally. "I haven’t been completely honest with you. I’ve been far from kind to you. I don’t deserve your affections. Yet…" His voice dropped to a near murmur. "I can’t stay away from you."

It all came down to one undeniable truth: soulmates.

The fear of losing her had taken hold of him, forcing him to keep his distance. His hesitation came not just from the fact that she was engaged to someone else, but from the danger surrounding her. The threat against her life. The reality of what he was. The fact that she was human.

Yet, despite all of that, he still craved her, just as she found herself longing for him. The moment on the terrace—their stolen kiss, had only confirmed it.

The room suddenly felt unbearably warm. Realizing she still held a glass of ice water, she took several gulps, willing herself to cool down.

"I… I was scared," she admitted, setting her glass down beside his phone on the table.

There was so much she didn’t want to say. She didn’t want to acknowledge her conflicting emotions about him being Guinevere’s father or an eight-hundred-year-old lycan—whatever that meant. She wasn’t even sure she understood it fully yet, and the thought of asking frightened her.

Most of all, she wasn’t ready to admit how much she still wanted him.

He promised to protect her. That was the last thing he had said to her yesterday, and she had no reason to doubt him. She had slept soundly, despite everything clawing at her thoughts.

"Understandable," he murmured. "We’re not exactly the soft, friendly wolves humans imagine when they think of werewolves."

A wave of dizziness hit her, and she gripped the edge of a chair for support. She still felt his gaze on her, even though he kept his distance.

Guinevere had told her lycans were faster and stronger than werewolves. But what did that mean? They didn’t turn into wolves, so what did they become?

Images flashed in her mind—snarling beasts from fantasy films she had never been able to stomach.

She bowed her head, focusing on her breathing, willing herself to push the thoughts away.

Who would have ever imagined vampires and werewolves were real?

Who would have ever thought her soulmate would turn out to be a supernatural?

At that moment, she didn’t want to think about it anymore.