Chapter 30 He looks like one of them
Celine’s POV
“If things ever became normal again,” Tristan murmured. “If it wasn’t like this… if…”
His words blurred after that—half sentences, unfinished thoughts. The only thing I caught was that he cared.
Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. But even if he did, caring didn’t make the air around him any less heavy. It didn’t make me feel safe.
Somewhere in his rambling, he’d mentioned pups—his voice tightening around the word like it meant something sacred. He spoke of them the same way he spoke of everything else: with that same tired hope that things could be normal.
But what did normal even mean to someone like him?
His belief in us—this “connection” he claimed bound us—it was still his belief, not mine.
We had shared a bed, yes. But that wasn’t acceptance. That wasn’t surrender. That wasn’t fate.
If he truly wanted things to become normal, then why not start by acting like the Alpha he was?
“Believe me,” he said, his fingers grazing my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my lips like a secret he wasn’t supposed to touch. “I’ve wanted you long before all this madness began.”
The words should’ve sounded tender. They didn’t.
His touch trembled—not with love, but with something far more desperate. A hunger that had no mercy, no pause.
My breath hitched. I told myself to stay calm, to breathe like nothing inside me was breaking. But my pulse gave me away. It always did around him.
“You should leave,” I managed, though my voice betrayed me—too soft, too uncertain.
He didn’t move.
His gaze fell to my lips, heavy and deliberate, like a predator studying where to bite.
“Celine,” he breathed, tasting my name like it was part confession, part sin. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Then leave,” I said again, this time sharper.
But instead of retreating, he smiled—a slow, dangerous smile that never reached his eyes.
Why was he pretending? Acting as if he didn’t understand? Acting like he didn’t know he should have left the moment I asked?
“Tristan, please leave… I…”
He wasn’t smiling, but the look on his face—cold, hollow—felt worse than anger. It was the kind of silence that bruised the air.
For one fragile heartbeat, I wanted to reach out… to touch his cheek and whisper that I didn’t hate him, that I just needed space to breathe. But even that felt dangerous.
He was still an Alpha. And I was still someone who had no right to tell him where he could stand.
“I should…” His voice cracked slightly, something uncertain beneath the authority. “You want me to leave?”
“Yes.”
He nodded once. But his body didn’t listen. He just stood there, motionless, like the word hadn’t registered.
Then, slowly, he turned toward the door. Two steps forward. One pause.
He looked back at me again—eyes shadowed, voice low. “Should I leave?”
Please do.
“Yes,” I whispered, the word trembling out of me like a prayer.
He nodded again, but each step he took was heavy… reluctant, almost wounded.
I thought of saying sorry, but the word caught in my throat. If he truly cared, he’d understand it without me saying it.
“Tristan,” I called, the word leaving my lips before I could stop it.
He halted mid-step, shoulders tense, and slowly turned to face me. The shadows caught the sharpness of his jaw, and for a heartbeat, I almost wished I hadn’t spoken.
My throat felt dry. “Were you…” I hesitated, tasting the fear on my tongue. “Were you one of those rogue wolves?”
His brows knit together, confusion flashing across his face. “Rogue wolves?”
“Yes.”
The word came out small, but it carried all the weight of the memory I’d tried to bury. I couldn’t explain it—not without breaking apart—but there was something in his eyes, in his darkness, that felt too familiar.
If he had any connection to them… he would know exactly what I meant.
“Your eyes are wet,” he said quietly, his voice barely a whisper.
I blinked fast, but the tears still clung to my lashes. I dragged a shaky palm across my face, smearing the wetness away. “It’s nothing.”
“Are you sure?” He took a step forward, his presence closing in like mist.
For a moment, I thought he’d finally turn and leave. My heart almost believed it.
“Yes,” I forced out.
His gaze sharpened. “Those wolves you mentioned—who are they?”
My stomach dropped. I tried to read his face, but it was unreadable, carved from the same calm darkness that terrified me most.
“It’s nothing,” I said again, my voice smaller this time.
“Okay, but—”
“It’s nothing!” I snapped, cutting him off before he could press further.
His eyes softened, almost hurt. “But you asked.”
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched between us. I could almost hear my heartbeat echoing in it.
He still didn’t leave. And I cursed myself for calling him back—for ever asking about the rogue wolves in the first place.
“You’ve had an encounter with rogue wolves before, haven’t you?”
My breath caught. “No,” I said quickly. “Please, just leave.”
He didn’t move. His voice softened, but his words felt like claws digging into old wounds. “Yes, you did… you just don’t want to talk about it.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and I flinched back instinctively.
“And it wasn’t a good experience, was it?”
“Tristan,” I whispered, my fingers tightening around the blanket until my knuckles ached.
He leaned forward slightly, tone low and coaxing. “Celine… I could help you.”
Something in me snapped. “Please leave!”
The words tore from my throat, louder than I meant.
The next moment, regret stabbed through me. The echo of my voice still hung in the air—too sharp, too loud, like a weapon I hadn’t meant to use.
What if he took it as defiance? As an insult? My pulse thudded painfully in my ears. I was still at his mercy, and mercy was not something Alphas were known for.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, but the words came too late, swallowed by the heavy silence between us.
Tristan rose slowly, his movements eerily calm like a shadow deciding where to fall. He turned to leave, and in that quiet moment, the weight in his eyes said more than anger ever could. It was disappointment—dark, wounded, and heavy enough to crush me.
Please don’t change your mind. Please don’t hurt me. I didn’t mean it.
He reached the door, paused just long enough for me to feel the air shift… then shut it behind him with a soft, final click that sounded louder than a slam.
The door burst open before the echo of his departure faded. Lila rushed in, panic etched into every line of her face.
“Celine!” she cried, dropping beside me. Her trembling hands gripped mine as though to make sure I was real. “Did he—did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine,” I whispered, but the words cracked, hollow.
The tears I’d been holding back finally broke free, spilling hot down my cheeks. My chest shuddered with each uneven breath until I could no longer hold myself upright. I fell against her, and she caught me without hesitation, wrapping her arms around me like a lifeline.
The tears came harder, soaking her shirt—warm at first, then relentless, each one tearing a little more of the weight from my heart.
“He harmed you,” Lila said, her voice trembling even though there wasn’t a single bruise on me for her to see.
“No,” I managed between shaky breaths. “He didn’t.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, guilt tightening her features. “I should’ve stayed. I should never have left you alone with him.”
“Lila, he didn’t touch me,” I said, forcing the words out, steady this time.
Her eyes searched mine, unconvinced. “Maybe not his hands,” she murmured, “but he did something, didn’t he? Something inside you. And that can be worse than any wound.”
I hesitated. For a moment, I thought she was talking about the Scarlet Ascension.
“He didn’t touch me,” I repeated, more to convince myself than her. “That’s how it is.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” I raised my face off her shirt, but her hand still patted my back.
“Then what’s it?”
“Those groups of rogue wolves…” I began, but my voice trailed off.
The words themselves tasted like ash.
Lila leaned forward, her brows knitting. “Yes… what about them? You never told me what they did to you.”
I swallowed hard. Talking about them felt like reopening a wound that had only scabbed over—not healed. But Tristan’s presence, his darkness… it was too familiar. The same chill that used to crawl beneath my skin when they surrounded me. The same way the air seemed to thicken before pain.
Maybe that was why I wanted to speak. Maybe that was why I couldn’t.
Should I really dig it all up again? Or just keep it buried where it can’t bleed anymore?
“Celine, talk to me,” Lila pleaded, her hand tightening slightly on my arm.
“I can’t,” I whispered, shaking my head. “Not yet. It’s… it’s too hard.” The words scraped out of me, brittle and small.
She hesitated, her eyes full of helplessness. “Then don’t force it,” she murmured. “But at least tell me one thing—why bring them up now, after all this time?”
I drew in a shaky breath, forcing my eyes to meet hers. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier as if the memory
itself had followed me here.
My throat tightened, and the confession slipped out before I could stop it.
“Because…” I swallowed, voice breaking, “Tristan’s face looks like one of them.”