Chapter 32 Learned to hide it
Zara’s POV
He stirred awake as if his eyelids were sealed shut by something heavier than sleep. Something that didn’t want to let him go.
A slow blink, a soft breath, and then his fingers brushed across his eyes, clearing the fog. He didn’t even notice his head was resting against my chest until I spoke.
“You slept hard,” I murmured, my voice low, almost fond.
He lifted his gaze briefly, saw where he was, and still didn’t move. His head remained on my breasts. I didn’t mind. Maybe because part of me feared the moment he lifted it, the distance between us would return.
“How long have I slept?” he asked, adjusting his head to rest perfectly between my breasts like he used to before he took a break from it.
“Hours.” I brushed my fingers through his hair until they grazed his scalp. “Hours that nearly scared me.”
“Really?” He sounded amused.
He seemed relaxed. I wanted to believe it was my scent—soft and familiar, sliding into his senses like butter melting into warmth, calming him in ways only I could.
I always prided myself on that.
His hand touched my belly, and I held my breath, hoping he would move higher—grab my breasts, maybe take my nipple into his mouth. Not because I produced milk, but because we both loved the sensation. It was his way of returning the favor, of easing the tension in his mind.
“Tristan?” I whispered, a subtle reminder.
And he did.
His hand slipped my left breast free from my dress, his tongue tracing it, his teeth grazing softly. I shut my eyes, sinking into the depth of the sensation. It told me everything would fall in place—that Celine could never tear us apart.
He stopped, sat up, and looked around the room.
“Are you… okay?” I asked.
“Yes.” His voice was low.
“Is something bothering you? You can tell me.”
“Nothing.”
I’d read him wrong. He wasn’t relaxed at all. His face said otherwise—and his silence only deepened my worry. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d acted this way toward me.
“You’re sure you don’t want to tell me?”
He shrugged in that obvious way that said his thoughts were far from mine. “Nothing to tell.”
“Is it about Celine?”
His jaw tightened. He didn’t answer, but that alone was enough.
He sighed. I took that as my cue to change the topic.
“You slept for too long—skipped breakfast, lunch, and now it’s getting late.” I forced a smile.
“I’ll eat here.”
“O… okay.”
I stepped out of the room to bring the food myself. I wondered why he’d chosen this room today of all days—and why he was in such a strange mood.
I returned with a tray carrying soft meat, bread, and soup.
“Food’s ready,” I said with a bright smile.
He just nodded as I set it on the table. He didn’t look hungry but began eating anyway—perhaps out of habit rather than appetite.
I stayed close, making sure my cleavage was visible, hoping to catch his attention.
“Tristan…”
He finally looked at me.
I didn’t know how to start.
“It’s not just about what’s bothering you,” I began. “You feel different today.”
He didn’t speak, only paused to listen. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up, but I cared too much to stay quiet.
“You know what I mean?”
“Know what?”
“The way you’ve been acting… everything about you.”
He frowned slightly. “And what is ‘everything about me’?”
The bottles of beer—and the empty ones—were still beside the bed. Broken glass littered the floor. It was all proof he hadn’t been himself.
“You drank too much,” I said.
“I drink when I want to. It’s nobody’s business.”
“I know, but it was too much.”
He cracked his knuckles, pushed the table slightly away, and lay back on the bed.
“It’s been a long time since you drank that heavily,” I continued. “And it is my business.”
“Your business?” He rolled his eyes darkly.
“Yes.”
I half-expected him to remind me I wasn’t his mate—to throw that dagger again—but he didn’t. He hadn’t mentioned her.
“I saw what you started with the maid,” I said.
He grunted. “You saw that?”
“You know I did. You started to… harass her. That’s not like you.”
“Hmm…”
He sounded annoyed.
“Tristan, I might understand that—”
The large doors swung open, cutting me off. Tristan rose to his feet instantly.
Standing there was Jude.
“Alpha Tristan,” he said. “You have to come with me.”
Tristan met him at the door, frowning.
“What for?”
“You’re needed,” Jude said. “At the council hall.”
Without another word, Tristan left.
I stood outside the council hall, pressing my ear to the door, but couldn’t make out a single word. Then I spotted a small hole beside the knob and tried to peek through.
Blood.
It soaked the floor in thick, dark pools, threading toward the cracks in the stone. A boy sat chained to a chair, trembling—his back a map of open wounds and fresh bruises. His head was bowed, but I could hear the weak rasp of his breath, each one a plea for mercy that never reached its answer.
And then I saw him. Tristan. Standing too close. Knife in hand.
The blade gleamed once under the dim torchlight before his eyes lifted straight to the hole where I was peering.
Our gazes met. The world stopped.
Those eyes weren’t Tristan’s. They were the same red, feral ones I’d seen the night he almost killed a man years ago. Bloodshot. Broken. Hungry.
A shiver crawled up my spine. He hadn’t escaped his darkness after all.
He’d only learned to hide it.