Chapter 64
Ellie's POV
I turned to stare out the window. California landscape blurred past—dry hills, scattered oaks, endless sky.
"It's fine," I lied.
"It's not fine." He shifted closer, not quite touching. "After today—after this ceremony—I'll tell you everything. No more waiting. No more perfect timing. Just... honesty."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that this elaborate setup was necessary rather than another delay tactic. But I was so tired of hoping.
"Okay," I said simply.
"Okay?"
"I'll wait until after the ceremony." I finally looked at him. "But Jackson? This is the last time. If you deflect again, if you dodge or change the subject or disappear into an emergency phone call—I'm done. Done trying to have this conversation. Done trying to figure out what's happening between us. Done."
His eyes widened slightly, amber catching the morning light. For a moment, I thought I saw them flash brighter—gold-bright—but it was gone before I could be sure.
"I understand," he said quietly. "And I promise. No more deflecting."
I nodded once and turned back to the window.
The one-hour drive passed in silence. I dozed fitfully, pretending sleep so I wouldn't have to make conversation. Jackson kept glancing at the sky, tracking the sun's position with an instinct I recognized too well.
He does it too, I thought. The constant awareness of celestial timing. The monitoring of internal pressure. The careful control.
Or maybe I was projecting. Maybe I'd imagined everything, and I was about to humiliate myself by confronting him about something that existed only in my desperate, lonely mind.
When we finally pulled off the highway onto a private access road, I saw the construction site ahead. Orange safety fencing marked the perimeter of what would become—according to the massive billboard—"Martinez Community Wellness Center: A Future of Health and Hope."
But one section had been transformed. White tents rose against the California sky, hundreds of chairs arranged in neat rows, a temporary stage with professional lighting. The contrast was jarring—elegant ceremony setup surrounded by bulldozers and excavators, formal event space carved out of raw earth and future foundations.
"What is this place?" My voice came out smaller than intended.
"Martinez family project." Jackson's jaw was tight. "Today's the groundbreaking ceremony. They wanted a performance to open it—something about art and community, investing in culture alongside infrastructure." He gestured toward the elaborate setup. "They take these events seriously."
I took in the scale of it—the construction equipment bearing the Martinez name, the architects and city officials mingling near the tent entrance, the sheer ambition of building an entire wellness center from nothing.
"And they hired us for this?"
"They hired the Dance Society," Jackson corrected quietly. "I volunteered us specifically."
I studied his profile—the tension in his shoulders, the controlled breathing, the way his hands gripped his knees.
"And your connection to them?"
He turned to meet my eyes. "After the ceremony. Everything. I promise."
The car stopped at a side entrance. Jackson helped me out, and for a moment his hand lingered on mine.
"Whatever you're thinking right now," he said softly, "whatever fears or doubts are running through your head—I know I earned them this week. But please. Give me two more hours. Then I'll answer every question you have."
I looked at him—this beautiful, complicated man who'd somehow become important to me despite every wall I'd tried to build. "Two hours."
"Two hours," he agreed, and led me inside.
The staging area was chaos. White tents, hundreds of chairs, a professional setup that screamed money and power. A young woman waited in the prep room, mid-twenties, with waves of dark brown hair and eyes that caught the light wrong.
She turned when we entered, and my entire body went rigid.
Werewolf.
Not maybe. Not possibly. Definitely. The recognition slammed into me like a physical blow—stronger than Lucas, more controlled than me, radiating a power that came from years of mastery.
"Jackson!" She crossed the room with liquid grace, embracing him familiarly. British accent, expensive perfume, easy confidence. "Finally. I was beginning to worry you'd chickened out."
Jackson returned the hug, and I watched his shoulders drop—watched him relax in her presence in a way he never did with me.
"Would I do that?"
"Yes, actually. You've bailed twice this year." But her tone was affectionate.
They clearly knew each other well. Very well. And from the way she'd said it—from the casual intimacy—this wasn't a new friendship.
Something twisted in my chest, sharp and ugly.
Jackson gestured to me. "This is Ellie Green, my dance partner. Ellie, this is Isabelle Martinez."
I forced myself to shake her offered hand. Felt the unmistakable warmth, the controlled strength, the absolute certainty that she was like us.
My eyes snapped to Jackson's face, probably looking wild.
He caught my expression, and I watched panic flash across his features. "Ellie—"
"Where can I change?" The words came out flat, professional.
Isabelle's sharp gaze moved between us, reading the tension with uncomfortable accuracy. "Through that door, second room on the left." She touched Jackson's arm briefly—another casual intimacy. "Don't wait too long. These things just get harder."
I grabbed my garment bag and fled.
In the changing room, I pressed my back against the door and fought to breathe normally.
She's a werewolf. She knows Jackson. They're close—maybe more than close. And he never mentioned her. Never mentioned any of this.
Of course he hadn't. Why would he? I wasn't his girlfriend. I was just his dance partner. Someone he worked with. Someone who'd gotten inappropriately curious about his personal life.
You have no right to be upset, I told myself firmly. You have no claim on him.
But Thalia was snarling inside me, territorial and hurt and furious at the sight of another female wolf being so comfortable with what was ours—
Except he wasn't ours. Had never been ours.