And somehow—this was the worst part—he had more followers than me. I wasn’t saying I was bitter, I was just saying…I was notnotbitter.
Anyway, back to the heart of the matter. It had been two days since I’d found out who my mate was, and despite my better judgment, I folded like a cheap scalpel. I opened Instagram.
Specifically—his profile.
The official account belonging to my mate. 1.2 million followers. At least 80% women. Yes, I checked.
And the comments?
Some of them were explicit enough to be classified asbiological threats.
My gut boiled. My wolf howled. I muttered curses that would make my grandpa proud and our pack nun faint.
Still, I had to admit—seeing his pictures did something medically concerning to my uterus.
The good thing was that he didn’t seem active. In fact, it looked like someone else was running it for him.
There were so many posts, all of them related to wereball. My mate chatting to fans, hands gesturing in front of him, hair slicked back. My mate in midair, frozen in a throw that made my jaw fall. My mate grinning, a trophy in one hand, a towel around his neck. I’d zoomed so far in on one of his smirks that I could see the micro muscles in his face.
“Does Instagram notify someone if you take a screenshot?”I asked over the mind-link.
“No. Why?”Tiziano’s voice came back, suspicious.
“Social experiment.”
More like a stalking experiment. I screenshotted a handful of his photos and saved them underNight Watch. To look at before I went to bed.
My neuroanatomy book sat catching dust on my nightstand, silently judging me, while I conducted a case study on my mate’s cheekbones.
Another fact about social media: When you go looking for things you shouldn’t…you’ll find them.
My fingers moved without my permission. I didn’twantto snoop. Well, Idid, but I told myself I didn’t.
I typed in a few names. Scrolled. Kept going.
Then I saw it.
A post from one of his teammates.
My mate was laughing with some tall, very muscular brunette. Her hair short and curled, her legs endless, with different tattoos down them like the map of Germany—which begged the question, why?
Both of them were wearing wereball gear, already sweaty from training. He was ushering her into what looked like a dorm, his hand on her ass.
It was posted a day ago.
My heart dropped like an elevator with a snapped cable.
Fear crept in. Whispered in my ear how I’d never compare. Reminded me he had a whole separate place to take his flings.
It ordered me to reject him before he could reject me. That I wouldn’t be enough to keep a wolf like Logan interested.
Fear was a funny thing. It pretended it was there to protect you, holding up a big neonDANGERsign to steer you away from pain.
In reality? It trapped you. Weighed you down. Kept you stuck while life, and possibly love, passed you by.
Fear was one step from the edge of a ravine—and as someone who studied trauma fractures and spinal cord damage, I knew what was waiting at the bottom. A human frittata, all 206 bones shattered.
The hollow ache in my chest returned, this time doubled in intensity. I turned off my phone, like that could erase the image burned into my brain.
