“And what will happen after fifty?” she asks, deep worry etched between her brows.
I freeze because once again I don’t have an answer. All I know is that I can’t go back home.
“It’s okay,” Madame says softly. Her dark eyes narrow, looking at me like she can see the blank space in my head where my answer should be. She reaches out and places her hand on my arm. Her touch is gentle, reassuring in a way that feels more like pity than comfort. Like she’s sparing methe embarrassment of admitting I have no idea what I’m doing in life.
Before I can react, Madame steps forward and pulls me into a quick hug—light, careful, the way you’d touch something fragile.
I tense instantly, shoulders locked, breath trapped somewhere too tight in my chest.
But after a beat, I force myself to loosen a little, letting her hold me for a heartbeat longer than I want.
Then she releases me.
Gives me a small, hopeful smile.
And turns toward the door, murmuring something I can’t quite catch.
The soft whisper of her ballet slippers brushes against the floor, carrying her down the hall until the sound fades entirely.
When she’s gone, the quiet folds around me again.
Her words hang in the air, buzzing in my ears like a lingering sting.
Maybe she’s right—maybe I will regret it.
But not today.
Right now, I want to exist for two fucking seconds without someone telling me what to do or say—or worse, trying to touch me. It never stops. Not here. Not back home. No matter where I go, there’s always someone who thinks my body is an invitation.
Nowhere is safe.
In Bed
Cassian
“Fuck!”The word rips out of me as Dr. Pace presses against my knee, sharp pain flashing white behind my eyes. I’m already sweating through the sheets, damp and sticky.
From somewhere near the foot of the bed, Warren’s flat tone cuts through the tension. “It probably wouldn’t hurt so much if you stopped overdoing it.”
I lift my head to shoot him a glare, but the motion makes the room tilt like I’m on a rough wave.
Warren stands next to the doctor with his arms crossed across his lean chest, dark blond hair swept to one side, and sharp blue eyes zeroed in on mine.
“Glare all you want, alpha,” he says, calm as ever. “But you know I’m right.” His dress shirt is crisp, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the picture of control. And for some reason, that steady, unshakable calm pisses me off even more.
“Are you done yet?” I say to the doctor much harsher than I intend.
The older beta ducks his head, intimidated by my tone, but to his credit, his voice is steady. “Almost, Mr. Vexler,” he says, then he presses his cold fingers against my skin one more time.
This time I’m ready for it. I grit my teeth as he feels along the joint of my knee, fingers prodding deep into the fresh scar tissue. Pain sparks behind my eyes, hot and bright. I swallow hard as nausea rolls up, sudden and ugly.
“It’s so swollen,” Grason murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.
He’s planted at the foot of the bed like a wall—six foot seven and built for violence, whether he wants to be or not. His tattooed forearms are crossed, thin T-shirt stretched tight across his chest. His black hair is shaved close on the sides, with dark curls left longer on top. They’re glossy with gel, shoved back like he tried to tame them and gave up halfway through. And then there are his soft hazel eyes. They look too gentle for the rest of him.
“Did he tear the internal stitches again?” Grason asks.
Dr. Pace shakes his head, still staring at my knee. “No, those dissolved weeks ago.” He squints at the bruised skin, the wrinkles around his eyes pulling deep as he studies it. It’s hard to tell how old he is. Betas age like shit compared to alphas and omegas.
