Ragon turns on me.
He doesn't yell.
That might be worse.
"What did I tell you about wandering off? Did you not smell him coming?"
"I—"
"Did you not smell the threat?"
"I didn't— he wasn't—"
"Show me your hand."
My throatcloses.
Slowly, I lift the hand clutching the card.
His eyes narrow.
He plucks it from my fingers before I can react.
He glances at the print—name, number, promise—and his lip curls.
He tears it neatly in half.
Then in half again.
The pieces flutter into the nearest trash can like white confetti.
Heat rushes to my face—shame, anger, loss, all twisted together.
It was just cardboard.
It felt like proof.
"Hey. That was mine."
"You don't need it. You don't need him."
He steps closer, and his hand comes up, fingers tangling gently but firmly in the hair at the back of my neck.
Not quite a grab.
Not gentle enough to be comfort.
A hold.
He growls, low and long.
My omega stills under it, instinctively obedient.
"You are not unclaimed. You are mine. Ours. Don't you ever stand there and let another alpha appraise you like something on a shelf again."
"I didn't— I wasn't—"
"You stood there. While he moved your hair. While he inspected what isnot his. You took his card. Were youplanning to call?"
