Alex's laugh is short and mean. "You think that makes you special?"
"No. I think it makes me decent."
The pressure ratchets up another notch. My name is a live wire beneath my skin. I want to crawl out of the room. Instead I'm paralyzed, and every person in this gym is witness to the fact that I have no say in my own life.
Alex's next step is a challenge; Chase's stance goes rigid.
Something inside me snaps.
"Stop," I say, too loud for the room. My voice comes out clean and sharp.
Alex exhales hard when his gaze snaps to mine, the anger draining all at once. "I'm sorry. We're leaving."
Chase looks at me, brows knit. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I lie. "I'll see you next time."
I follow Alex out to the car, confused about what just happened.
The ride home is silent.
Alex's hands grip the steering wheel too tightly. After a few minutes, he sighs.
"I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."
I don't answer.
"I don't know why I reacted like that. It wasn't intentional. I should have better control. And it wasn't my place."
I stare out the window.
I belong to another pack. Alex and his pack are just friends. They know I belong to a pack, even if I'm not bonded.
So why did it feel like something else entirely?
The silence stretches between us, thick and unresolved, and I can't find the words to bridge it.
Chapter 27
I end up in Ragon's study because Arden says I need to.
He'd phrased it carefully, like everything else.Proximity without demand. Shared space. No expectation of interaction. A controlled environment. Observational.
Which is how I find myself sprawled across the leather couch like I very much do not belong to a controlled environment.
I'm stretched out on my back, ankles crossed over the armrest, a book propped loosely against my stomach. A small plate of snacks balances precariously on my middle—chips, mostly. The leather beneath me is cool and smooth, creaking faintly every time I shift.
Ragon sits at his desk across the room, back straight, shoulders squared, posture carved out of discipline and habit. Papers are stacked in precise piles. His pen moves steadily across the page.
It's too quiet.
So I crunch down on a chip.
Loudly.
The sound snaps through the space, sharp and deliberate. I don't look up, but I feel the way his pen pauses for half a second before resuming.
I turn a page in my book with an exaggerated flick. A minute later, I sigh—long and theatrical—then shift again, the couch creaking.
