We stay there in silence. His hands holding mine. Both of us breathing too hard. His body between my thighs, close enough that I can feel his heat, smell the change in his scent. I notice everything. The way his chest rises and falls. The pulse pounding in his throat. The gold still flickering in his eyes.
The evidence of how much he’s struggling to hold on.
He releases me abruptly and steps back, putting distance between us as if he can’t trust himself to stay close.
“Go back to your desk.” He won’t look at me. “I’ll handle HR.”
“I can—”
“Go, Violet.”
The dismissal stings more than it should.
I slide off the table and head for the door. My hands still tingle where he touched them, even through the bandages.
I pause in the doorway and glance at him one more time.
He’s standing with his back to me, his head bowed, his hands braced on the table. Fingers gripping the edge so hard, I’m surprised the wood doesn’t splinter.
I should say something. Thank you, maybe. Or ask if he’s okay.
But the words won’t come.
So, I leave.
Back at my desk, I try to focus on work. But all I can think about is the way Darius’s hands shook as he tended to mine. The way he couldn’t seem to stop touching me, even when he was clearly trying to maintain control.
And the way he smelled. It became different. Like he changed something fundamental abouthimself. For me.
My watch beeps: MEDICATION TIME. I dig the bottle out of my bag and swallow the pills dry. The familiar wave of sickness washes over me, but I barely register it this time.
When I look up, Darius is back in his office. Standing at his glass wall. His jaw is hard, but there’s a tension in his eyes when he looks away from me.
Chapter Eight
Darius
Two weeks.
I’ve managed to keep my distance for two whole weeks. The longest fourteen days of my life.
Every morning, I arrive before dawn, before she gets in. Every evening, I stay until she leaves, watching from my office as she packs up her things and heads out alone. I track her movements through the glass wall like a stalker, unable to help myself.
The routine is killing me.
But it’s necessary. After the incident with Marcus, after the way my control shattered so completely, I know I need space. I need to rebuild the walls I spent six years constructing.
It’s not working.
My wolf is a constant presence now, pacing beneath my skin. Demanding. Restless. He doesn’t understand why we’re denying ourselves. Why we’re sitting in this office when our mate is right there.
I grip my pen hard enough that it creaks.
Through the glass, I watch Violet at her desk. She is bent over a report, her hair falling forward to hide her face. The bandages aregone from her hands now; the small crescents have healed like she said they would.
But I can still see them when I close my eyes. Still feel my fingers shaking as I cleaned them.
A burst of laughter pulls my attention.
