And she’ll probably never know I was here. But that’s okay. Because taking care of her is enough.
For now, it has to be enough.
I start the car and drive home, the taste of her still lingering on my tongue, the feeling of her nestled against me still warming my chest.
And for the first time in six years, I really let myself smile.
The weekafter the party becomes an exercise in restraint.
I watch Violet through my glass wall as she arrives early at the office every morning. I watch her leave late, after I’ve already gone to my car only to circle back and park where I can see her drive away safely. I watch her have lunch at her desk or disappear to different cafes, blocks away, always checking over her shoulder like she’s running from something.
From someone.
From me.
When we pass in hallways, she keeps her eyes forward, her expression always neutral. Like I’m just another colleague. Like my mouth wasn’t on hers just a few days ago. Like she didn’t tear at my clothes with desperate hands that left marks on my skin I still haven’t let heal.
The beast inside me is miserable. Constantly agitated, demanding I go to her. Demanding I fix what I broke.
But I can’t. Because fixing it would mean explaining things I’m not ready to explain. Things she’s not ready to hear.
So, I watch her from my office, my hands clenched on my desk, fighting the urge to cross the floor and corner her. To make her look at me. To make her acknowledge what happened between us.
Every time she walks past my office, pressure builds in my chest. Every time I catch her scent in the hallway, my hands shake. Every time I see another male talk to her, smile at her, exist near her, rage builds behind my sternum to the point that I have to force myself to breathe through it.
This is torture.
It’s worse than the six years she was gone. At leastthen, I could pretend distance made it easier. Could lie to myself that not seeing her every day helped.
But now, she’s here. Right here. Close enough to touch, yet further away than ever.
She hasn’t confronted me about what happened at the penthouse. Hasn’t demanded explanations for the furniture discounts or the way I orchestrated everything. Hasn’t mentioned that I was in her apartment while she slept, cleaning and cooking and taking care of her.
I expected anger. Expected her to storm into my office and throw it all in my face.
But she does nothing. Just avoids me like I’m contagious. Like the memory of that kiss tortures her as much as it does me.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ethan: Stop glaring at Julian. He’s just asking her about a file.
I force my eyes away from where Julian is leaning against Violet’s desk, a friendly smile on his face that makes rage surge through me.
Another text: You’re going to give yourself away if you keep this up.
I don’t respond. Just turn back to my computer and try to focus on work.
Try and fail.
On Friday,HR sends out an email about tomorrow’s mandatory inter-pack combat training event.
I read it three times, dread building in my chest.
Combat training. Hand-to-hand drills. Sparring exercises with both Moonvale and Ravenhood wolves.
Violet will be there. Has to be there. It’s required for everyone in the division.
And she can’t shift. Can’t defend herself properly if someone gets too rough. Can’t tap into wolf strength if things go sideways.
Heat crawls up my spine at the thought. I pull up Ethan’s contact and call him, tapping my pen nervously against my desk.
