I wake up alone in a bed that smells like sex and regret.
For a long moment, I just lie there staring at the ceiling and taking in the evidence of last night. The sheets are tangled around my legs. My muscles ache in places I forgot could ache. There’s a tenderness between my thighs that makes me want to simultaneously moan and scream.
I slept with Bryan.
I let him take me against the wall and carry me to this bed and worship every inch of my body. I let him sink inside me and complete the mate bond that I swore I would never fully accept. And I liked it. God help me, I more than liked it.
The memory of his mouth on me, his hands gripping my hips, his voice growling mine against my throat… It all comes flooding back in vivid detail. My body responds to the recollection with a pulse of heat that settles low in my belly, and I want to bury my face in the pillow and never come out.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I had walls. I had boundaries. I had ten years of carefully constructed defenses designed specifically to keep Bryan Dinac on the other side.
And I let him tear through all of it in a single night.
I rub the heels of my hands against my eyes and try to breathe through the shame coiling in my stomach. It was building all week, if I’m being honest with myself. Every moment we spent in this cabin together was another crack in my armor, another fissure in the walls I thought were impenetrable.
Last night, those walls came crashing down.
And the worst part is, I can’t even blame him for it. He gave me every opportunity to say no. He stood there with hisfists clenched at his sides and begged me to stop him. I’m the one who told him to keep going. I’m the one who pulled him closer instead of pushing him away.
This is a man who broke me. He left without explanation, never looked back, and let me spend ten years wondering what I did wrong, what I could have done differently, and why I wasn’t enough to make him stay.
And I spread my legs for him anyway.
I drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom, avoiding my reflection in the mirror as I turn on the shower. The hot water helps a little as it washes away the physical evidence of last night, even if it can’t touch the emotional wreckage. I scrub my skin until it’s pink and tingling, but I can still feel his fingerprints on my hips and the phantom press of his mouth against my throat.
The mate bond rests contentedly in my chest, satisfied. I want to claw it out.
Bryan is nowhere in sight when I finally emerge from the bedroom. The couch cushions are rumpled like he slept there after I fell asleep, which shouldn’t make me feel guilty but somehow does. His boots are gone from beside the door, and the coffee pot is still warm, which means he left recently. He didn’t wake me before going. The cabin is quiet except for the ticking of the old clock on the mantle.
Good. I don’t want to see him right now. I don’t want to have whatever awkward morning-after conversation is waiting for us or look into those gray eyes and see triumph or tenderness or anything else that might make this situation worse than it already is.
I grab my bag and leave for work without eating breakfast.
The walk to the medical center takes fifteen minutes, and I spend every one of them trying to shove last night into a box in the back of my mind. It doesn’t work. Every step reminds me of the soreness in my muscles, and every breath brings a ghost of his scent. The mate bond keeps reaching toward him, content and purring like a cat that finally got the cream.
I hate it. I hate how good it feels to be connected to him like this, and I hate that my body already wants more.
The medical center is blissfully busy when I arrive. Two patrol wolves came in overnight with minor injuries from a training exercise, and Fern is already elbow-deep in paperwork when I push through the front door. She looks up and opens her mouth to say something, but I shake my head and make a beeline for my office.
Work. I need to work. I need to lose myself in patient files and treatment plans and the familiar rhythm of healing other people’s problems so I don’t have to think about my own.
The morning passes in a haze of appointments and consultations. I check on Davis, who’s recovering well from his injuries and already complaining about being stuck in bed. He tries to charm me into letting him leave early, and I shut him down with a look that makes him sink back against his pillows with a dramatic sigh.
I review lab results for an elderly wolf with a persistent cough and adjust his medication accordingly. I counsel a young mother whose toddler has been having trouble with early shifting symptoms, walking her through the exercises that will help her daughter learn control.
Every patient, every problem, every moment of being needed… It reminds me that I have value here. I’m more than just Bryan Dinac’s unwilling mate. I built something real andimportant in the years he was gone, and one night of weakness doesn’t erase any of it.
But between appointments, in those quiet moments when no one needs me, my mind keeps drifting back to the cabin. Back to the wall and the bed and the sounds I made and the things he said. Back to the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
I’m refilling my coffee mug in the break room when Ruby appears in the doorway.
She’s carrying two cups from the tea shop down the street, and she holds one out to me with a knowing look that makes my stomach drop. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks. That’s exactly what every woman wants to hear.” I take the cup anyway and wrap my fingers around its warmth. The familiar scent of chamomile and honey drifts up, and some of the knots in my shoulders loosen despite myself.
“I mean it in the most loving way possible. Want to tell me what’s going on, or should I guess?”
“Nothing is going on. I’m fine. Just tired. Didn’t sleep well.”
