“Alone. Miserable. Over as quickly as possible.”
The confession makes my heart clench. I tighten my arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
“Well,” I murmur into her hair, “things are different now.”
Her breathing is already evening out, her body going lax against mine as exhaustion claims her. The heat will demandmore from her soon—cycles of need and fulfillment that will keep us both busy for the next day or two. But for now, in this quiet moment between storms, she’s finally at peace.
I watch her drift off, her face soft and unguarded in a way I’ve never seen before.
And I realize, with a certainty that settles into my bones like coming home, that I’m absolutely, completely, done for.
TWENTY-THREE
MASON
The kettle whistles.
I stare at it for three full seconds before my brain catches up to my hands, which are already reaching for the handle, already pulling it off the burner, already going through motions I’ve performed a thousand times before. The Daniels’ kitchen is exactly as I remember it.
Everything in the same place. Everything frozen in amber while the rest of the world moved on.
I find the tea bags in the second cabinet to the left of the stove, exactly where Mrs. Daniels used to keep them. The sugar bowl sits on the counter by the window, ceramic with hand-painted forget-me-nots, a chip on the rim from when Judah knocked it over during one of our wrestling matches.
We were fourteen.
I was so in love with him I couldn’t breathe.
My hands shake as I measure out the sugar and pour out almost exactly a tablespoon of full-fat milk, just like always. The familiar ritual does nothing to calm the storm churning in my chest. Upstairs, sounds drift through the old house’s thin walls—sounds I’m desperately trying not to focus on identifying.
Phoenix is with Atticus.
Phoenix is with Atticus, and I am down here making fucking tea like an idiot.
This is what you wanted, a vicious voice whispers.You sent him up there. You told him to go. You handed her over because you weren’t enough of a man to?—
The spoon clatters against the countertop. I grip the edge of the counter, knuckles going white, and force myself to breathe through my nose.
I have to sit down at the battered kitchen table, knees suddenly weak.
The tightness in my chest has nothing to do with jealousy. Because you can’t be overly protective of something that doesn’t belong to you.
No. This is just concern.
Professional concern for my employer’s well-being during a vulnerable time. The fact that I can still taste her on my lips, can still feel the ghost of her fingers in my hair, can still hear the way she saidI want you?—
None of that matters.
I made my choice. I made the right choice. Phoenix needs an alpha to help her through this heat, and I am categorically, biologically incapable of being that for her. Everything I did was in her best interest.
So why does it feel like I’ve carved out my own heart with a rusty spoon?
The back door swings open without warning, hitting the wall with a bang as loud as a gunshot.
I spin, tea sloshing over the rim of my cup and burning my hand.
Dom stands in the open doorway, carrying a six-pack of beer in one hand and a takeout bag in the other. Rain drops bead onhis leather jacket and drip on the floor as he kicks the door shut behind him.
He drops what he’s carrying on the table with a thud that echoes through the empty room, then shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over the chair.
