Evander's POV
It had been one hell of a week.
One week of dealing with the pack.
One week of wrestling with my wolf.
And one week of enduring her absence.
Ever since I walked out that day, my wolf hadn't shut up. Pacing. Snarling. Begging. He swore he could feel her pain, swore he needed her more than air itself. And as usual, I locked him away, caging his madness where it belonged.
This morning was no different. I'd dragged myself out of bed after another sleepless night, the sheets twisted from endless tossing and turning. A quick shower did little to wash away the unrest clawing at my chest.
I wrapped a towel around my waist, ran another through my hair, and reached for the suit laid out for the day. The routine was mechanical, controlled—until the noise started.
The shouts. The banging. The unmistakable chaos.
I didn't need to look. I already knew exactly who it was.
Outside my door, she was shrieking again—my so-called mistress reduced to a pathetic display of hysterics, clawing at my guards like a spoiled child throwing a fit.
I told them not to disturb me. Not to let her in. Yet here she was, a wailing spectacle, humiliating herself for everyone to see.
Pathetic.
"Let her in," I said calmly after a whole minute of listening to her shrieking like a cornered dog. If she wanted to humiliate herself so badly, I'd give her the stage.
My men at the door heard my command, crisp and final, and they obeyed without hesitation. They parted instantly, letting the shrieking spectacle through before she could break the doors down herself.
"Stupid," Elena hissed at them, baring her teeth like a cornered cat. She shoved the doors wide with unnecessary force, her anger practically dripping onto my floor.
As always, she was dressed in red—the only shade arrogant enough to match her. I'll admit, it suited her. It always clung to her curves like it worshipped them. That, and that alone, was why she still lived under my roof. Nothing more.
Her eyes found me almost immediately, as though she had been starving for the sight. I ignored her, of course. I stood before my mirror, adjusting my hair, straightening the smallest details on my desk. Important things. Things that mattered. Her sigh of frustration was loud enough to echo, but I refused to grant her the dignity of my attention.
"What do you mean by this, Evander?" she asked, her voice brittle under the weight of her anger.
I didn't bother turning. "Mean by what?" My tone was calm, disinterested, almost bored. I could feel her bristle behind me. The silence stoked her irritation, but I had no intention of soothing her.
"By keeping me out of your room and acting this way," she snapped. Her voice sharpened, but it wavered—she wasn't nearly as strong as she wanted to be.
That was when I finally stopped. Slowly, I turned. My gaze, cold and merciless, locked on her. She flinched the instant it landed, her bravado leaking out like blood from a fresh wound. She even stepped back.
"Are you questioning me?" My voice cut through the space like a blade.
Her lips trembled, but she shook her head quickly. A weak, desperate smile cracked across her face, pathetic in its attempt to placate me.
"No, no, I'm just saying…" she whispered, stepping closer, her palm flattening against my chest. She tried to soften her voice, tried to soothe me as though I were some wild beast she could tame. "I'm just saying I'm surprised you hadn't visited me since you came back from your trip last week. You've been cold, distant… and now you even told your men not to let me in your room."
Her words tumbled out, desperate and trembling, as she searched my face for even a flicker of warmth. I gave her nothing. Only silence. Only the weight of my gaze, cold and merciless, waiting for her theatrics to burn themselves out.
"Don't you miss me?" she breathed, voice catching as her hand slid lower, curling around my wrist. She tried to guide it down, pressing it toward the curve of her waist, lower still…
For a moment, I let her. Not because I wanted to—no, not even close. But because she was persistent, pressing herself against me with all the shameless hunger of a woman who knew her hold was slipping.
Her palm slid down my chest, slow and deliberate, fingers curling around my wrist. She tried to guide me, tried to force me into giving her the intimacy she craved. Her curves brushed against me, soft where she wanted to be irresistible. Her lips trembled like she thought vulnerability would make me forget what she really was.
My wolf snarled. The sound was guttural, deep, echoing through my veins. Not her. He recoiled from her touch, the same way he had every time since the night we scented the girl—the blind human who wasn't supposed to exist, who wasn't supposed to belong to us but did. My wolf knew. He wanted only her. He hated this one. Hated her cloying perfume, hated the desperate way she clawed at me, hated the cheap red silk draped across her skin like it meant anything.
But me? I stood there, frozen between disgust and something far more dangerous. My wolf might have rejected Elena outright, but my human thoughts twisted.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe I had been acting strange. Distant. Cold. Ever since that day with Odette, nothing had felt normal. My chest was heavy. My mind restless. Nights sleepless. My wolf pacing endlessly like a caged beast, whispering her name when I refused to acknowledge it.
And now Elena was here, pressing herself closer, her body warm and eager, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Don't you miss me?" she murmured, her lashes fluttering as she guided my hand lower, past the dip of her waist.
Maybe this was what I needed. Maybe letting her in again—her touch, her scent, her fire—would put things back the way they were before. Before my wolf betrayed me with the truth. Before I started losing control. Before I started thinking about a human I had no business thinking about.
Maybe Elena was the answer. Maybe she was the cure.
I let my hand linger where she wanted it. Just for a breath. Just for a second. My wolf's growl deepened, feral and enraged, rattling my skull. She's not ours. She'll never be ours.
My jaw clenched. My chest tightened. I almost—almost—gave in.
And then the phone rang.
Sharp. Cold. Shattering the haze.
My eyes hardened as I caught her wrist mid-descent, halting her hand before it dared go further. "Stop," I said flatly, the command cutting the air like steel.
She froze, lips parting in disbelief, but I was already pulling away, reaching for the phone without sparing her another glance.
I pressed the phone to my ear, listening to Rook's voice crackle through the line.
"Alpha… it's Odette. She's hurt."
My jaw tightened, the muscle jumping as a low growl threatened to slip free. "What do you mean hurt?" The words came out cold, clipped, deadly.
"She's bleeding, badly. We—"
"Wait for me to get there." I cut him off with a voice that brooked no argument, a command sharp enough to silence him instantly. The line went dead in my hand.
Elena stood frozen a few steps away, her painted lips parted, confusion etched across her face. I turned to her slowly, my stare like ice, my tone laced with contempt.
"If I did not ask for you, don't come around being a nuisance first thing in the morning." The words landed heavy, deliberate, meant to sting. I didn't wait to see her reaction. I was already walking out, leaving her alone with nothing but the echo of her failure.
––
I slid into the car, tension coiling through every muscle. My knuckles whitened on the armrest as I forced myself to breathe evenly. She was just a blind human. Useless. Fragile. Nothing to me. That's what I told myself. Over and over.
So why did my chest feel like it was splitting open? Why was my wolf pounding against the cage of my control, snarling and clawing like a frantic hound desperate to be freed?
She's ours. She's hurt. She's ours.
His voice was relentless, a drumbeat in my skull. I shoved it down, but the panic crawling up my spine betrayed me.
The car screeched to a halt outside the South Warehouse. Men, workers, guards—they all dropped their heads in bows the second I stepped out. Their greetings echoed, hollow and insignificant. I didn't waste a glance on them. My strides were long, sharp, eating the ground beneath me as I stormed inside.
Corridors blurred past. My pulse quickened the closer I got, the bond tugging at me, tightening, choking.
And then—
I pushed the door open.
There she was.
On the bed.
Small. Fragile. Writhing in pain.
A bloody, wounded mess.