The memories sharpened as he recalled the tangle of sheets, their bodies entwined in the heat of the moment, and then—Gunther, his wolf, surging forward to mark her.
Zion's eyelids snapped open, his heart slamming against his ribs like a trapped animal. 'What the hell had he done?'
He stared up at the chandelier overhead, its crystals twinkling mockingly in the morning light. If he weren't so wound up, buzzing with regret and a strange ache, he might've paused to admire how it caught the sun, turning the room into a prism of soft glows. But now? No chance.
Antsy, he rolled his head to the other side of the bed, a flicker of hope igniting in his chest. He needed to see her—her small, naked form sprawled out there, maybe under the duvet or on top of it, didn't matter. Just... there. But the sheets were empty, rumpled and cool to the touch, like she'd vanished into thin air. The only trace left was that lingering vanilla scent, faint but unmistakable, curling up from the pillows and linens. Gunther whined low in his mind, nostrils flaring at the ghost of her presence.
'Had she relocated from the bed to the couch in the middle of the night?' Zion wondered, his mind grasping at straws to explain the empty space beside him. It didn't make sense—she'd been right there, warm and real, when he'd finally drifted off again.
He could remember waking up sometime during the night, yeah. That damn nightmare had clawed its way in, the kind that left him gasping and disoriented in the dark. He'd bolted upright, intent on flipping the lights to chase the shadows away, but then her arm had tightened around him in her sleep, pulling him back down with an effortless calm that had seeped into his bones. It was her hold that had steadied him, her steady breathing that had lulled him back under, turning the panic into something almost peaceful. Without that, he might've paced the room until dawn.
Now, he drew in deep breaths, slow and measured, his right cheek still mashed against the cool pillow as if moving might shatter the fragile quiet. With the sun fully up and his head clearer, he'd take a good, hard look at her—really study her, sniff out whatever it was about this woman that had unraveled him so completely, made him feel...
His nostrils twitched in disgust at the trailing thought, a bitter twist curling in his gut. 'Weak.' Gunther stirred faintly inside him, a low rumble of disagreement, but Zion shoved it down.
He pushed himself up from the rumpled sheets, swinging his legs over the edge before leaning back against the plush headboard. The bed felt too vast now, echoing with absence. His eyes flicked to the couch across the room—empty, its cushions undisturbed, mocking him with their pristine folds. No sign of her curled up there,.
His gaze darted around the room in a frantic sweep: the cream walls that seemed to close in, the sleek furniture standing sentinel, the polished floor that gleamed under the morning light. Nothing. Besides that damn vanilla scent clinging to everything like a ghost—wafting from the air, embedded in the linens—it was as if she'd never set foot in here. No stray clothes crumpled on the floor, no heels kicked off haphazardly, not even a whisper of her underwear or whatever she'd worn to lure him into this madness the night before. All gone, vanished without a trace.
Doubt crept in first, a cold knot twisting in his stomach. He planted his feet on the cool hardwood, rising slowly from the bed, his muscles protesting with a wobble that nearly sent him stumbling. Gripping the headboard for support, he waited until his legs steadied, the dizziness fading like a bad hangover. Only then did he release it, padding across the room toward the bathroom door, each step deliberate, Gunther's low whine echoing in his head.
'Maybe she's in there,' he told himself, clinging to the possibility. 'Getting ready to slip out, or doing whatever it is women do in bathrooms for hours after waking up—brushing teeth, fixing hair,...' Yeah, that had to be it. She couldn't just be... gone.
As he drew closer, though, the silence hit him like a wall. No rush of water from the sink, no hiss of the shower, not even the faint trickle of someone using the toilet. Nothing. The door loomed quiet, too quiet. But she had to be in there—she wasn't anywhere else in the room, so logic demanded it.
His hand closed around the knob, twisting it with a sharp click before he flung the door open, the hinges whispering in protest. His eyes locked on the empty toilet seat, stark white and abandoned, staring back at him like a punch to the gut.
Disbelief surged through Zion's veins like a jolt of adrenaline, sharp and electrifying, before it twisted into a slow-burning anger that churned deep in the pit of his stomach. His eyes locked onto the bathtub, hoping against hope to find her there, maybe wrapped in a towel or lost in thought. But the tub was empty—cold porcelain and silence.
The last shred of doubt seeped out of him, leaving only raw, unfiltered fury in its wake. He stormed out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him with a force that echoed through the room. There was no question anymore—he had been swindled, played for a fool.
"Of what?" his subconscious whispered, a mocking echo in the chaos of his mind.
Without hesitation, Zion moved to his cupboard and began rifling through his belongings, desperate for some clue, some sign that something was amiss. But everything was exactly as he'd left it: his documents neatly stacked, clothes folded or hung with care, shoes lined up, jewelry resting in its box, his perfume collection untouched, and his identity cards all in place. The only thing out of place was his key card, lying on the floor by the door.
He still couldn't believe what he was seeing. For the first time in his life, a woman had dumped him. The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, and he tried to chalk it up to his ego bruised by rejection. He wanted to believe that's all it was—that his anger was just the sting of pride, not something deeper.
After all, no woman had ever slipped out of his bed without a word before. If anything, he was always the one showing them the door.
Every woman he'd ever been with had begged for more—breakfast, a second date, lunch, dinner. Every woman who'd shared his bed had worshipped him afterward, desperate for another chance to be close, to be naked with him again. This was new. This was different. And it burned.
'So, who the hell did she think she was sneaking out on me like that?!' Zion's thoughts boiled with anger, sharp and unforgiving.
For the first time, he felt he had met a woman worthy of sharing breakfast with after sex—someone who deserved more than just a fleeting night. Yet, she had chosen to run away like a coward, leaving him with nothing but questions and a bruised ego.
Frustrated, he raked his lean, muscular fingers through his thick blonde hair, trying to shake off the sting of rejection.
His eyes landed on the telephone resting on a small antique stool near the door. If she had left, it couldn't have been long ago. Maybe, just maybe, he could get some useful information—something enough to track her down from the front desk.
Determined, he decided to call the front desk first.
He strode over to the stool, picked up the receiver, and noticed a fancy card beside the phone. The front desk's number was elegantly engraved on it.
His jaw clenched tightly, annoyance and frustration simmering beneath the surface. He was determined to find a way to locate her—and when he did, she would pay for humiliating him like this.
From deep within, Gunther's voice echoed, cutting through Zion's thoughts: "Is it really your ego hurting you?"
Zion snapped back internally, 'What kind of stupid question was that?' Of course it was his ego! She was just a pathetic woman he had taken pity on and decided to help. How could she be so ungrateful as to leave without even a simple thank you?
Gunther's growl rumbled low inside him, tinged with sadness: "Well, I am hurt. I didn't even get a chance to know my mate better. I wanted to get to know her, to be with her."
Zion ignored the wolf's mournful groans and focused on the task at hand. He punched the numbers on the card into the telephone with deliberate precision.
As he pressed the receiver to his ear, his heartbeat thundered loudly in his chest.
The feminine voice on the other end of the line was crisp and professional, cutting through the static hum. "Crystal Orchid Hotel, how may I help you?"
Zion cleared his throat, forcing his voice to stay even. "Room 305 calling. Zion Ashcroft..."