(Meg's POV)
Betrayal has a scent.
It's not always smoke or iron or fear. Sometimes it's perfume—too sweet, too sharp, clinging to air that used to be yours.
I smelled it the second my key turned in the lock. Something foreign slipped through the door before I did. The apartment felt… wrong. Too still. Too quiet.
My hand stayed on the knob longer than it should have. I knew what I'd find. My body knew before my mind allowed the thought to form. But I walked down the hallway anyway, boots barely whispering against the floor.
Light spilled from the bedroom. The kind of light that doesn't belong in betrayal. Soft. Golden. Cruel.
And there he was.
My wolf. My mate.
The man who had taken my mark beneath the moon, who had promised loyalty and blood and forever. His hands were on someone else. A human. Her perfume painted the air, sickly sweet. His mouth was pressed to her neck.
The world went narrow and soundless.
I didn't cry. Didn't speak. My wolf made a noise deep inside me—a wounded growl that didn't reach my throat. I turned around, calm in the way people get when something inside them finally breaks.
I left the door open. Let the night air flood the space. Let it carry away what was left of us.
Outside, the city was too bright. It moved as if nothing sacred had been torn apart.
I walked until the neon swallowed me. Until the noise drowned out my heartbeat.
The club was packed—sweat, music, motion. The bass was a pulse that didn't care if anyone was in pain. I took a seat at the bar and ordered whiskey. Neat.
The bartender didn't ask why. I liked him instantly for that.
The first swallow burned. The second steadied me. By the third, my hands had stopped shaking.
I didn't come to be noticed. Which, of course, was when someone noticed me.
He didn't swagger or interrupt. He just stood close enough for me to sense him. When I looked up, his eyes met mine. Calm. Direct.
"Dance?" he asked.
Just one word. No promise.
I studied him. Tailored jacket. Quiet confidence. He must be a human from his scent, not Completely wrong for me.
"Yes," I said.
The dance floor swallowed us. The music hit through the soles of my boots. He didn't reach for me. Didn't crowd. We moved in rhythm, two strangers who weren't pretending it was more.
And then, without warning, I laughed.
It startled me. It startled him too. His mouth curved, not wide but real.
We talked between songs. Names. Drinks. Places we used to call home. He listened
when I spoke, not like a man waiting for his turn, but like someone who might actually hear.
When he leaned closer, he smelled like a Wolf and a Human.
After a while, he said, "Air?"
I nodded.
The hallway outside was cooler, quieter. My pulse slowed.
"I'm not looking for trouble," he said softly.
"I'm not looking for anything," I answered. "Just a night."
He didn't push. Just nodded once. "Fair."
His room was simple. Pale walls. A bed made by someone who didn't care if it looked perfect.
The air smelled faintly of soap.
He didn't touch me right away. He waited. Always waited.
When he did reach for me, his fingers brushed my arm lightly, as if giving me room to pull away. I didn't. His touch was warm. Grounding.
When his lips found mine, it wasn't hunger or revenge—it was relief. Quiet, human, careful.
I let him kiss me. My fingers tangled briefly in his shirt, then fell away.
He pulled back, searching my face. "Meg," he said, like he wanted to remember it.
"Martins," I replied.
The name fit the space between us.
We didn't rush. We didn't try to fill the silence. He sat beside me on the bed, close enough for our knees to touch. The air was still humming with leftover music from the club, or maybe that was just my blood.
I could feel the ache of the mark on my neck, faint but present, the ghost of a bond that was dying slow. I wondered if my mate could feel it too. If he knew, at that exact moment, that I wasn't his anymore.
Martins didn't ask questions. He didn't need to. He leaned in again, slower this time, and I met him halfway. His mouth was gentle, the kind of kiss that says I see you, not I want you.
When we stopped, our breaths mingled. The quiet stretched between us, heavy but not uncomfortable.
I rested my forehead against his shoulder. "I don't usually do this," I said, the words small and almost embarrassed.
"I don't either," he answered, his voice low. "But sometimes, it helps to forget for a while."
I closed my eyes. "Yeah."
He shifted slightly, his arm coming around me. I tensed, out of habit, then let go. Let myself lean into the warmth of another heartbeat that didn't demand anything from me.
We lay back, side by side, not speaking. His hand found mine. I didn't pull away.
The city lights slipped through the window, painting us in soft, uneven gold. I thought about what it meant to choose peace, even if it only lasted a night.
His breathing slowed before mine. Steady. Kind. Real.
For the first time in a long while, I didn't feel like I was about to break apart.
My wolf was quiet too, watching from somewhere deep inside me, not angry, not grieving—just silent.
I pressed closer to him, his arm tightening slightly in response.
No vows. No promises. Just two people holding on to what was left of the night.
Outside, a siren wailed far away. The city never slept, and neither did pain. But under the hum of it all, I found a strange stillness.
For now, that was enough.
Tomorrow could burn if it wanted.
Tonight, I wasn't alone.