POV: Chloe

The second the door clicked shut, my legs gave out. I collapsed onto the edge of the bed, the mug still clutched in my hands. I stared at nothing while my pulse hammered against my throat, right where his mouth had just been.

How could an Alpha lose control like that?

Everything I knew about Tristan—what little I'd learned back then and everything Ethan had told me since—painted the same picture. A man of absolute discipline. Ice-cold restraint. A man who never broke.

Yet I'd just watched him unravel over a cheap ring and a hickey, his eyes blazing gold, his massive hands trembling against my skin. And the sickest part? The part I couldn't admit to anyone but the empty room? I hadn't wanted him to stop.

Every brush of his hard body against mine, every ragged breath against my neck, had ignited something deep inside me—a fire I'd spent seven years trying to starve. Some dirty, traitorous part of me had begged for his mouth to finish what it started.

I wanted his teeth. I wanted to be claimed. I pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I had a boyfriend sleeping down the hall. A sweet, devoted guy who'd just brought me warm milk because he sensed my stress. And here I was, soaking my panties for his older brother.

I didn't sleep. I lay in the dark, tossing and turning, replaying the raw heat of Tristan's palm at my throat and his gravelly voice whispering filthy promises. I clamped my thighs together, squirming against the ache in my core, desperately trying to curb the craving. By the time grey light crept through the curtains, my eyes were swollen and my lips were bruised from biting back moans I refused to let out.

Breakfast was a slow execution. Tristan's dark warnings kept looping in my head, grinding the reality into my bones.

The dining room was bright with morning sun, gleaming with white linen and silver. I sat down feeling like a total wreck.

"Whoa." Ethan leaned across the table the second he saw me, his brow furrowing. "Baby, your lips. What happened?"

I touched my mouth self-consciously. It felt raw and puffy.

"I, um..." I forced a weak laugh. "I bit my lip in my sleep. Bad dreams, I guess."

Ethan's frown lingered, but he let it drop, reaching over to tenderly tuck a stray hair behind my ear. His sweet affection made my chest physically ache.

Across the table, Tristan was scrolling on his phone, looking infuriatingly unbothered. He set the phone down and reached for his coffee. His sleeve rode up just enough to reveal three fresh red scratches gouged into his thick forearm.

Scratch marks...

From my nails. From last night, when I’d desperately clawed at him, trying to push him away. Werewolves healed in minutes. Those tracks should have vanished hours ago. He hadn't let them heal. He'd kept them. On purpose.

"What happened to your arm?" Ethan asked, nodding at the marks.

Tristan didn't even blink. "Wild cat," he drawled smoothly. "Vicious little thing. Didn't want to be caught." His gaze slid up—slow and lethal—locking onto mine. I nearly choked on my orange juice.

"A cat? Here?" Ethan glanced around like he expected a stray to jump onto the table. "I didn't know we had any on the grounds."

"We don't, usually." A dark, private smirk touched Tristan's lips. "Some animals wander in uninvited."

I stared rigidly at my plate, my face burning, praying the floor would swallow me whole.

The table layout was a nightmare: Tristan at the head, with Ethan and me facing each other on the sides. Tristan was sitting on my left, close enough that I could feel the alpha heat rolling off him. I spent the entire meal awkwardly angling my body away.

It didn't help.

Halfway through my eggs, something brushed my thigh.

I froze.

A large, warm hand slid deliberately up my inner thigh, stopping just above my knee. The touch was light as a feather and totally unmistakable. His filthy words echoed in my head again.

A hot flash of panic and raw arousal hit me instantly. I did the only thing I could think of.

I jerked so hard I slammed my knee into the table, sending silverware clattering and knocking my juice glass over.

"Chloe!" Ethan jumped up, crouching beside my chair, his hands hovering anxiously. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" My voice cracked, pitching an octave too high. I grabbed my napkin and frantically dabbed at my lap, where orange juice was rapidly soaking into my dress. "I... I just spilled my drink. It startled me, that's all. God, I’m so clumsy. I’m sorry."

Ethan's eyes darted between my flushed face and my wet dress. A flash of skepticism crossed his face, but he just nodded and grabbed a towel to help me clean up. I didn't dare look at Tristan. I didn't need to. I could feel his heavy stare burning right through me, though his hand was already back in his lap.

He sat there looking completely innocent. Bastard.

By the time Ethan loaded the car, I was desperate to escape. Tristan walked us out, hands shoved in his pockets, playing the perfect host.

"Drive safe," he told Ethan. Then he turned to me, his tone maddeningly polite. "It was a pleasure, Ms. Chloe. I hope we'll see you again soon." The heavy emphasis on soon made my stomach drop.

I flashed him a tight, fake smile and practically dove into the car. I had no idea that the second our tires cleared the gates, my body would instantly go into withdrawal, screaming for its mate.

All I knew, sitting in the passenger seat watching the manor shrink in the mirror, was that I felt violently sick.

Ethan reached over, lacing his fingers through mine. He smiled at me—open, easy, completely oblivious. I smiled back, feeling like the biggest piece of shit on earth.

Because somewhere between that parking garage seven years ago and this car ride today, I had fallen for a guy just because his voice was warm and his touch was gentle.

And last night, the ugly truth finally clicked. It was never really about Ethan. Some broken, pathetic part of me had spent seven years hunting for pieces of Tristan in every man I met. The way Ethan tilted his head. His low laugh. That stubborn jawline.

I had convinced myself I'd moved on. I thought I had a life. But I’d just been pacing around an open wound, pretending I wasn't bleeding out.

And now I'd seen Tristan again. Really seen him. Still wearing my ring. Seven lonely years carved into his stoic face. And the wound ripped wide open.

I watched Ethan's profile as he drove, humming along to the radio, totally unaware that our entire relationship was built on a lie.

I have to end this, I realized, the heavy truth settling in my gut. I can't keep doing this to him. Or to me.

I just had no fucking clue how I was going to break his heart. Just then, Tristan's gravelly threat echoed in my mind again:

“I won’t force you to stay, Cupcake. But you will be back in my arms soon, begging for my cock. You belong to me, and nothing can change that.”

POV: Tristan

The second their car cleared my gates, I was on the phone with my assistant. My tone was flat and strictly business. I ordered a deep dive into Chloe Wynn's life over the last seven years. Where she worked. Where she slept. Who she fucked. How alone she really was.

The intel wasn't satisfying. It felt more like grief.

Seven years in a cramped apartment. A dead-end job. Zero friends. No family. She had built massive walls around herself, making sure no one ever got close.

She did that to herself, I thought, glaring at the file. She did it because of me.

That thought alone made me want to rip something apart.

By sunset, an email was blasted out from Adams Corp.'s development branch. A massive new flagship project. Bidding opened to design firms across the city, with a quiet, deliberate memo attached: one small architecture firm was preferred, and one specific designer was requested by name.

Chloe Wynn.

If she wouldn't crawl back to me willingly, I would rig the game until she had no choice. Keeping a fated mate at arm's length didn't just hurt. It shredded an alpha's sanity. It threatened the iron-clad control I had spent seven years building.

I couldn't survive losing her again. Not a chance in hell.