Chapter 5 (Seraphina's POV)

I was not happy.

Whether it was my father trying to get me back, or Caelan agreeing to send me away—I was not happy. What kind of mate lets his mate show up and then keeps trying to ship her off?

I wanted to have a proper talk with him over dinner.

But he didn't show up.

Dinner was even more lavish than breakfast. Roasted lamb chops, cream of mushroom soup, herb salad, and a whole pan-seared sea bass.

I sat alone at the table, poking at the lamb with my fork, tasting nothing.

After dinner I went back to my room. Ember rumbled irritably inside me.

I was irritated too, but I didn't know what to do. I could hardly kick his door down and say, "Why are you ignoring me?"

I'd only been here one day. I had no standing for that.

Day two. Day three. Still no chance.

He left early and came back late. The garage door sounded twice—once before dawn, once late at night.

Occasionally I caught a glimpse of his back at the end of the hallway—black suit, long fast strides, like something was chasing him.

Clothes were delivered to my door every day, right on schedule. Meals too. But the maids who brought them never said an extra word—set it down and left.

Margaret was strictly by the book. Nothing less than required, not a single word more.

Every time Ivy passed me in the corridor, she wore that smile. Small, but making sure I saw it.

On the third night, I curled up in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe I'd made the wrong choice.

Maybe he didn't want a mate at all.

Maybe he'd gotten used to being alone, used to women coming and going. Maybe to him I was no different from the three before me—just another hassle, another "political match" to deal with.

Maybe—

"Last time you hesitated, you got him killed."

Ember's voice was cold, like a bucket of ice water.

"You want to hesitate again this time around?"

I shut my mouth.

Turned over and buried my face in the pillow.

She was right. I had no right to hesitate. That man had already died for me once—and I couldn't even handle waiting three days?

Go to sleep. Deal with it tomorrow.

On the fourth night, I was jolted awake by a massive crash.

Not a dream.

The floor was shaking, like something downstairs was slamming into load-bearing walls. Then came the sound of something shattering—not a cup. Something big. A table, chairs, or a bookshelf.

Then a roar.

Low, agonized, full of raw animal fury.

But tonight wasn't the full moon.

I shot out of bed and ran barefoot from the room.

People were running in the corridor. Margaret's voice shrieked from downstairs: "Seal the hallway! Everyone fall back!"

I ran to the top of the stairs and looked down.

Four people were barricading the study door—Margaret, two warriors, and Kieran. Their faces were ashen in the hallway light, like they were fending off the most terrifying enemy imaginable.

The study door was rammed from the inside.

Wood cracked and a fissure split down the center of the door panel.

Margaret looked up and saw me. Her pupils contracted sharply.

"Go back!" she screamed, real fear in her voice for the first time. "Don't come down! The Alpha's lost control!"

Another impact. Dust rained from the doorframe.

My legs were moving.

Not back up. Down.

"Miss Wren—!" Kieran reached out to stop me. I ducked under his arm.

"You're insane!" Margaret shrieked.

I heard them. All of them. But my feet didn't stop.

Ember howled frantically in my chest: "Hurry! Hurry! He's in pain!"

I slammed open the study door.

Inside was chaos.

Two bookshelves had toppled over, books scattered everywhere. The desk was split clean in half, like something had cleaved it from above. The floor lamp lay tilted in the corner, shade shattered, the bare bulb still flickering.

Broken glass covered the entire floor—the windows were intact. It was the whiskey cabinet. Every bottle was smashed, the smell of alcohol and blood tangling in the air.

He was in the center of the room.

Down on one knee. Kneeling on broken glass. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, clinging to his back, every muscle so taut the outlines looked like they'd tear through his skin.

One hand pressed against his temple, knuckles white from the pressure. The other braced against the floor, shards of glass driven into his palm, blood trailing down his fingers. He didn't seem to feel it at all.

He raised his head.

The gray-blue eyes were gone—replaced by ice-blue, unnaturally bright, like the cold gleam of a wolf's eyes reflected in darkness. His pupils weren't focused, looking at me and through me at the same time.

Ember screamed: "His wolf is fighting for control!"

A low, continuous warning growl rumbled from deep in his chest. The kind of sound that hit the spine directly. Every bone in my body was telling me: run.

Everyone behind me was screaming.

"Get out!"

"You'll die—!"

I didn't look back.

Ember's voice changed suddenly—from frantic to... calm. A strange, absolute calm.

"Walk to him," she said. "Fenris won't hurt us. He's telling me—he won't."

I didn't realize I was barefoot until the glass bit into the soles of my feet.

It hurt.

But I didn't stop.

One step. Two steps. Three steps.

His warning growl grew louder, like an engine pushed to its limit. I felt the suppression aura in the air expanding—not aimed at me, aimed at everyone. But I was too close. Even the edges were enough to make my knees buckle.

I knelt in front of him.

Glass dug into my knees too. Didn't matter.

I reached out and placed my hand over his—the one pressing against his temple.

His skin was shockingly hot, like a raging fever. His fingers were twitching faintly.

I didn't know what I was doing.

But something surged from my palm—starting at my heart, flowing through my veins to my arm, my wrist, my fingertips. Cool. Flowing. Like moonlight had liquefied and been poured into my bloodstream.

That cool sensation passed from my palm into his skin.

His body seized—like an electric shock. Then—slowly—the twisted tension began to loosen.

His shoulders came down, inch by inch. The fingers pressing his temple unclenched. His breathing shifted from ragged gasps to deep, long inhales.

The ice-blue receded, bit by bit, like a tide pulling back, and gray-blue resurfaced.

He looked at me.

Really looked at me.

Like it was the first time.

"...You're bleeding."

His voice was so hoarse it barely held a pitch, like his throat had been scraped with sandpaper.

He looked down. His gaze landed on my feet.

Blood was seeping from the soles, leaving small red footprints on the broken glass.

His expression changed.

Before I could process what was happening, I was lifted off the ground.

One arm under my knees, the other cradling my back. The motion was gentle—impossibly gentle for the man who'd nearly torn the room apart moments ago.

He set me on the only intact sofa in the room, like placing something fragile.

"It's fine," I said, my voice smaller than I'd intended. "Wolves heal fast. It'll be better in—"

He didn't respond.

He half-knelt before the sofa, pulled a first-aid kit from a toppled drawer cabinet—a white metal box with the Ashworth crest on it.

He opened it, took out a pair of tweezers and antiseptic cotton.

Then he took hold of my ankle and turned my foot over.

His hand was large. It nearly enveloped my entire foot, the calluses on his fingertips rough against my skin.

Head bowed, he picked out the glass shards one by one from the sole of my foot. The tweezers looked tiny in his hands. After each piece, he pressed antiseptic cotton over the wound, every motion feather-light.

Throughout, he never once looked me in the eye.

Focused. Silent. Brow furrowed, as if this task required every ounce of his concentration.

When his thumb inadvertently brushed across the arch of my foot, his motion paused.

Very briefly. Less than a second.

But I felt it—his fingertip pressed just slightly harder against my skin, like he was confirming something.

Ember let out a sharp, excited howl inside me.

"Shut up," I said internally.

She did not shut up.

He removed the last shard of glass and wrapped gauze around the sole of my foot. Tight, but not too tight.

Then he finally raised his head.

Gray-blue eyes looked very deep in the dim light. He watched me in silence for a long time.

So long that I started feeling uneasy, started wondering if I should say something to break the—

"The full moon is the day after tomorrow," he said.

His voice was still rough, but far steadier than before.

"You can't stay in this house."

My heart sank.

Was he sending me away?

Or—

Would something even worse than tonight happen on the full moon?