005

The moment his body shuddered above mine, everything went silent.

His breath—warm, ragged, trembling—fanned across my cheek. His hands, which only moments ago held me with desperate need, now went still. His hips stopped moving, buried deep inside me, our breaths tangled together in the dark.

For one suspended heartbeat, we were connected.

Deeply.

Wrongly.

Completely.

Then everything changed.

Kane’s eyes opened—and the look in them wasn’t hunger anymore.

It was horror.

Cold. Sharp. Crawling up his spine as he stared down at me like he’d just realized what his body had done before his mind caught up.

“Kane…?” My voice barely made it out. Soft. Fragile. Afraid of the answer.

He didn’t speak.

He pulled out of me so fast the sudden emptiness made my breath catch. He staggered backward like he’d been burned, chest heaving, pupils blown wide—not with desire now, but with guilt.

“No,” he whispered.

A broken, guttural sound.

My heart clenched painfully.

“Kane, talk to me—”

“No.” Sharper this time. He dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “This shouldn’t have happened. It can’t—” His voice cracked, the words strangled. “God, what did I just do?”

He wouldn’t look at me.

Wouldn’t even face the bed.

He reached for his pants with trembling fingers, fumbling like he didn’t recognize his own hands.

“Kane—please,” I whispered, sitting up, the sheets pulling against my bare skin. “Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.”

“Don’t come closer,” he snapped, voice too sharp, too quick.

I froze.

The pain hit instantly.

As if he’d slapped me.

His eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenching hard enough to tremble.

“I can’t—” He swallowed thickly. “I can’t look at you right now.”

A knife slid through my chest.

“Why?” My voice broke. “Because you regret it?”

His breath hitched.

Not from anger.

From torment.

“Nevaeh…” He dragged in a weak, fractured breath. “I crossed a line. A line I never should’ve gone near. I was supposed to protect you.”

“You did protect me—”

“No.” His voice shattered. “I failed you.”

Every word punched me in the heart.

He stepped back again, as if the very air around me scorched him. I reached for him instinctively, arms trembling, but he flinched—physically flinched—like my touch would destroy him.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” I whispered.

But he didn’t look at me at all.

He kept his eyes on the floor, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. His hands shook as he buttoned his shirt, each movement jagged, frantic, desperate to cover himself… or hide from what he felt.

“I shouldn’t have touched you,” he said hoarsely. “I shouldn’t have wanted you. I shouldn’t have—” His voice cracked again. “I’m your Alpha. I’m your guardian.”

“You’re more than that to me,” I breathed.

His whole body stiffened.

For a second, I thought he would break—grab me, hold me, tell me everything he felt but couldn’t say.

Instead, he whispered:

“You need to go to your room,”

It felt like being stabbed.

“That’s it?” I croaked. “You’re just sending me away?”

“Before I lose control again,” he murmured.

I stared at him, heart shattering in slow motion.

“So I was just a mistake, then?”

His head dropped.

“Eve… don’t.” His voice sounded torn apart. “Please don’t do that.”

“Then what do I do?” I whispered. “What am I supposed to feel? Because you touched me like you wanted me. You kissed me like you’ve been starving for it. And now you can’t even look at me?”

His shoulders tensed—violently.

“I shouldn’t want any of that,” he whispered. “But I did. And that makes it worse.”

My breath hitched, and the first sob finally escaped.

His jaw clenched.

He flinched like the sound physically hurt him.

I wiped my face quickly and pulled the sheet tighter around myself. My legs trembled as I backed away from him, each step heavy and humiliating.

“I’ll go,” I whispered shakily. “But don’t pretend it was nothing.”

He didn’t speak.

Not even a breath.

So I left.

I walked slowly out of his room, the door clicking shut behind me like a coffin lid.

The hallway swayed.

My vision blurred.

Shame burned through every inch of my skin.

By the time I reached my room, my knees gave out, and I fell onto my bed. The tears came silently at first, then shook my entire body.

“I hate you…” I whispered into the pillow. “I hate you for making me feel like this…”

But even as I cried, exhaustion dragged at me, pulling me deeper, dulling the edges of the pain.

My limbs grew heavy.

My breaths slowed.

My eyes drifted shut.

And somewhere, in the fog between sleep and pain—

I felt arms lifting me.

Gentle.

Strong.

Careful.

I couldn’t wake up fully, but I knew the touch.

I knew the scent.

I knew the guilt in every trembling breath as he washed my skin.

As he carried me back to the bed, my head lolled weakly against his chest. I felt the steady thud of his heartbeat—too fast, too uneven—like he was fighting a war inside himself with every step. His arms were strong around me, but tense, as if he feared holding me too tightly would break both of us.

He laid me down slowly, carefully, almost reverently.

Not the way a man treats a mistake.

The way someone handles a memory they wish they could erase… but can’t let go of.

His fingers ghosted along my ribs as he adjusted the sheets, brushing away a strand of hair stuck to my cheek. The touch was feather-light, warm, trembling—nothing like the hands that had gripped me hours before.

He tucked the blanket around me like I was something fragile.

Something precious.

Something he’d ruined.

A soft, broken sound slipped from my throat. “Kane…”

His breath caught.

I felt it in the air.

Felt the pause.

Felt the hesitation.

I reached toward him blindly, half-conscious, palm open in a silent plea.

His hand hovered over mine.

Not touching.

Just hovering.

Close enough that his warmth seeped through the inches between us, close enough that I felt the tremor rushing through his fingers.

He wanted to take my hand.

I knew it.

Even asleep, I knew it.

But he didn’t.

His knuckles tightened, the tendons in his wrist flexing as if he was physically restraining himself from reaching for me.

“Eve…” he whispered.

The first time he’d said my name softly all night.

It was a whisper full of regret… and longing… and something he would never say out loud.

His hand shook harder.

But then—

He pulled back.

Slowly.

Painfully.

As if the space between us was ripping him apart.

I felt the shift of air when he stepped away.

Felt the cold rush into the empty space where his presence had been.

He lingered at the edge of the room for a moment—silent, unmoving—like he was afraid to walk away, but even more afraid to stay.

My lashes fluttered, vision blurred with exhaustion.

Through the haze, I saw him turn his back to me.

And then he left.

No door slam.

No footsteps rushed.

He walked away the same way he touched me:

softly,

carefully,

like any sound might shatter what little control he had left.

The room swallowed his absence in seconds.

The air cooled.

The silence deepened.

And the place he’d been standing still throbbed with a warmth his body left behind.

I drifted into sleep with the ache of his retreat pressing on my chest.

The room felt quiet.

Too quiet.