CHAPTER 6

Armida's POV

I stood in his office long after he'd slammed the door, my head still reeling from the shock of what had just happened. The wood had barely stopped rattling in its frame, and yet the silence that followed felt louder than the slam itself. I didn't know whether to chase after him, to demand an explanation, or to simply stay rooted where I was and let the walls swallow me whole.

An unfamiliar feeling crept in — sorrow first, then disappointment, then something heavier that I could only call dejection. It clawed at my chest, slow and deliberate, threatening to tear it wide open. I pressed a hand flat against my chest as if that alone could hold me together. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but it did little good. Hot tears pooled in the corners of my eyes, blurring the edges of the room, as I made my way on unsteady legs to the sofa and sank into it like my bones had given up holding me upright.

I've cried so much these past few days, I thought, forcing a wry, humorless smile onto my face.

Ever since I set foot on Black Moon territory.

It felt as though the room itself understood what had just happened — as if a cloud of sorrow had drifted in and settled over every surface, thick and suffocating. The quiet pressed against my ears until it was almost unbearable, a silence so complete it felt like its own kind of noise.

I don't know how long I sat there. Ten minutes. Thirty. Maybe longer. Time had stopped meaning much of anything since I'd arrived here. Eventually a knock sounded at the door, sharp , nothing like the gentleness I might have hoped for. Before I could even decide whether to answer, the door swung open on its own, and I jolted upright, blinking hard to see who had entered.

It was the beta.

He filled the doorway the way most wolves I had seen in this pack seemed to — broad-shouldered, unreadable, carrying himself like every movement had been decided in advance.

"The alpha asked me to escort you to his private residence." His voice was flat, clipped, the words offered without warmth or explanation. "Come with me."

He turned on his heel before I could respond, already walking. I scrambled up from the couch, my legs still unsteady beneath me, and hurried to keep pace with his long, purposeful strides. He led me down a narrow, overgrown path threaded between low hedges and old trees, deliberately avoiding the open pack lands where anyone might see us. It had to be Demetrius' doing — some order passed down to keep me hidden, to spare his people the sight of a stranger being marched toward his door, and to spare himself the questions that would inevitably follow.

It didn't surprise me in the slightest. He'd already made his position clear enough back in that office. He wasn't accepting the mate bond, not now, maybe not ever. I supposed that meant I wasn't fit to stand beside him. Wasn't fit to be his Luna.

Black Moon's Luna. The thought stirred something low and warm in my chest, feelings I had no right to entertain after everything that had just happened, so I forced them down and away, burying them before they could take root. I made myself focus instead on the scenery drifting past — the arch of branches overhead, the dappled light breaking through leaves, anything but the ache still throbbing behind my ribs.

Ahead of us, past the last stretch of trees, a beautiful duplex rose out of the clearing, its architecture clean and deliberate, nothing like the imposing stone fortress the alpha's office had been. It looked, absurdly, like something built with a family in mind — a mate, pups, a life meant to be shared. And that was all it took. The image rose unbidden and merciless: Demetrius here, in this house, pressing some other woman against these walls the way he should have wanted to press me. His hands in her hair instead of mine. His mouth finding hers in some doorway I hadn't even stepped through yet. A pup with his eyes, his stubbornness, growing up in a nursery down that hallway I hadn't seen. The image lodged itself behind my head like a blade, and a white-hot fury tore through my body so violently it stole the air clean out of my lungs. My hands curled into fists at my sides before I even realized I'd moved them. I stopped walking for half a second, stunned by the sheer, ugly force of my own reaction — stunned that something in me could burn that hot over a man who wanted nothing to do with me.

Oh, wonderful. Jealous over a man who rejected me not an hour ago, I thought bitterly, forcing my feet to move again, disgusted with myself and unable to stop the feeling all the same. It made no sense. He'd shredded whatever claim I might have had to him back in that office, and still some feral, possessive part of me recoiled at the mere idea of another woman in his space, wearing his mark, carrying what should have been mine. I hated how much that thought cost me. I hated it more that I couldn't seem to unfeel it.

I was still tangled in that ugly, simmering thought when the sound of the door swinging open snapped me back into the present. The beta stood aside, clearly waiting for me to step through first.

Damn it, I should have been paying closer attention to the door code, I thought, cursing myself silently. Not that it mattered much — I doubted a code would help me if I ever tried to slip away for air, let alone escape entirely. Something told me Demetrius would have eyes on this house regardless, wolves stationed just out of sight, watching every window and every door whether I noticed them or not.

Inside, the sitting room smelled unmistakably of sandalwood layered beneath something huskier, earthier — the same scent that had clung to the air in his office, the scent I now realized belonged entirely to him. The living room itself was tastefully furnished, every cushion and surface arranged with quiet precision: a low charcoal sofa, a glass table with nothing on it, shelves that held books but no photographs, a fireplace that looked as though it had never once been lit. And yet something about the space felt hollow, almost staged, like a house dressed to be photographed rather than lived in. There wasn't a single frame on the walls, not one trinket resting on a shelf, nothing that hinted at warmth or memory or a man who let himself be known.

"A maid will bring you something to eat shortly." The beta's tone remained , detached. "Most of what you'll need is already here in the house." He paused near the door, his expression unreadable. "You are not to step outside without permission."

And then he was gone, the door closing behind him before I even had the chance to ask his name, let alone anything else.

What is it with the men in this pack and vanishing before I can get a word in, I thought, half-exasperated, half-amused despite everything.

Left alone, I began wandering through the house, restless energy driving me from room to room if only to keep my mind from circling back to Demetrius and the office and the rejection still ringing in my ears. I checked the kitchen first — spotless, barely used, the kind of space that belonged to someone who rarely ate at home. From there I moved into a long hallway lined with doors, each one shut tight. I tried every handle in turn, and every single one refused to give beneath my palm, locked from some mechanism I couldn't see.

The last door at the end of the hallway had to be his. His scent grew stronger with every step I took toward it, thick and unmistakable, curling around me the closer I got. I pushed it open, and the smell hit me fully — sandalwood, cedar, something wild beneath it all — and I found myself breathing it in slowly, deliberately, lungful after lungful, as though my body craved it more than my mind wanted to admit.

The room swallowed light rather than held it. Heavy black curtains blocked every window, drowning the space in shadow even though it was still daylight outside, and the air itself felt cooler in here, quieter, like stepping into a different hour of the night. Black bedding covered a bed large enough for two, the fabric rich and unmistakably expensive beneath my fingers when I let myself trail a hand across it. Everything about the room felt deliberate — chosen, controlled, nothing left to chance — and yet it also felt achingly solitary, a space built for one man to disappear into rather than share.

A wide desk sat near the far wall, cluttered with stacks of files and loose papers, and tucked among them sat a small picture frame I almost missed. Inside it, a boy no older than seven stood between an older man and woman, all three of them smiling wide, sunlight caught in their hair. Demetrius, I guessed, though the resemblance felt almost impossible to reconcile. The boy in that photograph looked carefree, unguarded, nothing like the cold, stoic man I'd met only hours ago. I wondered, briefly and painfully, what had happened between that photograph and now — what had carved the warmth out of him and left this instead.

The wardrobe stood in the far corner, tall and dark-paneled, the wood grain almost black under the dim light. I ran my fingers along its edge before easing the doors open, and they gave way with a soft, well-oiled sigh. Inside, everything hung in careful rows, pressed and orderly, as though even his clothes weren't permitted to exist in disarray. Black shorts. Black suits, the fabric fine enough that I could tell they cost more than anything I'd ever owned. Sweatpants folded with near-military precision, stacked by shade rather than thrown together. Black, mostly, broken here and there by a deep charcoal or the occasional midnight navy, as if color itself had to earn its place in his life.

At least he owns more than one shade of the same mood, I thought dryly, allowing myself the smallest flicker of humor as I let my fingers drift over the sleeves, the collars, the soft worn cotton of a shirt that had clearly been slept in more than once. Up close, everything in that wardrobe smelled like him — that same sandalwood and cedar and something underneath it I didn't have a name for, something that made my skin prickle in a way I refused to examine too closely.

I pulled out a plain black shirt and a pair of sweatpants and carried them toward the bathroom door, the fabric cool and soft against my forearm. There, I peeled off my dirty clothes and let them crumple to the floor, the relief of shedding days of grime almost dizzying. I reached up and unbound my hair from the ponytail I'd tied what felt like a lifetime ago, working my fingers through the tangled strands until they fell loose around my shoulders in soft, uneven waves, brushing bare skin in a way that made me shiver despite the warmth of the room. Then I stepped toward the bathroom, hips swaying with a slow, unhurried rhythm I hadn't given myself permission to feel in days, my body moving with an ease that surprised me — a small, private indulgence, a reminder that beneath the grief and the fury and the ache of rejection, I was still a woman, still allowed to feel good in my own skin. Giddy didn't begin to cover it. It was the first true, unguarded pleasure I'd let myself have since I'd set foot in Black Moon territory, and for one fleeting moment, standing there on the threshold of his shower, I let myself have it fully.