Chapter 4

Here’s something funny—

I used to love oranges.

Sweet, tangy, bright little things that smelled like sunshine and made my wolf tail wag just a bit.

But Alpha Scott?

He hated them like a vampire hates garlic.

Back when we first started dating—back when I still had stars in my eyes and no clue how Alpha politics worked—he took me to one of those big werewolf gatherings. You know the kind. Long tables, too much meat, and someone always ends up breaking a wine glass when they get too excited during a story about the last rogue hunt. Classic.

He introduced me as his mate.

His mate, people. My poor heart practically rolled over and showed its belly.

I thought it meant something.

To him. To his wolf.

To the Moon Goddess.

Clearly, I was an idiot.

When dessert came out, I tried to be sweet. I offered him a slice of orange cake—just a friendly, supportive fiancée gesture.

He froze.

The entire table went silent. Even the pack omega stopped mid-bite, her ears twitching. Someone’s fork clattered to the floor like the Moon herself gasped.

“Scott hates citrus,” one of his Beta friends said with a laugh. “Eva, didn’t you know that? Guess that means you’ve got to drink!”

Everyone laughed.

So, I laughed too.

But inside, something in me cracked. Just a little. A quiet snap only my wolf could hear.

I didn’t ask about it again until much later—on a night when he was tipsy .

That’s when he told me.

“It wasn’t always like that,” he said, voice low, eyes unfocused. “When I was little, my mom was always sick. Could barely keep food down. But she kept a bowl of oranges in the house. Said the smell helped her breathe. Said the color made winter feel warmer.”

I remember how his voice cracked then.

“My last memory of her—she peeled an orange, kissed my cheek, and said, ‘Stay home and wait for me. When you finish this plate, I’ll be back.’”

He waited.

Until the sun disappeared.

Until snow covered the porch steps.

Until someone ran through the village yelling, “Scott! Your mom—she jumped into the river!”

That was the last time he saw her.

Last time he ate an orange.

I held him that night as his grief leaked out like blood from an old wound.

After that, I stopped eating oranges too.

I even shoved my favorite citrus-vanilla perfume to the back of the drawer, like scent could betray a memory.

But now?

Now I stood in the hallway, watching him gently hand a perfectly peeled orange to Julie. Miss Long Legs and Lethal Smiles. Model. Ex-girlfriend. Professional back-from-the-dead heartbreaker.

He was leaning close. “Should I call a nurse?”

His voice was so soft. So intimate.

Julie batted her lashes. “I can walk myself, Scott. You two should talk.”

And then he turned to me.

“Eva… where are you staying now? I—”

BANG!

A loud crash.

Julie, who had taken maybe three steps, collapsed again. Right on cue.

I’m not saying she faked it.

Okay, I am saying she faked it.

Scott didn’t even finish his sentence.

He rushed to her side.

“Oh no,” he murmured, brushing her hair back as if she were spun glass. “Does it hurt?”

His voice had changed—tender, careful, full of that weird reverence guys only seem to save for their childhood crush or their favorite truck.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

She shook her head.So he scooped her up like it was some fairy tale.

Julie looped her arms around his neck, rested her head against him like she belonged there.

And as they moved past me, her eyes found mine.

She smiled.

That smile?

It said everything.

I win.

Same trick. Twice.

Still worked.

I felt sick.

I ran—down the hallway, and into the nearest bathroom.

I made it just in time to vomit.

My wolf growled softly in the back of my mind, pacing like she wanted to sink her teeth into something—or someone.

By the time I pulled myself together, splashed my face, and checked to make sure I didn’t look like a she-wolf who’d just lost her lunch and her dignity, my phone buzzed.

Message from Alpha Scott:

Eva, why were you at the hospital? Are you okay?

Oh, now he asks?

No mention of the wedding I crashed.

No mention of the fact that his “ex” just practically into his arms.

Just a lukewarm little text.

I stared at it, numb.

Then I laughed.

Not the good kind. The bitter, quiet kind that tastes like the ashes of every dream you once thought was real.

I blocked him.

His number. His alt number. His private line. All of it.

Because I finally got it.

He might peel a thousand oranges.

Might cry over the memory.

Might hand one gently to someone he claims to love.

But they’d never be for me.

Not even one slice.