Chapter Thirty-Three

The afternoon light stretched long across Julian’s desk, spilling over stacks of files and the open blueprints before him. He sat back in his chair, pen in hand, sketching adjustments to a real estate proposal that demanded his focus—but his mind refused to stay there.

He needed the distraction.

He needed something to keep from thinking about her.

Numbers, projections, zoning lines—cold, predictable things—were easier than the storm that lived behind his ribs. He’d made his choice, done what was expected of him. But somehow, the certainty felt heavier than doubt.

The quiet click of his office door broke his thoughts. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

Elara never knocked.

Her perfume—sharp, sweet, overdone—reached him before she did.

“I was looking for you earlier,” he said, not lifting his eyes from the page. “No one knew where you’d gone off to.”

“Oh, I just went for a little drive,” she replied, her tone light, almost sing-song. “A small little town, actually.”

Something thudded onto his desk.

Julian’s pen stopped mid-line, his gaze narrowing at the white boutique box now sitting squarely on top of his sketch, the silk ribbon still perfectly tied, its logo stamped in elegant gold across the lid.

The air in the room shifted.

He finally looked up. Elara’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Where,” he asked slowly, voice low, “did you get this?”

“Well,” she began smoothly, “while I was waiting here for my beloved mate to finally show up to his own office, I received a rather interesting call from Maison Verenne Boutique.”

Julian’s hand stilled on the edge of his desk.

“They wanted to inform Mr. Julian Hale that the custom dress he purchased yesterday had been returned this morning.” Her voice dripped with sugar and poison. “Since they couldn’t offer a refund, I took it upon myself to… pick it up for you.”

She removed the lid from the box with a kind of performative care, every movement slow and deliberate—the calm before a storm. The tissue rustled as she reached in and pulled the dress free.

“Well, isn’t it pretty,” she mused, holding the gown up by its delicate straps. “Though I must say, it’s not exactly couture. Maison Verenne?” Her mouth curled in disdain. “An unknown designer. You know I only wear the most reputable names, Julian—Dior, Versace—never something so… provincial.”

Her gaze flicked to the tag. Her tone shifted—sharper now, predatory.

“And the size?” She looked at him, one brow arching. “You know very well my tits won’t fit into this.”

She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “What is this—a B cup?” Her head tilted, voice dropping to a venom-laced whisper. “I thought you liked big tits, Julian. This looks like it was made for someone from the itty-bitty titty committee.”

Julian’s eyes darkened with barely restrained fury. He didn’t like the insult—not because of what she said, but because of who she said it about. Kaelani’s body flashed in his mind—every curve, every line, every soft breath he’d memorized without meaning to. Her breasts weren’t small; they were perfect. Balanced. Real. And they fit his hands, his touch, like they’d been made for him. Not to mention, they complemented her nice, plump ass exceptionally well.

He forced the thought away, shaking his head as if to banish it.

“Give me the dress,” he said finally, his tone edged and dangerous.

Julian’s hand shot forward, fingers closing for the satin—

—but Elara was faster. She lifted the gown out of his reach with a flick of her wrist, eyes cold and fierce, holding it between them like a challenge.

“Who did you buy this dress for, Julian?” She asked, slow and measured. “I know damn well it wasn’t for me.”

“Give me the dress,” he repeated, each word clipped.

Elara’s lips quirked, amused and cruel. “On second thought, it doesn’t matter who you bought it for. The real question is why she returned it. Why she rejected your gift. Has she grown tired of you? Or did she finally learn what a selfish asshole you are?”

Something in Julian’s chest tightened like a spring.

Elara laughed then, low and bitter. With one swift, theatrical motion she peeled the gown open and ripped it down the front. The satin tore like wet paper — a clean, furious sound that filled the room.

Julian stared, stunned. Anger flared, hot and immediate.

Elara’s face was steel. She leaned in, voice a low, lethal whisper. “Listen to me and listen good, Julian. If you humiliate me in front of our pack again — if you give anyone reason to doubt your loyalty to me — I will find out who your little pet is. I’ll find her pack, her family, her friends. I will use every resource at my disposal and I will fucking destroy her.”

She straightened, eyes blazing. “I will fight to protect what’s mine. My man. My title. My image. If someone has to bleed for it, then so be it.”

That was when Julian’s wolf snapped.

It surged forward inside him like a wildfire—howling, enraged, barely contained.

She had threatened what was his.

And the beast in him rose to eliminate that threat.

Julian’s hands balled into fists, every tendon tight as steel. His breath came sharp, jaw clenched against the pressure building beneath his skin.

The wolf clawed at the edges of his control, demanding release. Demanding blood.

Nobody threatened her.

She was his.

No—she was theirs.

His body locked, chest rising with shallow, ragged breaths as the beast surged closer to the surface.

It took everything in Julian not to shift.

Not to let the wolf rise and rip the air apart with a bloodthirsty growl.

Elara tossed the ruined satin toward him like a gauntlet and turned on her heel.

The door slammed so hard the windows trembled. The echo of the impact hung in the air long after she was gone.

Julian stared at the door for a hot minute after she left, the silence vibrating in its wake.

The dress lay in a heap of torn red satin across the floor—bright, violent, and final. He crouched and gathered the shredded fabric in his hands, the smooth material sliding between his fingers like blood made tangible.

How blind he’d been.

He’d mistaken Elara’s vanity for confidence, her cruelty for strength. He had fed her ego, let her believe she was untouchable, and in doing so he helped create the very monster now threatening someone who never deserved any of this.

Kaelani.

The thought of her name alongside Elara’s venom made something hot coil in his chest. Rage, guilt, grief—they tangled together until he couldn’t tell them apart. And yet he knew what came next. He would still have to mark Elara, still have to stand before the pack and take her as his Luna.

The thought made his stomach

twist—

and his wolf began to turn on him, unable to comprehend why he’d betray the one it had already chosen.

Julian looked down at the ruined gown again. Even torn, it was beautiful—fragile, deliberate, like the gesture that had sent it back. She really returned it. She didn’t want it, didn’t want him, didn’t want a single thread that tied her to his world.

It was a door closing.

One he had no right to try and walk back through.

Julian swallowed hard, knuckles white around the fabric. Slowly, almost reverently, he began to fold the dress—lining frayed edge to frayed edge, as though precision could somehow preserve what was left of it. The dress was limp in his hands, stained with finality.

Knock. Knock.

He didn’t lift his head.

Knock. Knock.

His jaw clenched tighter. He tucked one half of the dress under the other and gently pressed the folds flat.

Knock. Knock.

He lowered it into the box, smoothing it as best he could. The silk ribbon lay beside it, curled and mocking.

Knock. Knock.

“What?!” he snapped, voice raw.

The door creaked open.

“Bad time?” Jace asked, already knowing the answer.

Julian didn’t turn around. He braced both palms on either side of the box, shoulders hunched, head bowed—his posture stiff with restraint, as though if he moved, even slightly, he might unravel entirely.

“My life is a bad time,” he muttered.

Jace stepped into the room, the door falling shut behind him. He took in the scene—the pristine office, the elegant gold-stamped box, and Julian, carved out of grief and silence.

“Ran into Elara on the stairs,” Jace said. “She told me she knows what you’ve been up to… knows that I’ve been keeping your secrets.”

Julian didn’t move. His eyes remained fixed on the box, his voice quiet but resolute.

“She knows very little.”

He exhaled slowly.

“And we need to keep it that way.”

Jace lingered near the door, the silence between them heavier than the air itself.

“I heard back from my contact,” he said quietly. “About her… lineage.”

Julian turned to face him. And in that moment, Jace didn’t see his Alpha.

He saw his friend — raw, fraying at the seams, clinging to control like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

And Jace hesitated. Because the truth that he carried could break the last of that control.

Worse, it could destroy the peace Kaelani had built outside their world — the fragile life she’d finally claimed for herself.

He drew a slow breath and did the one thing he swore he wouldn’t:

He lied.

“It was a dead end,” he said evenly.

For a heartbeat, Julian just stared at him — searching, questioning — and Jace forced his expression to stay still.

Then Julian looked away, his shoulders sinking in a quiet acceptance of loss.

As if he’d finally stopped reaching for a truth that kept slipping through his fingers.

The sound he made wasn’t quite a sigh. It was too hollow for that.

And Jace felt it — deep in his chest — because the lie was supposed to protect him, but it only made him look smaller.

Julian turned back to the box, tracing the torn satin with his thumb. “Figures,” he murmured.

Jace swallowed hard, guilt settling like lead behind his ribs.

Because it hadn’t been a dead end at all.

It had been a name.

And it was one Julian — or Kaelani — could never hear.