CHAPTER 6

Elijah's penthouse felt too large and too empty when he returned.

The elevator doors slid open with a whisper of steel. He stepped into the dark expanse of polished hardwood and floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city below. Light pollution painted the night sky in shades of amber and bruised purple. Somewhere beyond the glass, the world continued its rotation without care for the chaos unraveling inside him.

He dropped his keys on the marble counter. The sound echoed.

The silence pressed against him like something physical, something that refused to be ignored. His wolf prowled beneath his skin, restless and sharp, tracing the shape of memories it should not possess. The scent of rain and something else—something ancient and wrong—clung to his nostrils despite the distance he had placed between himself and Jaxon.

Rafe's warning echoed in the hollow spaces of his mind.

Stay away from the human.

Elijah's hands curled into fists. His nails bit into his palms, not enough to draw blood, but enough to ground him in the present instead of the memory of Jaxon's breath against his mouth.

The wolf snarled.

He is ours.

Elijah crossed the room and poured himself two fingers of whiskey. The burn did nothing to quiet the creature within him. He set the glass down without finishing it.

His reflection stared back at him from the darkened window. His eyes were still faintly silver at the edges, a sign of how close to the surface his wolf remained. Control had always been his anchor. Control had kept him functioning through the death of his mate, through months of grief that should have driven him feral.

Now, control felt like sand slipping through his fingers.

Jaxon's voice whispered through his memory.

Nothing about you scares me.

Elijah turned away from the window. His phone buzzed on the counter. He ignored it. The wolf inside him twisted, impatient and demanding, as if the creature understood something Elijah refused to acknowledge.

The scent.

Jaxon's scent had been wrong from the beginning. Not unpleasant, but layered in a way that should not exist in a human. Rain, yes. Soap, yes. Skin warmed by the sun. These things were ordinary.

Beneath them, though, something else lingered.

Stone worn smooth by centuries of water. Smoke from a fire that burned with no visible flame. Magic, faint and flickering, like a candle in the wind.

Elijah had smelled magic before. Witches carried it like perfume, sharp and herbal. Jaxon's scent was nothing like that. It was older. Quieter. It felt like something buried so deep it had almost forgotten itself.

The wolf knew it.

The wolf recognized it.

Elijah stripped off his jacket and threw it across the back of the couch. His shirt followed. He needed a shower. He needed to scrub away the lingering traces of whatever spell Jaxon had unknowingly cast.

The bathroom was cold marble and chrome, sterile and unforgiving. He turned the water on as hot as it would go. Steam filled the space within moments. He stepped under the spray and let the heat batter his shoulders, his neck, his face.

It did not help.

His hands braced against the tile. Water ran down his spine. His breath came too fast, his pulse too loud in his ears.

He thought of Jaxon's hand on his chest. Just fingertips. Barely pressure.

The wolf had surged.

Elijah's eyes fell closed. His jaw clenched.

He thought of Jaxon stepping closer, fearless, reckless, as if he did not understand what it meant to stand that close to a predator. He thought of the way Jaxon's breath had brushed his lips, warm and unsteady. He thought of the flutter of Jaxon's pulse beneath the thin skin of his throat.

Heat coiled low in Elijah's abdomen.

He cursed under his breath and pressed his forehead to the tile. The water scalded his back. He did not move away.

His hand dropped.

He wrapped his fingers around himself, slow and deliberate, as if punishing himself for the need that refused to be ignored. His breath hitched. The wolf pushed forward, hungry and possessive.

He thought of Jaxon's mouth. The curve of it. The way it had parted when their foreheads touched. He thought of what it would feel like to close that last inch of distance, to taste him, to claim him in a way that would leave no doubt.

His grip tightened. His breath came in sharp bursts.

He thought of Jaxon beneath him, looking up with those dark eyes that held no fear. He thought of touching him, of hearing his name spoken in that breathless voice. He thought of the way Jaxon's body had trembled when Elijah pulled him close, as if he had been waiting for it.

Elijah's head fell back. Water ran over his face. His hand moved faster.

The wolf snarled.

Ours. Ours. Ours.

Elijah came with a sharp exhale that sounded too much like Jaxon's name.

The release left him hollow.

He stood under the spray until the water turned cold. His hand dropped to his side. His breath steadied slowly, reluctantly.

The wolf did not retreat.

It lingered, patient and watchful, as if it knew something Elijah did not.

He turned off the water and stepped out. Steam clung to the mirror. He did not look at his reflection. He dried off mechanically and pulled on sleep pants before walking back into the bedroom.

The bed felt too large.

He lay down on his back and stared at the ceiling. Sleep would not come easily. It never did anymore.

His phone buzzed again. This time, he reached for it.

Darius: We need to talk.

Elijah set the phone face down on the nightstand. He would deal with his Beta in the morning. Tonight, he had nothing left to give.

He closed his eyes.

Sleep arrived in fragments.

He dreamed of doors.

Massive stone doors carved with symbols he could not read but somehow understood. They stood in a forest he had never seen, ancient trees rising around them like silent sentries. Moonlight filtered through the canopy, silver and cold.

The doors were sealed.

Something pressed against them from the other side.

A voice whispered in a language that should have been foreign but felt familiar, like a song he had heard as a child and forgotten until this moment.

Vessel.

The word echoed.

Vessel.

Elijah reached for the doors. His hand touched the stone. It was warm beneath his palm, pulsing like a heartbeat.

He is the key.

The voice was not his wolf. It was older. Deeper.

He will open what was closed. He will break what was sealed. He will choose.

Elijah tried to pull his hand away. The stone held him.

Protect him. Or lose everything.

The doors began to open.

Light poured through the crack, blinding and ancient. Elijah stumbled back. The forest disappeared. The light consumed everything.

He woke gasping.

His chest heaved. Sweat soaked the sheets. His hands were clenched in fists so tight his nails had broken the skin of his palms. Blood smeared across the white sheets in thin crescents.

His claws.

He had shifted his hands in his sleep.

Elijah stared at the marks. His breath came in sharp bursts. The wolf paced beneath his skin, agitated and alert.

The dream lingered like smoke in his mind. Stone doors. A voice that knew things it should not.

He is the key.

Elijah sat up slowly. His hands trembled. He forced them to relax, forced the claws to retract. His human nails returned, stained red at the edges.

He looked at the sheets.

Claw marks.

Deep enough to tear through fabric.

He had not done that in years. Not since the first weeks after his mate's death, when the grief had nearly driven him feral.

The wolf pressed forward.

Jaxon.

Elijah's breath caught.

He had woken with Jaxon's name on his lips.

He ran a hand through his hair, damp with sweat. His pulse hammered in his throat. The scent of rain and stone lingered in his nostrils as if Jaxon had been in the room with him.

He had not.

But the wolf did not care.

The wolf knew something Elijah refused to accept.

He is ours. He is the key. He is everything.

Elijah stood and crossed to the window. The city stretched below him, endless and indifferent. Dawn crept along the horizon, pale and tentative.

His phone buzzed.

He picked it up.

Darius: The pack is noticing. You need to get this under control.

Elijah stared at the message.

Control.

He had always prided himself on control.

Now, it slipped further from his grasp with every breath Jaxon took.

He typed a response.

Elijah: I will handle it.

He sent the message and set the phone down.

The wolf laughed, low and knowing.

You cannot handle what you do not understand.

Elijah closed his eyes.

He thought of Jaxon's hand on his chest. The warmth. The certainty.

He thought of the dream. The doors. The voice.

He is the key.

Whatever Jaxon was, it was not human.

Whatever Jaxon was, the wolf recognized it.

And whatever was coming, Elijah could no longer pretend he had a choice in what happened next.

He dressed in silence. The city woke around him. Light spilled over the skyline, gold and unforgiving.

Tuesday felt impossibly far away.

And yet, not far enough.