CHAPTER 22: HIS LOCKED SECRET

KNOX’S POV

Queenie probably filled in some blanks. But hearing Ember say it out loud feels like reopening a wound that never properly healed.

"What do you want to know?" I ask, keeping my voice carefully neutral.

"Whatever you're willing to tell me."

I stare at the ceiling, jaw tight. "Celeste was my true mate. We met when I was twenty-six. Bonded within a year. I thought she was everything I'd ever need."

"What happened?"

"She betrayed me. With my best friend." The words come out flat, clinical. "In our bed."

Ember makes a small, wounded sound. "I'm so sorry."

"It was a long time ago."

"That doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt."

I don't respond to that. I can't.

"How did she die?" Ember asks gently.

My hands curl into fists under the covers.

The memory hits me like it always does—visceral, brutal, unavoidable.

Finding them together. The rage that consumed me, white-hot and all-consuming. My wolf taking over, ripping through my control like paper.

Everything after that is a door I keep locked.

What happened in that room, how it ended, what the Council had to clean up afterward—I don't talk about it. I don't think about it.

The only people who know the full truth are dead or paid very well to forget.

Some secrets are better buried.

"You don't want to know," I say finally, voice rough.

"Yes I do."

"No." I kiss her forehead, lingering there, breathing her in. "You don't, Ember. Trust me."

She opens her mouth to argue, to push, but something in my expression makes her stop.

"Okay," she says softly. "I won't ask again."

Relief floods through me.

I'm not ready to tell her what I did. What I'm capable of when someone I love destroys me.

And the terrifying thing? I'm starting to care about her in a way that feels dangerously close to what I felt for Celeste. Which means if Ember ever betrays me, I don't know what I'll do.

We lie there in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken things heavy between us.

"Knox?" she whispers.

"Yeah?"

"When you found me in that bathroom—" She pauses. "Were you scared?"

The question catches me off guard.

Was I scared?

Fucking terrified.

I've faced down rogue packs, Council coups, assassination attempts. Nothing rattles me. I'm always three steps ahead, always in control.

But seeing Ember unconscious on that cold tile floor, her skin too pale, her breathing too shallow—something in my chest had plummeted.

It felt like reliving a memory I knew too well. Like watching Celeste die all over again, except this time it mattered more. This time it felt like losing something I couldn't afford to lose.

Logan's pathetic attempt at intimidation? Nothing. Gale's theatrical victim performance? Amusing at best. But Ember crumpled on the ground, unreachable, slipping away… that had gutted me.

"Yeah," I admit quietly. "I was scared."

She shifts closer, pressing her face into my neck. Her breath is warm against my skin, and something in my chest loosens at the contact.

"I'm okay now."

"I know."

But the fear is still there, coiled tight in my chest like a living thing. Because now I know what it feels like to almost lose her.

Why did my wolf, Phantom, care so much? Why did I feel that strange, aching pain?

She's not my mate. This is an arrangement. A deal. Unlike common wolves and their second chances, Lycans only get one chance at mates. Just one.

So why does my wolf prowl restlessly at the thought of her leaving?

"Go to sleep, Ember," I murmur, stroking her hair.

She nods against my chest, her breathing evening out within minutes. Her body relaxes into mine, trusting and soft, like she belongs here.

Like she's always belonged here.

I don't sleep.

I lie awake holding her, feeling her warmth, listening to her breathe, and I know I'm in trouble.

This was supposed to be simple. Fake girlfriend. One week. Mutual benefit. Walk away clean.

But nothing about Ember is simple.

She's complicated and traumatized and so fucking trusting it terrifies me. She looks at me like I'm something good, something worth believing in, and I don't know how to tell her she's wrong.

I'm not good. I killed my mate and my best friend in a rage so violent the Council had to clean up the evidence.

But when she's in my arms like this, soft and safe and mine, I want to be good. I want to be the person she thinks I am.

My wolf is purring, completely content.

Make her mate, Phantom whispers. Keep her.

I can't.

In four days, she walks away. That's the deal.

But my wolf doesn't care about deals. And neither, apparently, does whatever's left of my heart.

I think about what she said—about the goddess not forgiving her if she hates her parents. About how her mother told her to die in her bed rather than escape.

About how she can't let herself feel what she's entitled to feel because she's been taught that anger is wrong, that boundaries are selfish, that her pain doesn't matter.

I want to burn down everyone who made her think that.

I want to find Devika Aragon and show her exactly what happens when you abandon your daughter to a monster.

I want to teach Ember that she's allowed to be angry. Allowed to hate. Allowed to protect herself without guilt or apology.

But that requires time. And trust. And a relationship that goes beyond one week.

I look down at her sleeping face, peaceful and soft in the moonlight streaming through the windows. Her lips are slightly parted, lashes dark against her cheeks, and something in my chest aches at the sight.

One week. One damn week.

I repeat it like a prayer, trying to make myself believe it.

But I know better.

This woman is going to fucking ruin me.