Chapter 3

Rhiannon’s POV~

I scrambled back. My hands were shaking so hard I couldn't get a grip on my dress. The fabric was twisted, bunching under my arms.

I yanked it down, but I could feel air hitting my skin. My nipples were hard.

They were pebble-hard and aching, rubbing against the rough lace of my bra. It wasn't from the cold.

It was him. His eyes were still on me.

I looked at him.

Kieran wasn't breathing heavy anymore. He was calm. Too calm. The corner of his mouth curled up, just a little.

His alpha energy hit me and made my knees actually knocked together.

I felt small. I felt like I was going to throw up.

I didn't think. My brain was offline. I just dropped to the floor to grab my heels.

I didn't even bend my knees properly; I just snatched them up. I rushed past him.

I had to brush against his arm to get by. His skin was hot like a furnace.

He didn't move. He didn't reach for me. He just let me run.

I bolted down the hall. My heart was hitting my ribs so hard it hurt. I felt heat crawling up my neck, over my face. I knew I was red.

I hit the fire exit door and shoved it open.

I stumbled into the stairwell and slammed the heavy metal door shut behind me. The sound echoed.

I slid down the wall until I hit the cold floor. I pulled my knees to my chest and clamped my hand over my mouth. I was shaking. My whole body was vibrating.

“Oh God. Oh fuck. Oh fuck."

I saw one of the front desk agents walked by outside the glass pane. She stopped.

She looked at me. I was a mess with my hair wild, my dress crooked, huddled on the floor like a crazy person. She frowned, then kept walking. I didn't care. I couldn't care.

Shame was crawling under my skin. I had almost done it. I had almost committed the ultimate sin. Not just cheating. Taboo. He was Marcus’s uncle.

He was family.

My phone was in my hand. I don't know when I pulled it out. My thumb was sweating, slipping on the glass.

I opened my contacts. I didn't have many numbers. But I had his. I had saved it two years ago when he fixed the pack’s accounting software.

I never called it. I just kept it there. I just liked the thought of having it on my phone.

My finger hovered. I had to fix this. I had to erase it.

Me: [Let’s pretend this never happened between us.]

I hit send.

I stared at the screen. The little blue checkmark appeared. ‘Delivered.’

My breath caught in my throat. I waited. One second. Ten seconds. A minute.

Please don't reply. Please just let it go.

The screen lit up.

‘Read.’

He saw it. He read the words.

I waited for the typing bubbles. I waited for him to say ‘Too late.’* I waited for him to say ‘You’re mine now.’ I was sick enough to want him to say it.

The screen went black. Then it refreshed.

I tapped his name again.

‘User not found.’

He blocked me.

Just like that.

My stomach dropped. It felt like the floor fell out from under me. He didn't even care enough to be mad. He just… deleted me.

I sat there on the cold floor, staring at the black screen, and for some stupid, twisted reason, my chest caved in.

I shouldn't have cared. I should have been relieved. But I wasn't. I felt empty. Hollowed out.

I put my head between my knees and tried not to scream.

My memories began to swirl, years ago. I remembered the Fourth of July party, five years ago when I was still courting Marcus.

The first time I had seen Kieran.

He was standing by the grill, shirtless because it was hot, and sweat was running down his chest. I stared at the hair on his chest, it was dark.

But then I looked at his head. That silver at the temples. It wasn't old age. It looked like ash.

I remember thinking, ‘He looks like a wolf who’s killed enough to turn his own hair grey.’

Marcus was right there, holding my hand, his skin smooth as a baby’s ass. I looked at Marcus and felt… nothing but safety.

Then I looked at Kieran and felt my stomach drop. I wanted to run my fingers through that grey hair of his and pull his head back.

I wanted to see if he tasted like smoke. It was sick. He was Marcus’ uncle. He was the generation above us.

But God, the thought of those rough, scarred hands touching my soft skin… I had to grip the edge of the table to stop myself from walking over there.

I told myself I was just admiring strength. But I knew. I wanted him to look at me like I was meat. Something he’d devour.

When his dates joined dinner, I’d always find excuses to leave early. Marcus never noticed my sudden mood around his uncle.

I masked it completely.

They also said Kieran broke an Elder’s jaw in a bar fight three towns over. They said he didn't even shift, just used his bare hands.

When Marcus told me, he looked scared.

‘Stay away from Kieran Thorne,’ he said. ‘He’s a killer.’ But when I looked at Kieran’s hands later that night… calloused, knuckles swollen, veins popping… I didn't see a killer.

I saw capability. I thought about what those hands could do to me.

I imagined him grabbing my throat with that grip. I imagined him using that strength to pin me down and take whatever he wanted. I was engaged to his nephew. It was twisted. It was wrong.

But I spent three nights in a row imagining his grey head between my legs, growling against my skin. I wanted to be ruined by him. I wanted to be the one thing he couldn't control.

I was a married woman fantasizing about my husband's uncle like some desperate housewife. Marcus might be a cheating bastard, but at least he acted on his desires.

I was just a pathetic woman who lusted after forbidden fruit and called it love.

The shame burned through me worse than the alcohol, worse than the betrayal. What kind of wife was I?

I slapped my face hard. Shit, I needed that pain. I needed to feel something that wasn't the ghost of Kieran’s hands on me.

I exhaled and then pushed myself up off the cold floor. My legs felt like jelly. I was still dizzy.

I had to get out of here. I couldn't stay in this building.

___________

By the time I was back home and stood on my own porch, my chest felt like it was caved in. I looked at the house. The lights were on. Warm, yellow light spilling out of the windows. It used to look like safety.

It used to look like love.

Now it made my stomach just turn.

I put the key in the lock. My hand was shaking so bad the metal rattled against the wood. I had to take a breath.

I turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Marcus’s smell hit me first. Fabric softener and coffee.

He was in the living room. He was on the couch, his legs stretched out, wearing those grey flannel pajamas I bought him for Christmas.

He had his laptop on his knees, the blue light reflecting off his glasses. He was typing. Fast. He was entirely immersed.

He didn't even look up when the door creaked.

I stood there, my hand still on the doorknob, staring at him.

He looked so normal. He looked so innocent.

I froze.

If this had been three hours ago, if I hadn't seen what I saw in that suite, I would have felt the flutter. The stupid, girlish butterflies in my chest.

I would have smiled. I would have walked over and kissed his forehead and asked if he was working too hard.

My heart would have melted because he looked so domestic, so mine.

But now?

I looked at him and I didn't feel love. I didn't feel sadness. I felt a cold, hard pit opening up in the center of my chest. It was a vacuum. And rushing in to fill that vacuum was something black and thick.

Hate. Pure, unadulterated hate.

I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to make him feel this hollow ache in his gut.

I wanted to strip away his comfort the way he stripped away my dignity. I wanted revenge.

I wanted to tear the laptop out of his hands and smash it over his head. I wanted him to feel the sickness I felt.

I wanted to make him pay for every lie, every touch, every second I wasted trying to be the perfect wife while he was burying himself inside Emilia.

My hand tightened on the knob. I squeezed until my knuckles turned white.

Then I let the door click shut.

The sound was loud in the quiet house.

Marcus stopped typing. He sighed, and finally looked up. He was smiling. It was a lazy, comfortable smile.

"Hey, babe," he started, his eyes moving from the screen to my face. "You're late, I was just about to—"

His smile froze. It didn't fade. It just stopped. He stopped breathing for a second. He was staring at my face.

He was seeing the flush that hadn't gone away. He was seeing the swollen lips. He was seeing the wild, frantic look in my eyes that I couldn't hide anymore.

Then slowly, he slowly rose and I felt my chest tightened. He forced a smile to his lips and failed badly at it when he saw the tight expression on my face.

“Your wolf sickness is getting worse, isn't it? You're not thinking clearly. Look at yourself, you're a mess. Come here, let me take care of you. You can't keep wandering off like this when you're not well."

I looked at my husband, this stranger wearing Marcus's face and realized I was staring at my would-be murderer.

"I want a divorce," I said calmly.

Marcus froze for some seconds and then tilted his head, studying me like I was a fascinating specimen. "No," he said simply.