Chapter 4

I felt a sick prickle run down my spine. I flipped the phone face-down on the bed, casually.

Ethan's voice came, low and smooth. "I didn't know you were picky about red berries."

I blinked. "I also am."

Me — what? What was he saying? What was I supposed to say to that? Cold ache under my ribs again. I lied anyway. "I'm picky about red foods in general."

Ethan nodded slowly. "So am I."

My heart skipped once. Twice. Coincidence. It had to be a coincidence. His eyes were suddenly too interested in my face. I could tell he was connecting dots I didn't want him to connect. I stepped back. I fumbled for a line, any line.

"Red fruit upsets my stomach. I've always been fussy."

Ethan came a little closer. "Odd. Me too."

I forced a shrug and turned away, opening the minibar fridge with shaking fingers. Ethan let it drop. He shrugged on his own robe after a shower. His dark hair hung damp across his forehead. Water ran in thin lines down the line of his jaw, down his throat, disappearing beneath the collar of the robe. Under the open fabric, the hard plane of his chest showed — muscular, scored with pale old scars.

My palms went clammy. My memory betrayed me. For a second I was back in that amber-lit suite four years ago. His skin under my hands. I turned and slipped into the bathroom before he could see my face.

By the time I came out of the shower, the lights were down and Ethan was already in bed. His breathing was steady. I crawled into my half of the mattress. I pulled the sheet up to my shoulder and checked, out of habit, the silver burn scar low on my right hip. A shallow, pale oval. The mark from that night. It was barely visible under soft lamplight. Only when I was naked and stretched out did it catch the light. Nobody else had ever seen it. Because I never let anyone get close enough.

I turned on my side, facing away. Back to him, barely breathing. One night. No words.

The next morning, the slide on the coastal road was cleared by dawn. We drove back into Moonhaven City. On the plane neither of us looked up. I scrolled my phone. I caught a flash of a photo on his screen out of the corner of my eye. A small figure. Dark curls. Round face. My chest seized. That was Theo.

"Client intel," Ethan said, flat, without looking at me. "Nothing of yours."

I faked a nod and believed about half of it.

Five in the morning. Someone was knocking. Theo shook my shoulder, hard. He was already dressed in a small grey t-shirt and jeans that looked two sizes too big, trying to keep his balance. He pulled my blanket off.

"Daddy, I'm awake, I'm telling you now, I think today morning is better."

Half an hour earlier, Theo had been whining because he couldn't pick an outfit. I'd waved him off and gone back to sleep. One hour later he was up again. Knocking on my door with a cap in his hand.

"Daddy, little Bunny doesn't know which one to pick. Daddy, help me."

Me: … Such a good cub.

I hadn't gone to the pack gathering Friday. Caleb and Theo had gone in my place. A full night of sleep. I woke and left for the office.

At the office I filled Caleb in on everything.

"Milo, why don't you calm down. It's been days and he hasn't actually done anything to you yet, right?"

I shook my head. Ethan and I had never been anything like peaceful. If he hadn't moved yet, it was because he was sharpening his claws. Coincidences. The way he kept appearing at the Pup Academy gate — I hadn't been paying enough attention. It wasn't about Theo. It was about me. Not me. It was Theo. Ethan was hunting me through Theo. If I kept backing up, one day soon he'd have me cornered. Maybe he already did.

Evening. I fired off a casual message to him. I set up a meeting. Better to attack than to defend. I pretended to thank him for the way he'd caught Theo at the school gate a few days back — when the cub had tripped on his shoelace. I'd use that debt to set up a clean, public conversation. Keep it impersonal. Business.

An address pinged back within a minute. Silvermoon Hotel, Suite 1001.

In front of Room 1001. Ethan was already standing there, face like stone.

"Come in."

His voice was even. His eyes were not. My stomach flipped. Something was off. The room number. My own shirt and trousers. A few lines flashed through my brain.

Suite 1001. The Crescent Club that night. Same number. He'd staged this. My skin went cold. I wanted to back out. He was already stepping aside, pulling me in.

The door shut. Lock clicked.

I kept my tone steady and made myself smile. "Since when did you start playing the little-bunny games in suite numbers? Petty for a grown Alpha."

"Since I remembered the stakes. Since I finally have a reason."

Of course. He was going to grill me. His voice dropped. Slow footfalls. He closed in on me. His hand caught the back of my neck. Before I knew it he had me pushed up against the wall. His thumb was on my jaw. The thin strap of his shirt slipped. His torso crushed mine.

I shoved at him with everything I had. He didn't budge.

"Ethan — stop — what do you think you're doing —"

For a beat. An odd flicker of regret crossed his face.

Then he ripped open my shirt. Pale fabric split. I watched his pupils contract sharply.

Found it.

The little silver burn scar was exposed under his stare.

He laughed.