Chapter 8

He kept me there all afternoon.

He punished and he comforted in the same breath. His teeth sank into my shoulder and then his mouth went soft against the same spot, licking, apologizing. He held me through it. He told me, in that low Alpha voice I had heard in my dreams for four years, that I was his and that he was sorry and that he wasn't letting me run.

I cried at some point. I didn't mean to. I bit the pillow and let it happen.

Afterwards he pulled me up against his chest and wouldn't let go. He tugged the blanket over us both. His hand stayed on the back of my neck, thumb moving slow circles over the Mark. My body had gone past fighting. My eyes closed on their own.

He said something at my ear. "Bunny. Warm water. The night gets cold here."

I heard him get up. I heard ice clatter into a glass at the wet bar. I heard a refrigerator door open and close. He came back with water. He tipped it to my mouth one small sip at a time. Then he lay back down. He pulled the blanket up again. He stroked my hair until he thought I was asleep.

I was not asleep.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand after maybe an hour. He picked up on the second ring, quiet.

"Yes." A pause. "How bad." Another pause. "I'll come."

He glanced at me. I kept my breathing even. My eyes stayed shut. I let my mouth fall a little open. I was very good at pretending to sleep.

"He's sleeping." Pause. "Yes. With the pup downstairs." Pause. "I'll be there in forty minutes."

He got dressed quickly. I could hear the rustle of fabric, the zip of a bag, the slide of his belt. Then there was silence. Then his weight on the mattress again. His hand on my face, careful. His mouth on my forehead, lighter than breath.

"Be here when I come back, bunny. I'll be quick."

The door clicked shut.

I lay very still for a count of sixty. Then I was out of the bed and into my clothes in under a minute. My legs shook. I ignored them. I splashed water on my face. I wrapped a scarf high around my neck to cover the Mark. I took the service elevator down.

Theo was still at the corner table in the café. The waitress had put a cartoon on a tablet in front of him and he was happily chewing the crust off a piece of toast.

"Pup. Hey. Hey, come here."

He looked up. His whole face lit. "Daddy!"

"Come on. We're going on an adventure. Right now."

"Where?"

"Far away. Like before. You remember the big plane?"

"Yes!"

"Get your coat."

The drive to the airport was forty-five minutes. Caleb had a private charter pre-booked for emergencies. I called him from the back of the taxi.

"Caleb. I need the plane."

"On standby. Gate B. Wheels up in ninety."

"Thank you."

"Milo —"

"Not now."

I hung up. Theo was singing to himself in the car seat, kicking his heels. The Mark at my throat was on fire. Every step away from Ethan made it worse. I swallowed the pain down.

Security. Passport. Boarding. I held Theo's hand through every step. He chattered. I nodded. I did not let myself look at my phone, which was vibrating non-stop in my pocket. When we were finally sitting on the tarmac, the flight attendant ducked down to buckle Theo's belt.

Theo looked up at me.

"Daddy. Are we not coming back this time?"

My throat closed. I had not used those words in front of him. Four-year-olds are not supposed to read adults that well. Some pups do.

I nodded.

Theo thought about it. He nodded back. Slow. Solemn. Like a small Alpha making a decision.

"Okay, Daddy."

Then he put his hand over mine on the armrest.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, pup."

"Can the Fry Uncle come visit one day?"

I looked at my son — the small, solemn face, the black Blackwood eyes, the soft Ashford mouth — and I couldn't answer him. I squeezed his hand. I looked out the window at the runway lights.

The engines spooled. The plane rolled forward. My phone stopped vibrating at some point. I did not check why.

Somewhere behind us, in Room 1001 of the Silvermoon Hotel, Ethan Blackwood would be walking back into an empty suite. He would find the scarf on the pillow. He would find the single red ruby earring I had left beside it, on a square of silk, because I could not take it with me and I could not keep owing him.

He would stand there for a long moment. He would not break anything. He was not the kind of Alpha who broke things.

He would just dial the number.

And he would say one sentence.

"Bring them home."

I didn't know any of that yet. I only knew the sky outside the window was turning rose-gold, and my son had fallen asleep against my shoulder, and the Mark at my throat was the loudest thing in the world.

Four years was not enough.

We would see how long the next four were going to last.